When I was fourteen, I discovered the Chronicles of Narnia.
The best part of them for me had nothing to do with the fact I discovered a series of great books. The best part was that in the character of Aslan, I felt like I was reading for the first time about the God I knew. (Sadly, there was often discrepency in my Christian education between the God I was taught about--the one waiting to zap me--and the God I knew in my heart really, truly existed.)
About a month ago, I asked John if he would read to Bethany and I each evening before we go to bed. Sort of a grown up bedtime story. We finished Prince Caspian last night and put Voyage of the Dawn Treader on the night stand to begin tonight.
I so appreciate John taking the time to do this. (Not that the writers strike has given us better alternatives.) It's a magical 20 minutes cuddled in our bed with our teenager reading about a world of heroism and self-sacrifice. A world largely reflective of our world, but with talking animals and magical creatures.
At one point last night, our own magical creature, Toby, leapt into the middle of us right on cue and acted out a small part of the story.
Maybe Narnia is closer than we imagined.