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If you search the term “C.S. Lewis” in Amazon, you will yield 32,557 results.  This includes Lewis’s long list of literary works (academic, apologetic, and fictional works) as well as scholarship written about Lewis and his writings.

So the question is:  why do we need another biography on Lewis, when the field is already saturated??

Alister McGrath confidently addresses this question in the introduction to his book C.S.Lewis – A Life.  McGrath grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland, just as Lewis did. He is also a trained theologian, who currently serves as chair of theology, ministry, and education at the University of London. Who better to launch a holistic exploration of Lewis than someone who hails from his native Ireland and possesses a comprehensive knowledge of theology?  McGrath’s extensive bibliography includes works such as Mere Apologetics, Theology: The Basics, Christian Theology: An Introduction (which I own), “I Believe”: Exploring the Apostles’ Creed, Christianity’s Dangerous Idea: The Protestant Revolution, “The Dawkins Delusion?: Atheist Fundamentalism and the Denial of the Divine, and Why God Won’t Go Away: Is the New Atheism Running on Empty? Perhaps there are many Lewis biographies out there, but McGrath’s voice shares a fresh perspective on Lewis.

For one, the exploration of 1890s Ireland is an important and necessary aspect in understanding the political and social turmoil which dominated Northern Ireland during Lewis’s development. McGrath devotes his first chapter to explaining this climate in great detail.  McGrath explains how Charles Stewart Parnell led a movement to restore “Home Rule” – a sweeping revolution which aimed to eliminate any trace of English influence (and Protestantism) and return to Irish nationalism, including a restoration of the Catholic faith.  Furthermore, McGrath illustrates how the rift between Catholics and Protestants left deep scars on citizens of Belfast, including the Lewis family.  This is especially true as Lewis’s maternal grandfather was an Anglican minister.  Lewis’s father Albert was a court solicitor in Belfast, giving both Lewis sons an intimate knowledge of Irish politics (Albert insisted that his sons endure these conversations so they could be well-educated; unfortunately for him, his sons absolutely detested political discussion).  Anyone who has read Boxen, Lewis’s youthful writings from his childhood about an imaginary Animal-Land, can detect the residue of these arguments. Lewis would later weave these political reflections into some of his writings – read “Meditations on the Third Commandment”, “Willing Slaves of the Welfare State”, and That Hideous Strength among others.  This section provides the reader with great context for Lewis and gains greater validity, in my mind, because it is written by an author who, like Lewis, came of age in the same country (and to an extent, the same turmoil) as he.

Another aspect of the biography that I enjoyed is McGrath’s refusal to create hagiography.  Lewis was the first to admit his own shortcomings, and McGrath also illuminates these issues without “bashing” Lewis. As Lewis scholar Bruce Edwards points out in his four-volume collection C.S. Lewis: Life, Works, and Legacy, there is often a tendency to elevate Lewis to a saint who sipped lemonade or to foolishly cast him down as an amateur theologian who tricked the world with his brand of lukewarm doctrine titled Mere Christianity.  McGrath’s biography lands somewhere comfortably in the middle.  He maintains a cautious objectivity throughout the work.  As an admirer of Lewis (and someone who has thoroughly read his works, not just the popular ones), I appreciate this objectivity.  He mentions Lewis’s longstanding friendship and correspondence with admitted homosexual Arthur Greeves.  He admits that Lewis desired a strong “drink” after his wife died.  C.S. Lewis was a human, fraught with spiritual complexity as we all are.  McGrath presents him as such, much to my relief.

The final aspect I enjoyed was McGrath’s shrewd examination of Lewis’s relationship with women.  As a female Lewis scholar, I have endured much grief from others over the fact that Lewis supported the “men’s club” of the Inklings and prevented Susan from passing out of the Shadowlands in Narnia. After reading this biography, I have taken a greater interest in Lewis’s involvement with women.  I will be addressing this topic specifically in an upcoming blog series later this year on Crystalhurd.com.  For now, I want to focus my critique on three areas that McGrath addresses:

**McGrath discusses, at great length, the relationship between a young Lewis and Mrs. Moore.  McGrath argues that Lewis obviously admired Mrs. Moore enough to choose spending his WWI furlough with her instead of his father.  Although Lewis had a fractured relationship with his father, McGrath argues that Lewis’s attraction to Mrs. Moore was stronger. He even pulls “hints” out of various letters which reference a visitor, which he implies was Mrs. Moore. Nonetheless, Lewis took on the chore of supporting the Moores after his return from the war (or more precisely, Albert mainly supported the Moores, although he was unaware of the relationship for some time).  I find it difficult to believe that a 20-year-old would take on the burden of a family simply because he made a verbal contract with a friend.  Although Lewis possessed a strong sense of duty, I entertain the notion that he perhaps had an attraction to Mrs. Moore.  Note that I am not asserting that he carried on a relationship (sexual or otherwise) with her, but rather that he was drawn to her in some fashion.  Did he view her as a “surrogate mother”?  Perhaps (but not in some strange Oedipal way).  Lewis never addressed her as Mrs. Moore, but as “Minto”.  However, in letters written shortly before her death, Lewis refers to her as his “mother”.  Nonetheless, she plays in integral part in Lewis’s story, and McGrath gives her due attention. Some biographies dismiss this association almost completely, while others assume there was a passionate love affair between them. While we may never know for sure, it is dangerous to speculate without evidence.  McGrath, however, constructs a careful argument using Lewis’s letters and diary. He does not demand the reader accept one side of the argument, but scrupulously presents the evidence for our consideration.

