It has been one month since my plane from Philly touched down on the small runway of Harrisburg airport. After a stern conversation with a TSA officer about the “no tolerance policy” regarding long boards in the airport, I was reunited with my family once more. My father stood, tears in his eyes, as he came forward to give me a great bear hug, the kind where you get swallowed up inside safety and love. After releasing me we all loaded into the van and talked of small things; the neighbor’s new tenant, how father had begun bringing home chocolate milk from the farmers market and how mother loved him anyways.
Following a late dinner and long night’s sleep I awoke the next morning and prepared for the wedding of two friends taking place later that day. The wedding was beautiful, and the reception a blur of reunions, hugs and quick attempts at “catching up”. The next week consisted mainly of catching up with friends over coffee, smoothies, burritos, rice bowls you name it. By the end, I was running out of new places to meet.
Those who know me will attest to my passion for telling stories, perhaps even accuse me of embellishment from time to time. My whole life I sought adventure for the stories it allowed me to tell. And in the telling I was able to bring people onto yard arms in stormy seas and across plains on horse back; to could coax laughter, steal gasps and, rarest of all, earn the request for another story. And so unsurprisingly I returned overflowing with stories and adventures, telling the first quickly to make room for the second. Tales of Generals and stealing rides on trucks, volcano sledding and surfing, watching the lame walk and the blind see, encountering the presence of the Lord and falling in love with the sound of His voice. They were good stories and by the weeks end I told them with practiced ease. Yet as the weeks have gone on and people ask for stories from my time abroad, I find myself less eager to give them voice.
I’ve begun to look for something new in people, something you can only see when you tell them a story. For many a story about hitch hiking in Cambodia is just what it seems, a story. But some can see past the story to a reality. They are the people who have gone and lived stories of their own. The ones who have bought the ticket, gotten lost, asked for directions in the wrong language, and taken the ride they probably shouldn’t have. The ones who look at a map and see past the shapes to people and cultures and see stories waiting to be found. The few that hear a story about hitchhiking in Cambodia and immediately think of the long hours walking under the sun, the weight of your pack, and the miracle of a cold drink.
The same applies as I tell those around me of my relationship with the Lord. Many are encouraging and supportive as I talk about my time with Him, but that is often where it ends. I rarely share about the miracles and healings I have seen because it is frequently received the same way they hear my adventures, as stories from a far away place with little relation to our lives here. I talk about my love for Christ; His quiet whisper cutting through the noise or the way He comforts me in my anxiety and am met by looks of people trying but not quite managing to understand.
And until a week ago that is where the story ended. With a boy who stepped back through the wardrobe only to find himself without anyone who understood to share in the tales of His adventures. Many had of course heard of the wardrobe and some had even spent quite a significant amount of time studying the carvings and writings along its surface, debating what it revealed about the things hidden inside. But to actually open the wardrobe, push through the fur coats and out into the other side had never once crossed their minds. (Or perhaps they had once thought to do so, but never had time due to studying the engravings.) So the boy who returned shared less and less until he began to wonder if he had in fact stepped through the wardrobe at all.
This loneliness persisted until one day he overheard someone talking about the bravery of a little girl and a Lion that is kind. Of course the little boy knew at once what she was talking about so he hurried over and asked if she too had gone through the wardrobe. To his surprise she had never heard of the wardrobe, but rather had climbed through the cupboard above the stove and found herself in quite a remarkable place. At first the boy was quite confused by this, but as he talked further with the young girl about the land she had found beyond her cupboard, he realized (quite to his embarrassment) that she must have found another entrance to the very same land he had just returned from. As time went on he discovered that there were many such entrances to this hidden land,. But he also found those who came back always spoke of the bravery of little girls and the kindness of a Lion.
And so the young boy began to tell stories again, even to those who didn’t quite understand them. (He often thought of how the Lion would tell stories) He would tell of adventure and evil witches and sacrifice, always inviting the listener to come, to taste and see for themselves. Sometimes he would even talk about the Lion, but only on occasion. Gradually the little boy discovered more and more who had found the hidden land. They had come through all manner of entrances but always returned looking a little different and speaking of strange things. But above all the little boy never, ever stopped running back through the wardrobe.
