Rereading Cair Paravel

I have a confession: I never really read the ending of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

Don’t get me wrong…I sort of read it. But, after the final battle scene, who really follows the last few pages that carefully anyway? The rest of the book is just laughing at the four siblings because they start to talk funny and skimming their culture shock when they come out of the wardrobe.

Because of this, I missed—well, a lot of things, probably, but one section in particular that stood out to me this time around:

“The castle of Cair Paravel on its little hill towered up above them all; before them were the sands, with rocks and little pools of salt water, and seaweed, and the smell of the sea and long miles of bluish-green waves breaking for ever and ever on the beach. And oh, the cry of the seagulls! Have you heard it? Can you remember?”

And you can find it there, in those words—the longing of a grown man who can still hear the echoes of seagulls from a childhood holiday. Maybe the castle there was listing to one side, the foundation a crumbling mess, all ready to be swept away by the tide in a few short hours.

But it was Cair Paravel, just for a moment, because he was young enough to truly believe that all was right with the world.

I don’t have strong positive memories of the seaside, but I have others: brief snapshots of joy where for once I wasn’t afraid or tired or angry or vaguely disappointed with the way this world has turned out. Times when I was safe and warm and loved, and that’s all I felt, for just a little while.

Those are the moments when we are quite sure that Aslan has won and we are kings and queens, moments when we look out over the sea and it is beautiful.

Sometimes we forget to enjoy those moments. Other times, we forget to remember them. Not in a way that makes us live constantly, miserably in the past. But as an act of faith, as a way of saying, “I believe we’ll make it to Cair Paravel again someday.”

The scene is not always a coronation; the sound is not always seagulls. It’s the second chorus of “Silent Night” sung in the glow of candles. It’s in the rousing finale of a Broadway show that reminded you that “to love another person is to see the face of God.” It’s the quiet snoring of someone you love. It’s children’s laughter and guitar solos and conversation over coffee and film credits and windchimes in the garden.

It’s in the sound of church bells, but also in every sound, every memory that reminds us of our true home, someplace where we can be children again, safe and triumphant at last.

Have you heard it? Do you remember?

Moving Van Theology: Seeking a Homeland

One week from today, I will be moving to Minnesota to start a new job. This is an exciting and terrifying thing.

Packing and organizing all of my things, however, is only terrifying. And also extremely boring and not rewarding at all for someone who hates details and planning with a passion usually reserved for rodents and parasitic insects.

Boxes, Part 1. Did I know I had this much stuff? No. No, I did not.

So, what’s a disorganized person to do? Think about theology while folding T-shirts and getting rid of old scrapbooking supplies, of course. So, I present for your consideration: Moving Van Theology. It’s what’s kept me sane over the past few days.

Hebrews 11 has been my favorite chapter of the Bible since I was old enough to decide that I needed a favorite chapter of the Bible (probably in my slightly-self-righteous sixth grader phase). My logic went (and goes) something like this: it has stories, and stories are great.

There are a few verses in the middle of the chapter that always seemed strange to me, though. They form a beautifully melancholy interlude, like someone decided to throw a bridge in a minor key into some peppy little pop song. (Someone please tell me you just inserted a movement of “Moonlight Sonata” after the chorus of “Call Me Maybe.” No? Just me? Darn.)

Anyway, this is what Hebrews 11:13 says: “These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth.”

Wait, hold up. They did get what they were promised…didn’t they? Noah saw the rain come, justifying the crazy build-a-boat-in-the-desert scheme that had been his reality for decades. Abraham and Sarah were changing diapers at the age most people are checking into a retirement home. Moses eventually left a ruined, plague-broken Egypt behind him without even an “I told you so” to Pharaoh. The walls fell, the armies fled, the lions decided it wasn’t time for dinner after all. Victory and vindication arrived at long last.