**McGrath also discusses the role of talented philosopher Elizabeth Anscombe in shaping Lewis’s later literature. Anscombe was present at the Oxford Socratic Club and argued with Lewis about the philosophical aspects of Lewis’s book Miracles, specifically the claim that naturalism is self-refuting.  Many writers claim that Lewis “lost” this argument and that Lewis was so humiliated that he abandoned his theological writings for children’s literature. This notion is completely absurd. It is apparent that Lewis was not threatened by intellectual women.  In fact, he kept a healthy correspondence with many women over the decades. McGrath highlights the fact that Anscombe’s words assisted Lewis in improving his perspective.  Therefore, her input helped him clarify his argument.  This is no philosophical wrestling match; it is more an instance of “iron sharpening iron”. Lewis deeply appreciated Anscombe’s comments.  After this, Lewis revised chapter 3 of Miracles.   Some scholars wish to paint Lewis as resentful of a “smart woman”, but McGrath’s close examination reveals that Lewis found Anscombe a worthy and respected intellectual.

**A final relationship which McGrath explores is Lewis’s marriage to Joy Davidman.  McGrath discusses the assertion made by Douglas Gresham that his mother “seduced” Lewis. Recent findings at the Wade Center, which McGrath alludes to in his work, support this statement.  McGrath writes,

 These newly acquired papers include forty-five sonnets, written by Davidman for Lewis over the period 1951-1954.  As Don King has noted, these sonnets deal with Davidman’s intentions of returning to England after her initial meeting with Lewis and forging a closer relationship with him.  Twenty-eight of these sonnets set out in great detail how Davidman attempted to forge that relationship.  Lewis is represented as a glacial figure, an iceberg that Davidman intends to melt through a heady mixture of intellectual sophistication and physical allure.

McGrath makes a point that Joy was rather pushy about some issues, including her insistence that she (as his wife after a civil ceremony) and her boys occupy the Kilns.  In fact, McGrath highlights an “unpleasant” confrontation between Maureen Moore Blake and Joy, during which the latter claimed that her boys should inherit the property, while Maureen rightly stated that the home would pass to her.  Joy certainly admired Lewis for his integration of mind and faith, and as we all know, Lewis would eventually develop mutual feelings for her.   If he felt “coerced” to marry her initially, he was certainly more than willing to marry her in a religious ceremony at her hospital bedside on March 21^st, 1957.  Call it “seduction”, but their relationship produced real, abiding love.  Reading A Grief Observed shows the depths of Lewis’s devotion to Joy.

Overall, I found McGrath’s biography enjoyable.  He strives to remain objective, while painting a comprehensive portrait of a complex man.  I urge you to read this biography to broaden your understanding and appreciation of Lewis.

Many thanks to Tyndale publishers and the Tyndale Blog Network for providing an advance copy of the book.  I was not asked to write a positive review in exchange for this work.

 

The Bible tells us that David danced in front of the Ark of the Covenant, but the authors unfortunately do not provide us with further specifics.  Did he do the Jelly Roll?  The Electric Slide?  The Window Washer?  Did he cry out, in the midst of his rejoicing, Oh Lord, wilt thou teach me how to Dougie??

I love to dance.  The problem is I can’t. I am a consummate book worm.  I have two left feet.  I lack that precious skill called “swagger.”  So I gave up the dream of wearing those cool parachute pants and moving gracefully across a stage behind a rap star. At some point, we all have give up the dreams we know are not ours. If a man can do nothing but create stick figures, Thomas-Kincade style landscapes and majestic portraits are out of the question.

However, not all dreams crash and burn so easily.  I secretly get to indulge my fantasy through the gift of virtual reality (which can, ironically, have realistic implications).  It all started when I noticed that I needed to lose some weight…

Back during graduate school (Master’s), I noticed I was developing a “little belly” from the late night eating binges and added stress. My pants were getting tighter but I ignored it and continued eating the package of Oreos and Soft Batch cookies. AND, I can’t forget about those awesome crème-filled cupcakes with swirls on top.  A ravenous appetite is one of the unforeseen side effects of graduate school.   And with tackling a mile-long reading list and an arduous thesis to write, who has time for exercise? Hey, Heart of Darkness isn’t going to read itself.  My metabolism had slowed to a crawl, like a creeping-through-the-desert-with-no-water-and-the-sun-beating-on-your-back crawl. Finally, in 2009, I had a bit of a wake-up call.  At 53, my father had quadruple bypass surgery.  Then I discovered that heart disease was rampant in both branches of my family.  In essence, I was a genetic bulls-eye.  I decided that year that I would begin a fitness regimen, reclaim my old body, and hopefully prevent (or at least postpone) any future heart issues. Besides, in my supreme negligence, the “little belly” had grown unchecked and eventually expanded to my hips.  I was nearly 40 pounds heavier. My husband’s co-worker even asked if I was pregnant.  I quickly and shamefully reassured her that I wasn’t. Instead of dropping the topic, she fumbled headlong into an inconvenient (and somewhat embarrassing) argument.  “Oh sure she is,” the girl sternly replied, unaware of the impropriety of such comments.  The fact that I had to convince someone else that I was NOT pregnant was enough to challenge my previous apathy and fuel determination for real change.

