Monthly Archives: November 2011

I picked up our set of C.S. Lewis’ Narnia books the other day. I didn’t read them, not all the way through; I skipped around, taking in bits and pieces here and there. I was feeling a bit nostalgic for the days when my children were small enough to sit on my lap and be read to; now they tower above me and before too many years have passed will probably have children of their own.

We used to read through all seven of C.S. Lewis’ Narnian adventures each year with the boys, Roger and I taking turns reading aloud. Sometimes they drew pictures of what we were reading; our older son, ever the analytic type, sometimes drew maps.

Paging through the books again was like catching glimpses of old friends. As is usual for me, the books hold much more magic and more fascinating vistas than the movies could. So it’s not difficult to feel the spray of the ocean as we board a Narnian ship, or to shiver at the subtly evil glance of Queen Jadis, or to feel the tranquility of the Wood Between the Worlds.

Perhaps it was lingering too long in those somnolent Woods, or maybe it was just one of those peculiarly pensive moods that come with autumn. Whatever the reason, I thought about the characters in the books.

No matter how often I read them, Edmund will inevitably listen to the White Witch and gorge on the Turkish Delight she provides. Digory will forever ignore his misgivings and strike the bell, awakening Jadis. And Susan will, alas, always grow up to makeup and boyfriends, forgetting Narnia and Aslan. They have no choice; they must live the stories written for them.

But what about us—you and me?

Some parts of our stories have been written for us. We had no say in who our parents would be, or our siblings—or even whether we had any; we didn’t choose our looks or our basic personalities. We didn’t have a say as to what talents we’d have, or what country we’d be born in.

But our Author is different from C. S. Lewis; our Author writes unfinished tales.

We all grow up with various bits and pieces of stories, dramas and traumas as well as joys. We carry with us the memories of past childhoods, friendships, betrayals, loves. Life is a big undertaking. It’s tranquil, it’s loud; it’s ordered, it’s chaotic. It’s messy.

And we look for God’s will in the midst of all of that big, messy life. We think that we can latch onto that one thing He has for us to do, that single purpose for which we were created. If we can just lay hold of that, we reason, we can be fulfilled, we can be happy, we can please God.

And do you know what God says to that?

“Write your own story.”

God gives us gifts and talents, and He will use them, if we let Him. But His plan for us, His grand purpose, is that we love Him and love others. He wants us to help other people, to be with them when they hurt, to care for those who cannot care for themselves. That sounds simplistic … and it is. But it’s also true. The expression of that will vary so much from person to person that we may have to look to recognize it.

But that’s how we each write our own stories. God has given us freedom, not condemned us to lives of playing hide and seek, trying desperately to find that one thing that we can do with our lives that will please Him. He is pleased with people who believe Him, who look to Him, who give their lives to Him, whose actions are filled with grace, mercy and justice.

He calls us to be free in Him.

“Write your own story.”