Once again on the eve of college-life, it is C.S. Lewis who is my inspiration--and this time it is The Horse and His Boy.
Like Shasta, I travel across a wide desert, although mine is not one of sand, but of hours away from home and of mountainlessness and of pavement in place of dirt. Like Shasta, I journey with good company and in two-some style, but instead of swell talking horses named Breehy-hinny-brinny-hooey-haw and Hwin, the cousin-steeds, I and
my cousin Merideth are carried by Dinah, the bug-case, and led by some rented creature with no personality and a Massachusetts plate my parents and grandparents condescend to eat from.
I can smell my hot self as the sun pours its heat over me even with the windows down, and there is indeed the smell of hot car and the hours go by and we stop and walk around and eat and it is heat and sun and smell all over again, and sound of squeaking kayak on top of car and occasional jingling from an unhappy alternator belt and hours and beautiful pink sun now and nearly twilight and still desert and no hope of anything else.
Shasta had a mission--to save the Narnians and the Archenlanders, or you might say, Aslan's people--and for that one goal he sweated the miles across the desert from Tashban, heading for the twin top of Mount Pire. I might indeed come from a nicer place than Tashban and be headed off with no mountains in sight, but I have already found several Oasis' of providence like the Winding Arrow River. And I know too that my journey must be worth it as well as his--because my goal, by God's grace and direction, is the same.
Like Shasta, I travel across a wide desert, although mine is not one of sand, but of hours away from home and of mountainlessness and of pavement in place of dirt. Like Shasta, I journey with good company and in two-some style, but instead of swell talking horses named Breehy-hinny-brinny-hooey-haw and Hwin, the cousin-steeds, I and
my cousin Merideth are carried by Dinah, the bug-case, and led by some rented creature with no personality and a Massachusetts plate my parents and grandparents condescend to eat from.I can smell my hot self as the sun pours its heat over me even with the windows down, and there is indeed the smell of hot car and the hours go by and we stop and walk around and eat and it is heat and sun and smell all over again, and sound of squeaking kayak on top of car and occasional jingling from an unhappy alternator belt and hours and beautiful pink sun now and nearly twilight and still desert and no hope of anything else.
Shasta had a mission--to save the Narnians and the Archenlanders, or you might say, Aslan's people--and for that one goal he sweated the miles across the desert from Tashban, heading for the twin top of Mount Pire. I might indeed come from a nicer place than Tashban and be headed off with no mountains in sight, but I have already found several Oasis' of providence like the Winding Arrow River. And I know too that my journey must be worth it as well as his--because my goal, by God's grace and direction, is the same.
1 comment:
yay for narniaisms. "the smell of hot car" :D (though a hot horse smells better in my opinion.) i miss you dear friend!
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