Because I had no money to join a gym (I already said I was a graduate student, right?), I purchased the Nintendo Wii and lost 23 pounds.  I was in shape, feeling better, eating better.  Then 2011 happened. My Mom was diagnosed with breast cancer all while I was reading and later writing for my dissertation.  Everything went out the window.  I ate all the unhealthy crap again, out of stress and depression. By the end of that year, I had gained all but one pound back.

Then I saw a commercial for Zumba.  I had heard great things about the program.  Basically, women dance and incinerate calories. Health magazine claimed that women could potentially lose 1100 calories in an hour. Best of all, you didn’t have to know how to dance. Sign me up.

Many friends encouraged me to attend a local class, but there was no way I was going in front of God and everyone (some of them equipped with camera phones and accounts for YouTube) to humiliate myself.  I had no desire to enter a room full of relative strangers and shake what my Momma gave me. I’m sure if I truly attempted to shake it, it would be incredibly awkward or I would possibly break something. Instead, I elected to buy the Kinect game.  It turned out to be the best fitness decision I made.  The mid-length class passed quickly because I was more concerned about getting the steps right (and all while having fun). I was burning 1000 calories a session. Thanks to that game paired with a diet of salmon sandwiches, I lost enough weight to not scare people off the beach when I went to Key West last summer. The rigor of the class and a balanced diet were helping me shed pounds and get my old body back.

However, the main reason why I adore Zumba is that it taps into an old desire of mine – my hopes of becoming a hip hop dancer.  That’s right, this book nerd wanted to be a “fly girl” on In Living Color. When I was younger and my parents left the house to run errands, I would put on headphones, pop in a CD of “No Diggity” and flail around the house like those crazy arm balloons you see at used car lots. For me, it was liberating to dance and, you know, not suffer extreme social isolation.  Who wants to wear a scarlet NS on their chest (“No Skills”)?

The main problem is that my body is rather stiff.  My knees are nearly always locked and my hips cannot operate independently of my trunk and legs. Therefore, if I attempt to swing my hips, the rest of my body follows without avail. It’s like watching a rag doll being pulled by her belt into a tornado. Instead of moving hips seductively like Elvis, I’m having some sort of seizure which (instead of mesmerizing them) prompts people to call the paramedics. My elbows, in frustrating contrast, never lock. They have some sort of perpetual bend which makes a powerful fist thrust look like a knobby tree branch. Form is definitely not my forte. Another great benefit to the Zumba game is that you are only 2-3 inches tall; the screen is dominated by virtual dancers.  That way, you think you are casting some sort of erotic spell with your movements (a la Sucker Punch), until you glance at the left corner and see this corny figure clumsily beating the air with her fist and twirling like a lunatic.

Nonetheless, I am beginning to get the hip movements. You won’t see me on So You Think You Can Dance? anytime soon, but my body is slowly beginning to obey what my mind dictates.  I enjoy my morning workouts (finally) and my clothes are fitting better.

So in the fortress of my living room, in front of a T.V. and sofa that won’t mock me, I surreptitiously spin and stomp my pounds away.  It’s not graceful, it’s not pretty, but it’s progress. And somewhere deep down, the fly girl who wants to break out some mad grooves smiles in satisfaction. Don’t ask her to come out in public or “in da club” though.  Seriously don’t.  I’m not that confident.  If you want real dancing, watch the video below.

Election season is quickly approaching. Unless you live in a distant cave with no cable or wifi, you have been bombarded with advertisements. The American presidential election is one that stirs worldwide attention. As we head to the polls shortly, it is important to understand the impact of our decisions and the ancestors who fought for us to have the opportunity to make these decisions. Two hundred years ago, women of this young country lost their husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, nephews, and cousins as we fought for our independence. We have come a long way since then.

The term “leadership” is a ubiquitous and popular phrase in our country.  Colleges run successful leadership degree programs, churches sponsor leadership seminars and courses, and books which chronicle the lives of charismatic leaders rapidly climb the best-seller lists.  Why are we so fascinated with leadership?

Because leadership affects our everyday lives.

As soon as we exit the womb, we are inundated with hierarchies.  First, we have parents/guardians, then teachers/administrators, and then bosses.  We arrive into the surrounding power structures and mature to new ones as we age. Leadership is present in all aspects of our lives.

