Narnia

Last night Jackie brought me “Prince Caspian” to read to her as a bedtime story.

I told her it will take a long time to finish the book. When mommy reads books with no pictures it takes a few weeks to finish them. But I pleased her and got to it. I read the first chapter, surprised that she listened through. She was draped on my lap as I sat in the armchair in the bedroom reading. At the end of first chapter she said: “this is like in the movie … except a little different.” We just bought these CS Lewis books in english. I’m so tickled by her attention span.

There were a lot of kids on the camp that started this journey into Narnia. I looked into the boys’ eyes and was transported into the past.

I was 19. I went to the first Lemudim camp. And eleven loving adults flew across the world to hear our adult hearts. We were eager to be seen, heard, loved. PBCC was and continues to be a spring of fresh water.

So some strangers gave us the time of day for two weeks. They did more than just listen. They prodded, they lured us out of our shells, to love us to invite us all on a journey of healing through poetry. It was pure grace. God’s abundant pure grace. At the end of the camp four young men took a picture. Red eyed, happy, happy beyond words, shoulders relaxed, cheeks relaxed. Their hearts had been invited out in the open, seen and loved. And now these men have sons and nephews. But because we live in a broken world, these kids learn to grow up the best they can, and to shield their hearts. I pray for the grace that their fathers will have the privilege and the heart to hear their sons’ stories. Their pain. And be silent. And shed tears. And meet together at the gates of heaven on earth.

And I pray that our daughters will grow brave and tender, shielded in the heart of Jesus too. And that we as moms will go many extra miles, alongside them. That we will be available and vulnerable.

I’m amazed how my daughter invites me to share, to tell her more of my childhood. She longs to identify herself, her fears, her struggles in my own story. So we talk. And it’s never enough. She always says: “tell me more!”