March 24th, 2020 | 1 Comment
Long ago, smack in midweek last week, while national leaders wrung their hands and local nurses everywhere rolled up their sleeves, a baby was born. Her name is Lucy. She sleeps through storms. She wakes in wonder. She is my first grandniece. She was named after a little girl who, when she was sent to a relatively safe, rural place in Oxfordshire during the London Blitz, asked the homeowner, who was a very busy man—an author, speaker and Oxford don— and who later wrote that he was thrown back to his own childhood for a moment, “What’s behind the wardrobe?” True story. Thirty years after C.S. Lewis died, I stayed at his home for a while, too. My bedroom was his old study, the walls still stained and redolent of pipesmoke. But that’s a tale for another day. Let this be a parable for us.