Historically, leadership was reserved for affluent, powerful, and bold individuals.  In the first part of the twentieth century, it was believed that leadership traits were innate (inborn) and therefore could not be taught or practiced.  The “Great Man Theory” touted that men were who “tall, dark, and handsome” had some God-given charisma which made them natural leaders.  Although physical attractiveness and height do not typically correlate with successful leadership, these were early beliefs of leadership endorsed by culture.  Prolific biographer David McCullough even writes in John Adams that Adams was rather short when compared to his political companions, but surely this did not hinder his influence in establishing our country.  And need I mention Napoleon?

In today’s culture, leadership is now conceptualized as something more tangible.  Anyone who lives a decent life, who gives to others, who shares gifts with the world – these people are genuine leaders.  If you are a parent, you are a leader. If you teach or coach, you are a leader.  People who place themselves last, they are truly leaders (do you detect the paradox here?).  The best leaders are primarily servants.  Leadership expert Peter Northouse defines a leader as an individual who exercises influence over a group (2007).  This group can be as vast as a country or as small as a local soccer team.  Leadership is no longer preserved for corner offices or boardrooms. Leadership takes place all day, all around us.  With this, we should embrace our roles as leaders to those in our orbit.

But some people cannot handle the burden of power. C.S. Lewis states that he could not “rule a henhouse, much less a nation” but claimed that people cannot be trusted with power.  Absolute power corrupts absolutely, thanks to that dang mistake in the garden.  The Fall (or the introduction of sin) promises to perennially create issues for us.  I propose two views of power which are ever-present in our culture: the yoke and the cushion.

“The Yoke” illustrates an understanding that power is a weight.  Power equals responsibility.  A yoke is traditionally worn by the oxen who lead a plow.  Therefore, the oxen contribute to the progress of the territory (agricultural, but for the sake of the metaphor also social, political, and economic).  Another important aspect to note is the fact that the oxen and the farmer they assist are on the same level horizontally.  There is no distinction of status as they work side by side.  Power involves hard work and focused energy.  The “kingdom” here is not a playground for tyranny, but a field in need of planting and harvesting.  The domain needs constant maintenance and thus the yoke is needed to ensure success.

“The Cushion” is for those who view power as a vertical endeavor which will provide some extra perks.  There’s a ladder which needs climbing, and each rung places one closer to a goal.  In and of themselves, goals are not hazardous; the problem is when the goals sought are for selfish means, not common good.  As a graduate of a leadership program, I have heard people say, “Well you have to play the game to accomplish things”.  Perhaps, but do we play the game as a means to a better end or so we can benefit ourselves?  Someone other than ourselves should benefit from our choices.  That is the essence of true leadership.  Cushioners step on and over people indifferently in pursuit of what they want.  When they arrive at their desired position, there will be a nice, comfy cushion for the bottoms they have worked off to get there.  But does leadership ever get easier?  We may develop effective strategies which assist us in helping others, but the issues that plague us never evaporate completely.  Solutions come then new problems emerge.  Those who truly want a better world will never be complacent about the state of human suffering.

Make a mental list of the top five leaders who have influenced you.  Do they wear a yoke or sit atop a cushion?  Are they intoxicated by power or are they humble servants?

On Tuesday, we will go to the poles and determine the next leader for our country.  Pray and make your choice, but remember that you have a sphere of influence within arms’ reach.  People are hungry for inspiration. Choose to lead with integrity and humility.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The month of October is full of milestones for me.  First and foremost, it is my Mom’s birthday.  She will be turning 29 (wink, wink), and I am so incredibly grateful for her.  She sacrificed a career to stay home and raise me.  What more can someone give than his/her life to ensure that another will succeed?  Every time I opened my lunch and found scribbled encouragement with my sandwich or was sick with the various ailments which visit kids, she was there always willing to be what I needed.  I could not ask for a more than this.  Words are inadequate to describe how much I love her.

October is also Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  You have most likely noticed pink ribbons on items at the store, on passing vehicles, or on t-shirts and sweatshirts.  That level of awareness is needed in our culture right now because an astounding amount of women are diagnosed with it every year.  It is fierce and undiscriminating. Thankfully, foundations like Susan G. Komen are funding research to eliminate (or at least unravel the mystery) of breast cancer.  More and more women can count themselves among survivors thanks to the research which has emerged in the last few years.

I have mentioned in past posts that my mother is also a survivor.  In January of 2011, she was diagnosed with ductal carcinoma in situ.  The doctor was quick to tell her that “in situ” is latin for “in place” which means the cells are not aggressively reproducing.  Because of this, she was diagnosed as Stage Zero and sent for an MRI.  The MRI revealed more cells were present (not moving, but still present) and Mom was recommended for a partial masectomy.  She underwent the procedure in March.  Thankfully, the cancer had not spread to her lymph nodes (the “interstate” of your body) so the cells were contained.  Due to Mom’s early diagnosis, she did not have to suffer the terrible experience of radiation or chemotherapy.  She developed some complications after surgery, but today she remains cancer-free.  Thanks be to God for that!

In order to respect my Mom’s privacy, this is all I will tell you about her encounter.  But I can tell you about how a daughter handles it.

