For all those who have been hurt enough they wonder if they are loved, for those deep enough in the valley they take His love on faith, for those who cry when they remember they're loved because it's hard to believe but essential to live—may this story be a blessing.
Disclaimer: A love such as this could never be mine to own; nor could all the stories it has born.
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Do You love me?
I asked it first when we were sent away; when Father had already left (the halls echoed emptily without his laughing voice, like Peter's without the weight), when Mum had to be left behind, when the city had places with craters instead of buildings and I dreamed we'd come home and find Mum wasn't there anymore. And I tried to comfort a brother who didn't want it, a boy trying to be a man who didn't want gentleness, and a sister who now jumped at every sound. In the ruins of world I asked a God who might exist,
With everything like this—do You love me?
And we were welcomed to a mansion with a strange old man and his strict servants, and there I watched and heard my youngest sister start to turn mad (oh, the fears Peter and I had), and saw my younger brother make it worse, and I told the crumbling universe,
You must not love me.
But Lucy wasn't mad. With all my siblings I walked into a wood in the middle of a wardrobe, and found a war we could fight, however reluctantly, and a Lion whose very name breathed music.
Aslan.
His very name held the promise of good, and good is bound up with love.
And I asked, quietly, for fear of upsetting the hope inside me, even as I feared for a brother with a White Witch,
Is it possible - could You love me?
And I met Him. And I walked with Him, one dark, aweful night, as He grieved. I heard His moans, His loneliness, His request to bury my hands in His mane so He wouldn't feel alone. And all I could think, behind the questions, was,
I love You.
The night got worse, evil closer, and I crouched while shielding my sister, hiding ourselves at His command. And worse and worse, they shaved Him, they mocked Him, they tied and muzzled Him, and then finally the Witch stabbed Him, and I could not watch.
All I loved most, all I wanted to love me, lost.
Only it wasn't lost. The night lasted for cold, numbing hours, but dawn came, and He rose.
He rose.
And when He fought, love won. And Love crowned me.
He won my brother's life, my kingdom's freedom, and a home where nothing was crumbling. The dark times in our reign were never as dark as that one night, and I remembered and believed.
You love me. I believe.
I wore Love's own crown, and I was loved.
Then we were sent back. And a year passed, a year when I had the love of my family, but not the crown Love had given me, and my memory of it faded. Sometimes when the night wouldn't let me sleep, I couldn't avoid the question,
You love me, don't you? You haven't forgotten?
I told myself my family would have to be enough. Their love would have to be enough.
But we were called back, and I found in my hand, by the well, a little golden chessman. And I remembered, a castle, a kingdom, a crown, given by the hand of Love Himself, when His touch rested upon us and Love never lost.
But You lost us. You let us go. Surely You know why it's hard to trust You? Why I'm so afraid?
He told me I'd listened to fears. And He breathed on me and placed me at His side. I rode Love's back to set Narnia free once again.
This, this is what it is to live by Love, and Love's strength. I must be loved. I am with Him.
But He sent us away, Peter and I. And this time we could not come back. This time there was no reminder. This time we didn't have hope, only memories. There was only England, where Love was invisible and we didn't know His name.
Why does remembering Your love hurt? This can't be love.
I argued with Him. My siblings never told that part, for they didn't know it. I told Him I could bear the loss of Narnia, the loss of the crown, the loss of a place where air itself made me a queen. But I could not lose Him; I could not lose the way He loved me. I could not face a life where everything was hard, where I was wounded, and there was no joy, and He was not there to make it worth it. I told Him,
You do not love me, and I will be loved.
And I was. Boys and girls (we were not men and woman, not yet) worshipped at my feet, and I tried to satisfy myself with their love.
It was as empty as my denial of Narnia.
And it was not enough, when a night almost as dark as Aslan's death came.
When my siblings, my parents, even my once-obnoxious cousin died. And this time there would be no dawn. No resurrection.
You hate me. Only hate would drive the wound this deep.
With everyone else gone, I cannot hate You too.
Time passed. Two years.
Two years isn't enough to heal a wound like that. It only stops the bleeding. The pain lessens but doesn't leave. And at the end of that time, I found I couldn't believe He loved me. Maybe He never had.
If You did, I wouldn't be dying.
If You did, it wouldn't be this hard.
But Love is relentless. Flowers in my garden, music when my heart gives way, the touch of a friend on the hardest days (but maybe not the nights), memories to hold on to.
Not enough to live. But enough not to die.
The pastor said that You are both Love and Life. Do You love me?
It did not stop.
After all I have done, after how far I have gone, could You love me?
And time does teach that life goes on. I am a different person, I cannot go back to the past, but there may be something that makes the future worth the graves in the cemetery. Maybe. A frail hope, frailer than the whispered hope of a girl leaving the bombs of London. It whispers,
After all You have done to me, could You love me? After all I have done to You, could You love me?
"that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may have strength to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge"(1).
I remember this love. I remember Love, though I do not understand.
It became the answer to prayers, the presence on a walk, the answer in a Bible, the sharing of burdens. A church making a God known by their love. A love that was so very familiar.
I still do not understand. But I believe. I am loved.
He had another name. He had the same story, written out and lived and died for more than just Edmund. And He had faced that aweful night all alone.
I can no longer hear Your voice, deep enough to shake the earth and strong enough to break and remake my heart, whispering my name. I can no longer see Your eyes, with their unbearable love and reassuring truth, seeing me. I can no longer feel the touch of You. But I believe. I believe You love me.
I believe that one day I will hear You say my name again, and that one word will have a love worth all the darkest nights. For I have been rooted and grounded in love. And the name of Love is Christ, who laid down His life for His beloved.
For me.
And for you. You are loved.
OOOOO
(1) Ephesians 3:17b-19a