Disclaimer: I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. However, I do claim part- if not all- of the feelings expressed below.
Author's Note: This is for all of us Narnia addicts out there. How many of you have tried- or at least wished- to go to Narnia?
I try every wardrobe I come across. Each time, I stand outside, wondering if this might be the time I go to Narnia. I finger the knob hesitantly, and open the door, expecting mothballs to roll out. Several times they actually have. Stepping inside the wardrobe, I feel my way through rows and rows of fur coats, knowing, just knowing that I will go to Narnia. The only wood I have ever found is the one in the back of the wardrobe.
I travel by train as often as possible. Settling down on the hard wooden benches, I cannot help but wonder if this will be the train. When a train finally zooms by the station, I stand as close as possible and close my eyes. The only thing I ever see upon opening my eyes are the strange glances of the people around me.
I examine every seascape I see, double-checking for a ship that looks Narnian or waves that seem to move. I feel the rough canvas, barely hoping that it will begin to overflow with water and I will be swept into Narnia. What difference does it make that I cannot swim? Surely a handsome king like Caspian will be there to save me.
Every time I catch the eye of a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy in a crowd, I want to call him Peter. I feel an urge to ask him how Ed and Lucy are, and whether Susan ever regained her faith. To have him describe the Battle of Beruna would be my utmost pleasure. But, no, it is never Peter.
Whenever I see a judge with dark eyes, I wonder if he might be the older Edmund.
If I see a young girl, looking in the mirror, I automatically think, "Lucy!"
Every soldier I see is Mr. Pevensie, and every woman named Helen is sure to be a Pevensie.
When by chance I wander into the forest, I lay my palm on a birch tree and close my eyes. With all the will in my body, I ask it to wake. I even speak to the trees, but they never answer. It seems they do not understand the language I speak.
I speak to my cat, named her Jewel. (It is a compliment, I assure you. She is as brave as a unicorn. Tirian, you need not be offended.) Unfortunately, she does not return my affection with anything more than a purr. Neither does the neighbor's dog answer my conversation. He merely wags his tail and drools. What good manners.
But, overall, each time I hear dear Aslan's other name, I know He calls me home.
Narnia, or Heaven.