Cancer makes you reassess your entire life.  For the first month after she was diagnosed, I was inconsolable.  I couldn’t say the word “cancer” to other people. I often studdered over it and when I did gamble to mention it, spit it out like the word itself was a disease.  I cried at random times, on my planning period at work, in the shower, when I went to bed at night.  No one in my family (close or extended) had ever dealt with cancer.  They all suffered from heart disease. My Dad had quadrulple bypass three years ago. I always assumed at one point, when I’m too old to care, my ticker would tire out.  By then, I would most likely be wrinkly and apathetic, chomping on fig newtons in a retirement home and watching people drive by outside hoping God would pull right up in his chariot to come get me, like Elijah.

On that January day in 2011, I prayed for a miracle.  I remember what I was wearing, the layout of the doctor’s office, the overcast skies visibile from the windows of the hospital.  And then he entered.  The doctor delivered the diagnosis as my Mom sat there stoically.  She was expressionless, the hospital gown draping off her shoulders.  I remember thinking, after he said “carcinoma”, No God no.  Why?  Didn’t you hear me last night…or all those nights before?  I knew I would start getting questions.  I knew I had to be strong for her.  Most importantly, I knew I had to trust God through this.

Mom’s diagnosis threw me for a loop.  I had never, in a million years, considered it an option.  My Mom’s sisters do not have it, her mother does not have it, none of the women in my family had it.  It was never under consideration.  What now?  Her doctors were asking, “Do you have any children?”  “Yes”, Mom replied, “I have a daughter.”  She included me in many of the doctor’s visits so I may understand the procedures if I ever had to experience it.  What a difference a few months can make on your outlook.  Cancer had interrupted my normal life and now, I was scared.  Yes, I was scared.  I was scared for her and I was scared for myself.  I didn’t want to deal with this.  I wanted my “normal” life back where I could complain about what happened at work or obsess over some frivolous detail.  I wanted to remain numb and distracted.

At the time, I was reading The Chronicles of Narnia for a paper I was presenting in February.  As you may recall from a previous post, I empathized with Digory Kirke, who begged Aslan for a Narnian apple to carry back with him to London which would heal his mother.  I told a colleague that if I could just produce that apple, if I could somehow make her cancer go away, I would.  I would conquer who I needed to conquer.  I would wage war against all evil.  But  when I read those pages, all I wanted to do was cry on Aslan’s mane.  I wanted to curl up, his breath softly blowing the tendrils of hair around my face, and have him envelop me in all my sadness and vulnerability.  I knew I would be safe there – away from machines and medications and test results.  When Aslan cried for Digory, I cried too.  I knew God understood my sadness.  Then I knew it would be okay in the end.

Still there was the shred of doubt.  I prayed she would endure it but I worried, in a small corner of my mind, about my own fate.  Every time I strolled through a Victoria’s Secret or purchased a sports bra, the fear would creep in.  It was relentless.  I stared critically in the mirror at my reflection.  At 31, what had I done?   If my life ended today even, what have I accomplished?  I was reminded of lines in T.S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men”:

Between the idea And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow

                                                                     For Thine is the Kingdom
Between the conception

And the creation

Between the emotion

And the response

Falls the Shadow

                                                                    Life is very long
Between the desire

And the spasm

Between the potency

And the existence

Between the essence

And the descent

Falls the Shadow

                                                              For Thine is the Kingdom

The Shadow is my fear.  Even when I put it out of my mind, it was unconsciously still there.  I could not sweep it under some figurative rug, I had to eradicate it.

In February, I emerged as if from a coma. God gave me the fortitude to conquer my doubts.  I cannot live in the fear of the Shadow.  That is not living; that is merely surviving.  To live in a “waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop” mentality is constant misery.  God gives you this day – let us rejoice and be glad in it.  The Bible commands us not to worry about our future, but be grateful in the present.  I had to make a conscious effort to do it, but it can be accomplished. I wanted to go to Europe for many years. I was tired of postponing it.  Life is not waiting to happen; life is now.  That same month, we booked a flight to London.  Later that spring, I spent eight glorious days in Europe, watching a play at the Globe Theatre, standing in the shadow of Big Ben, touring the fascinating exhibits at the British Museum.  Also, I did observational research on C.S. Lewis while I was there (in both England and Ireland).  I picked flowers from the yard in Belfast which circled his birthplace, saw the shipyards where he grew up, traipsed around his house The Kilns in Oxford, and listened to birds warble around the pond (which is now part of the Lewis Nature Reserve).  I was reinvigorated. I cast off my hopelessness like a tattered coat.  Enough was enough.  I could no longer carry the burden of anxiety any longer.  On with my life.  Onward and upward…

It is my sincere hope that culture does not belittle the agony of this disease.  I’ve had students who wear “I heart boobies” bracelets and of course, we all know of a national restaurant chain which exploits women and their “assets”.  It is incredibly juvenile to mock someone else’s battle.  Pink ribbons are symbols of hope, not a punch line for immature people.  It is a real disease.  It causes pain and tears.  It makes people examine their own mortality.

