I’ve been reading the Chronicles of Narnia to my daughter at bedtime. As a kid I only read as far as The Voyage of the Dawn Treader; the endless shelf of Babysitter’s Club books distracted me from the Narnians. We’re on The Silver Chair now, and while I’m still not sure about that Jill Pole, I continue to marvel at C. S. Lewis’s masterful Christian allegories.
I’ve always loved Aslan, but I am newly convinced that the lion really does capture the essence of Christ. I’m convinced because of the joyous expression on my daughter’s face every time Aslan appears in the narrative. She has the countenance of a girl who is in the presence of God—the very unselfconscious delight and wonderment that is elusive for her angst-ridden, overly analytical mother.
A few weeks ago I sat slumped on my spiritual director’s couch, complaining of the spiritual malaise that perennially afflicts me. I was tired of hearing myself recount the same lamentations. She reminded me how critical it is to continue to practice being still in the presence of a God who loves me.
Easier said than done.