After we finished reading C. S. Lewis’ THE LION, THE WITCH, AND THE WARDROBE last year, I made Henry promise that if he ever found an entrance into Narnia, then he would most certainly have to let me know. I didn’t want to get left behind, you see.
We checked various closets, cabinets, and doorways over the following months, but we have yet to stumble upon a proper gateway to Narnia. I can see the disappointment on Henry’s face after the dozenth or so time wrenching open the narrow closet door that guards our board games and vacuum cleaner. “But,” I remind him, “if you stop looking for magic, you’re guaranteed to never find it.” He nods, then returns to checking beneath the sinks, just in case.
His disappointment reminds me of my own. I’ve always loved stories where the otherwise normal main character gets thrown into a new world through some magical portal. Narnia is perhaps my favorite, with the Oz series by L. Frank Baum a close second. All I needed as a child, I knew, was to wait for the right tornado to come along, or to wait for that portal to appear behind the next closed door or—dare I hope?—through that ancient wardrobe? But, for whatever reason, I was never chosen. The door never revealed itself to me.
****
Henry and I just finished listening to PRINCE CASPIAN on audiobook, which we’ve been working our way through during our morning commute to school over the past few weeks. It’s not my favorite of the series (VOYAGE OF THE DAWN TREADER ranks first for me), but CASPIAN has several scenes that rank among my most cherished in the Narnia series. I wondered how Henry would enjoy it, especially given the more complicated narrative, which includes a pretty hefty flashback that takes up a big chunk of the book. But he stayed fairly attentive, both quiet and focused as Lynn Redgrave’s excellent narration flowed from the speakers and filled the car each morning.
In one of my favorite moments, Lucy tries desperately to convince her siblings that she’s seen Aslan and that He wants them to follow Him down a path that seems more difficult than the one they’d prefer to travel. The elder siblings and Trumpkin the cynical dwarf are unable to see Aslan, and thus remain resistant to Lucy’s pleas.
Even Lucy, the epitome of childlike faith in Lewis’s fantasy world, had at first struggled to connect the feeling in her heart to the reality of Aslan’s presence. But once she saw Aslan, his leonine shadow finally becoming solid before her eyes, she wanted desperately to convince her siblings of what she knew to be true. But Peter, Susan, and (to a lesser degree) Edmund struggled to trust her, to trust in a magical thing that they could not immediately touch, even though they stood in the very midst of a magical land that they had known so well once upon a time.
Around this time in the story, Henry spoke from his booster seat behind me. “Dad,” he said, “I think I know why Lucy can see Aslan.”
I peeked back at him through the rear view mirror and could see a look of concentration on his face. “Why’s that, buddy?”
“I think Lucy can see Aslan because she still BELIEVES in magic,” he replied slowly.
He’s right, of course. The others, especially Peter and Susan, would deny that they no longer believe in magic, but it’s true that Lucy maintains a more controlled grip on her faith than her siblings do. She still believes in magic—deep magic—and that’s why she is allowed to see Aslan first.
****
I hope Henry never stops believing in magic altogether. It’s a fleeting feeling, that assurance of the magical, at least in terms of the rest of our life. For a few years we can be carried along with the wild possibilities of magic in our hearts, and no one even judges us. But we all lose society’s permission before long, and so our world gets a little dimmer.
I think Henry’s on to me by now though, in our search for a portal to Narnia. He plays along for a little while, but eventually he gives me this calculating glance, mouth curled up in a wary grin, and asks, “Are you being serious, Dad? Is this for real?”
He wavers already. I can see it. He’s experienced so much darkness in his almost six years that I can sometimes see how it puts pressure on the natural whimsy of his spirit. But so much of childhood, the best parts really, are caught up in the whimsical, the fantastic, and the magical. I hope he always keeps some part of that with him as he grows up, hidden carefully away from the demands and disapproval of adulthood.
Because it is people like him, the ones who maintain a fragile faith in the deep magic, the ones who keep checking wardrobes and closets and spare rooms—they’re the ones who will be able to see Aslan when all others cannot. Because if he holds fast, if he maintains his faith, if he refuses to let the world strip him of child-like whimsy, if he does all that, then he’ll never ever grow too old to return to Narnia, again and again and again.
And maybe, just maybe, he’ll bring me along with him.
The Summ Of All Tears 