When you see pink ribbons out this month, think about all those who we’ve lost, but also those who remain.  I know people, and perhaps you do too, who are in the throes of battle right now. They fight because life is worth living.  They did not, as Dylan Thomas writes, “go gentle into that good night”.  When my mother was diagnosed, my husband kept telling me, “It’s only a speed bump.  She will get through this.”

He’s right.  There is a big difference between a speed bump and a stop sign.

Perhaps “in situ” means “in place”, but my Mom’s victory over cancer was one of the most inspiring and motivating events of my life.  It has prompted me to move forward with improved awareness, to be grateful, to embrace the abundant life.

In honor of my Mom’s victory, I wrote a few verses.  And for all breast cancer survivors and soldiers, please keep going.  You owe it to yourself to live the best life!

“Pink Ribbon”

  Her symmetry distorted

 Cautious lines guide the surgeon’s scalpel

 That will purge the cancer from her.

 

How it had all come like a flood

PhonecallsdoctorvisitsMRIsmammogramstearsprayers

Ductal carcinoma in situ

The physician uttered it delicately, as a whisper

Yet it had crashed on our ears

 

Stacks of literature

 Booklets

 Pamphlets

 Wig catalogs

Prosthesis Ads

 

And fear

and mortality

and uncertainty

And…faith

 

Tonight

 she lies asleep

Tangled among wires and IV drips

Her new chest rises and falls

Dozing softly with the euphony of hospital noise,

The steady staccato of heart monitors, the muffled exchange on HGTV,

Beds and machines groaning on wheels, weaving through hushed labyrinthine hallways.

Tomorrow she will see the sunrise with new eyes

For she is more than a conqueror. 

The book of Genesis tells us that Adam and Eve are our first parents.  Adam was alone in the utopia of Eden, so God borrowed a rib and made Eve.  The couple then rule unfettered over the land and beasts in Eden, but are prohibited from taking fruit from one specific tree: the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.  That should not be a problem, seeing that there are many “approved” trees in the Garden.  However, Eve’s curiosity is too much for her.  She is tempted by Satan to taste the forbidden fruit, then shares it with Adam.  After the suspicious snack, they realized that they were naked and hid from God.  For their disobedience, Adam and Eve were banished from Eden.

And we’ve all been cursed with that mistake ever since.

The burden of choice.  Many people have fought and died on battlefields both foreign and domestic for the idea of freedom.  Freedom means we have the right to choose.  No one can make decisions for us or force decisions on us.  But, thanks to the stain of sin, we cannot always be trusted with that freedom.  Sometimes we make poor decisions, we hurt others, we lie, we gossip, we steal, we cheat.  And the choice of Adam and Eve echoes throughout human history and contaminates the present.

Poet John Milton begins his epic narrative Paradise Lost with these words:

Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit

Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast

Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,

With loss of EDEN, till one greater Man

Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat…

Among the consequences of our first transgression is that man must now work the “soil” in order to be fed, women must now endure pain in childbirth, and death must be experienced.  The most significant and painful one, however, is the loss of Eden.  Here the couple had dwelled in pristene beauty, naming the animals and flowers, eating of the fruit, delighting in the presence of God.  And now, that place of delight and throne of God’s favor, had been taken away.  Milton continues:

O unexpected stroke, worse then of Death!

Must I thus leave thee Paradise? thus leave

Thee Native Soile, these happie Walks and Shades,

Fit haunt of Gods? where I had hope to spend,

Quiet though sad, the respit of that day

That must be mortal to us both…

How shall I part, and whither wander down

Into a lower World, to this obscure

And wilde, how shall we breath in other Aire

Less pure, accustomd to immortal Fruits?

Earlier in Paradise Lost, Satan complains that separation from God is a punishment in itself.  Now Adam and Eve, in their sin, experience this same separation.  The deep sense of loss is what C.S. Lewis used in his poem “The Ecstacy”.  Here, Adam and Even are outside of Eden, on the margins of perfection, lamenting about the loss of Eden through their own arrogance:

Long had we crept in cryptic

Delights and doubts on tiptoes,

The air growing purer, clearer

Continually; and nearer

We went on the the centre of

The garden, hand in hand, finger on lip.

On right and left uplifted

The fountains rose with swifter

And steadier, urgence, argent

On steely pillars, larger

Each moment, spreading foamy plumes

Thinner and broader under the blinding sun.

The air grows warmer; firmer

The silence grips it; murmur

Of insect buzz nor business

Of squirrel or bird there is not –

Only the fluttering of the butterflies

Above the empty lawns, dance without noise.

So on we fare and forded

A brook with lilies bordered,

So cold it wrong with anguish

Bitterly our hearts. But language

Cannot at all make manifest

The quiet centre we found on the other side

Never such seal of silence

Did ice on streams or twilight

On birds impose. The pauses

In nature by her laws are

Imperfect; under the surface beats

A sound too constant to be ever observed

From birth its stroke with equal

Dull rhythm, relentless sequence,

Taps on, unfelt, unaltered,

With beat that never falters –

Now known, like breathing, only when

It stopped.  The permanent background failed our ear.

