I once dated a girl who told me that she didn’t like much of anything to do with the Narnia tales.
It comes to mind, I suppose, since we’ve been recently talking about Narnia and my seven-year-old’s marital prospects.
The girl couldn’t get how the Sons and Adam and Daughters of Eve could get along so swimmingly well with talking horses and messianic lions and giants and fawns, all fighting the good fight.
It didn’t mesh with what she was taught Sunday mornings.
“It takes away from the real thing because it’s made out to be like the real thing, but it’s not real thing. You know?” she said.
I sat there and looked at her for nine days. On Day 10, I finally said, No, I didn’t know.
She was disappointed as I. The fabric of the universe, at least our universe, had changed and it could never go back.
She is now married to another, happily as far as I know.
Of course, I have no idea what she might be reading her children.
More so, I wonder how my own children will also be one day disappointed. And who they, in turn, will disappoint … for all the right reasons.