An open letter to CS Lewis 

“We read to know that we are not alone.”
— CS Lewis

Oh, Professor – how many times have I run, heart wounded and despairing, to your works in search of a quote as though you were an apothecary and your words my balm of Gilead? How often in these last few months alone have I sat at your feet to commit to heart your lessons about the Four Loves? How many hours have I spent in the presence of God with your words guiding my conversations with Him?

I long to be surprised by joy again – to look up through tears and see something that compels me to rise once more to my own two feet even before those tears have dried. I long to find the peace of purpose; wherever it might lie on the road ahead, I long to stumble upon whatever it is that makes my life meaningful in the midst of all the other lives around me.

I fancy myself a writer, though compared to the literary heights to which I aspire the title of “scribbler” seems more appropriate…and perhaps it always will be better suited to me than its nobler counterpart.

Will I ever lead anyone through a wardrobe as you and Lucy led me? Will any of my nighttime thoughts, furtively whispered out loud to empty darkness or feverishly scribbled into a notebook by lamplight, ever be printed so that they may touch another life as yours have done mine? Will I ever have full mastery of this skill with which I have apparently been blessed, so that I may use it to its full potential as God intended?

These are the questions I would ask you if I could sit with awhile with you in one of your old haunts. As a child I imagined you as an uncle who would patiently listen to my incessant chatter about Narnia, answering the questions I had about that wonderful world. As an adolescent I would have debated with you about Screwtape and Wormwood, for I too was an inept youth in desperate need of goodly avuncular guidance. But now I am grown up and the imaginary conversations I have with you know about my haplessness and helplessness would be best suited to brandy in a study, or perhaps even once in a while to The Eagle and Child – though there I would be a most enchanted fly on the wall instead of a demanding pupil.

But how childish and droning my questions seem to be – even to the melodramatic pupil who posits them to you! Maybe it’s better that I bring them to my beloved books instead of to the man who wrote them, for as grown-up as I fancy myself to be I am still childish enough to be totally incapable of gracefully bearing any reproach, no matter how lovingly critical, from one I love so dearly.

So instead I write to your memory, searching for the answers in your written legacy. You are right, dearest Professor – when I read your words, I do not feel so very alone.


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