Said the voice of the garden, heard in

Our hearts, ‘That was the burden

Of Time, his sombre drum-beat.

Here – oh hard to come by! –

True stillness dwells and will not change,

Never has changed, never begins or ends.’

Who would not stay there, blither

Than memory knows? but either

Whisper of pride essayed us

Or meddling thought betrayed us,

Then shuddering doubt – oh suddenly

We were outside, back in the wavering world. 

Notice that the poem is written after Adam and Eve have reached “the outside”.  They remember the fountain flowing freely, creating “foamy plumes” as it feeds into a pond.  The garden is now silent; the buzz of insects cannot be heard.  Only the “fluttering of butterflies” above “empty lawns”.  As Adam and Eve attempt to survive on the “other side”, they notice a beautiful brook.  However, this image only inspires bitterness.  It is a fragment of the beauty they left behind, of the perfection lost by their sinful actions.

In stanza six, Lewis mentions a “dull rhythm” which continues infinitely.  In Eden, this endless staccato of Time did not exist.  Yet once Eden was lost, death is born.  Time (capitalization is intentional here) ticks on continually and “never begins nor ends”.

My main focus is on the last stanza.  It is one of deep reflection. “Who would not stay there…?” This world which now wraps around us is hopelessly flawed, similar to (and because of) our human nature.  The memories of Eden make it almost unbearable to live banished from it.  Remember the song of the birds? Remember the beasts we named? Remember the “good” fruit we ate?  All of that is a distant memory now.

The “doubt” Lewis hinted at in stanza one is the root of the issue.  Adam and Eve had everything, and yet, thought they could equal God in power. Satan, of all entities, would know what it is like to lose Heaven by wishing to usurp God.  He is so disappointed at losing Heaven, he resolves to spread his misery but making humans lose “Heaven on Earth” (i.e. Eden).  Humans now struggle with this same pride: “but either Whisper of pride essayed us/Or meddling thought betrayed us,/ Then shuddering doubt”.  The progression of pride and contemplation leads to “The Fall”.

Do we ever wonder “what if”?  What if Adam would have just taken an axe to that tree?  What if Eve would have just lassoed that snake like Walker Texas Ranger and tossed it to the far end of the garden?  But you see, the question “What if?” is what got us in this horrible mess in the first place.  What if we could be like God?  “What if” I can share God’s power?  We are too flawed to have such a burden.

Do not be mistaken, our culture still suffers from the sin of pride.  We see it when scientists deny the existence of God because faith is not “rational”.  We see it (and often feel it) when others condescend or think they are better than most.  We see it when a gift is transformed to a privilege or an elitist attitude- when someone who is blessed knows they are blessed. Humility, like Eden, is lost.

Why do we continue to lose our way?  Have we learned nothing since losing Eden?   Do we need the echo of the lost song of birds to ring in our ears like it did for Adam and Eve?  Must we remember the vision of “empty lawns” and cascading fountains to provoke us to live better?

At one time, we chose disobedience.  Now, let us choose the better path – one of obedience that will one day restore Eden to us.

Last week, our country experienced collective shock and grief after the heinous, egregious acts committed in Aurora, Colorado.  In the aftermath, we learned details about the seemingly normal killer, as well as the acts of bravery which emerged from the shadow of the tragedy.  Hope, although a little seedling, was springing up in the hours after the shooting.  Stories poured in about the resilience of the movie patrons, of men throwing themselves over women to shield them from bullets, of people who narrowly escaped with their lives and praising God for second chances.

As everyone knows by now, the film the victims went to see was the final installment of the Batman: Dark Knight Series.  I find it no coincidence that the storyline boasts of a vigilante poised and ready to defeat the dark forces of Gotham City.  In fact, heroes are a topic of perennial interest.  We all long to have a hero.  We have all felt powerless before.  We have all experienced uncertainty.  If you are a self-confessed “control freak,” you are nearly sickened by the feeling, nauseated by the lack of power over the situation.  But what can one do?

Trust in a hero?  Is this what the film suggests?  Furthermore, is this what the Bible suggests?  The Bible assures us that God will help us in times of trouble.  He will comfort our grief, pacify our sorrow with the reminder of his promises. Our sense of justice, I firmly believe, originates from our Creator.  As we are fashioned in His image, our desires can often be His; the exuberant joy we feel when the antagonist is finally conquered is deeply planted in the heart of us all. I also have faith that our justice system will deliver due punishment to the young man involved. It will not bring back the precious lives that have been lost, but it will hopefully bring some closure to the families of the victims.

There are times that we desire heroes, in which gross injustices demand action.  Have you ever felt this way?  Have you ever found yourself in a place where you wish to look up and, through the tears in your eyes and the thumping in your chest, see your deliverer rushing to your aid to your great relief?  I have mentioned in previous blogs that my mother is a breast cancer survivor.  Last January, while I was reading The Chronicles of Narnia, she was diagnosed with ductal carcinoma in situ (“in place”). Please note that no one in my family has ever had breast cancer.  It was one of the most difficult periods of my life.  At times, I asked God why.  Then there was the moment during a doctor’s visit where the doctor turned to me and said, “And we’ll probably start checking you out in about 15 years.”   I prayed, on my knees every night, for God to heal my Mom.  I cried incessantly for about a month, striving to appear unaffected at work, but when I was alone, the fear would wash over me afresh.  I remember driving home one night in thick fog and thinking, This is a metaphor for my life.  Limited visibility.  Unsure of where I am headed and most frightening of all, unsure about how all this will end.

Then I began to reflect on what I was reading.  In C.S. Lewis’s The Magicians’s Nephew, protagonist Digory enters Narnia with the assistance of rings and a portal in the Wood between the Worlds. Here, he observes Aslan singing Narnia into existence then attempts to ask his help in healing his mother, who is ill back in London:

“‘But please, please – won’t you – can’t you give me something that will cure Mother?’  Up till then he had been looking at the Lion’s great feet and the huge claws on them; now in his despair, he looked up at its face. What he saw surprised him as much as anything in his whole life.  For the tawny face was bent down near his own and (wonder of wonders) great shining tears stood in the Lion’s eyes. There were such big, bright tears compared with Digory’s own that for a moment he felt as if the Lion must really be sorrier about his Mother than he was himself. ‘My son, my son,’ said Aslan.  ‘I know.  Grief is great.  Only you and I in this land know that yet.  Let us be good to one another'”

Aslan then assigns Digory the task of obtaining an apple from a special tree. Digory does not know why he is to secure this apple.  Like Adam, he is tempted by *Jadis (who would “later” become the White Witch).  He thwarts her attempts and returns to Aslan with the apple.  Aslan then plants a tree.  Digory informs Aslan that Jadis tried to persuade him to eat the apple (as opposed to following  orders and delivering it to Aslan).  Aslan continues:

‘”Understand, then, that it would have healed her; but not to your joy or hers.  The day would have come when both you and she would have looked back and said it would have been better to die in that illness.’ And Digory could say nothing, for tears choked him and he gave up all hopes of saving his Mother’s life; but at the same time he knew that the Lion knew what would have happened, and that there might be things more terrible even than losing someone you love by death.  But now Aslan was speaking again, almost in a whisper: ‘That is what would have happened, child, with a stolen apple.  It is not what will happen now.  What I give you now will bring joy. It will not, in your world, give endless life, but it will heal.  Go.  Pluck an apple from the Tree.”

God, I prayed, isn’t there something else I could do?  Some magic apple I can carry back to her to eliminate the cancer? No, but I have something real and far better.  I have faith in a God who can truly heal her.  He can purge these “antagonists” out of her body.  I must pray and believe, believe with every fiber of my being that healing would come.

Fighting back tears, I progressed into the final chapter of Magician’s Nephew. Digory and his friend Polly plant a seed from the Narnian apple and, to their astonishment, it begins to quickly sprout.

“About a week after this it was quite certain that Digory’s Mother was getting better.  About a fortnight later she was able to sit out in the garden.  And a month later that whole house had become a different place.  Aunt Letty did everything that Mother liked; windows were opened, frowsy curtains were drawn back to brighten up the rooms, there were new flowers everywhere, and nicer things to eat.  And the old piano was tuned and Mother took up her singing again, and had such games with Digory and Polly…”

Aslan was the hero.  I found mysterious strength in that.  I was not retreating from reality by reading Narnia, rather I was seeing God’s promises through it. My mother, on Saint Patrick’s Day of last year, underwent a single masectomy.  The cancer had NOT spread to her lymph nodes, but thankfully was contained in a specific area.  Today, she is cancer free.  I cannot thank God enough for the “apple”, the healing He delivered.  Not a day goes by that I don’t ponder and appreciate it.

The truth is, control is merely an illusion.  If you believe that Christ has a plan for you, you can certainly ignore that plan and take another route (not recommended) or you can surrender to it.  If you believe God is in control, then you must admit that ultimately you are NOT.  Some may feel helpless, but to some degree, I feel liberated.  I am fairly clumsy, so Heaven help me if I were left to determine my own path. I continually need a hero, a safety net.  This life can be difficult to navigate, but like the people of Gotham City, I can look up and know help is lingering above me.  His reach far exceeds the stretch of a rescue signal. We also know that God will grant peace to the victims’ families during this horrific time.  I pray they can endure each day with the supernatural strength supplied by our Father.

Because in the end, the hero is going to win.  The ride may cause our stomachs to turn, may cause us to question if the help really exists, but we know that just before the credits, hope will persevere.  Justice will come, and that swiftly.

My prayers continue for the victims’ families of the Aurora tragedy.  But the story has not reached its conclusion yet, so do not fear. Our Hero, and our hope, will prevail.

*”Later” is cautiously used, dependent upon the order in which one reads The Chronicles of Narnia.  If one reads them in originally published order, The Magician’s Nephew would be next to last (6th).  However, if one reads them in the “intended” order, The Magician’s Nephew would be first.