Because everyone loves a good story
A Meditation on Lift-the-Flap Books and Jesus
I hope you had a lift-the-flap book when you were little. I hope you had several, in fact.
Remember the magic of lifting a flap and discovering a little critter hiding under the bush? Or pulling a paper tab to the left and seeing, like an x-ray, the straw bundles of the first little pig’s house shifting aside to reveal the chubby little porker underneath, momentarily satisfied with his home’s construction? Or—best of all—do you remember the books that expanded into a whole three-dimensional scene when you opened them? Turning a page and seeing a whole glittering kingdom rise up off of the paper was pure magic.
I don’t know what started me thinking about this topic today, but for some reason, lift-the-flap books reminded me of Jesus. Now, I’m not usually one to come up with far-fetched analogies, stretching my comparisons as thin as the gum on the world’s largest bubble. (Just kidding. I did that one on purpose.) But as I thought about these books in relation to Jesus, it rang true in my heart that this is one way I’ve encountered and enjoyed Jesus.
Turning a page and seeing a whole glittering kingdom rise up off of the paper was pure magic.
So here’s what I was thinking: Have you ever been reading the Bible, say in the Old Testament, and come across a story or a passage that was familiar, maybe even a little (dare I say) worn out? I know I have. I tend to skim through stories like that a good deal faster than I should. Why? Because I already know what I’m looking at. It’s a guy who has to build a very big boat. It’s a super long instruction manual for constructing a tabernacle. It’s a fearful leader who blows a horn and knocks down a wall to get into the promised land.
But what I’ve come to see through the years is that those are lift-the-flap moments. When I take the time to let the Spirit tell me the story, I see that there’s much more going on than I assumed. Behind the door of that ark is Jesus, the One in whom we take refuge from the floods of judgment. Behind the curtain of that tabernacle is Jesus, the One who allowed his flesh to be torn so that we could stand in the holiest place before the Father. Behind that fearful leader is Jesus, the greater Joshua, who knew the law of Moses could never grant access to the promised rest, so He led the way Himself.
Behind the door of that ark is Jesus, the One in whom we take refuge from the floods of judgment.
Now, I’m not saying that every nuance of every passage has a one-to-one correlation with Jesus. It would be very tedious indeed to read the Bible through that lens. But I am saying that God is the greatest Author, and what He writes, He writes with intention. He does not overlook details. He does not drop plot points. And he certainly does not belabor his analogies like bubble gum.
So next time I come across a passage that I’m tempted to skim over out of familiarity, I want to stop and look for Jesus instead. The more I track him through the Old Testament, the more I will appreciate Him in the New.
And when I get to Revelation—well, let’s just say that’s a full-page pop up of the place my heart is longing for. And I already know Who I’ll find inside.
What Does Your Brain Look Like?
Gears and ivy.
That’s what my brain looks like. If you could peek into my head (which I strongly advise against), I think you’d see cogs and gears—antique and tarnished but still madly churning—with tendrils of ivy growing on, around, and within the machine.
Why gears and ivy?
I can’t be sure, exactly, but I feel like C.S. Lewis is to blame. He is what John Piper called a “romantic rationalist.” His logic and analysis were impeccable, thanks to his voracious reading and his classical education. (I’m lookin’ at you, The Great Knock.) But he also saw life through the eyes of a dreamer and a lover. He peopled (or creatured?) his literary world with characters from mythology and his own imagination. Even his mundane experiences were shot through with rays of joy and longing. Yet somehow he seamlessly blended these seemingly-incompatible tendencies.
Now, hear me, and hear me good: I’m not comparing my brain to Jack’s. He’s as far out of my league as Aragorn felt to Eowyn. All I’m saying is that, because I’ve steeped my brain in so much Lewis, I feel like my brain has started to acquire some of the same rudimentary components. My gears are antique and tarnished—probably brass—because any reasoning I know I learned from “old dead dudes.” I’m an old soul trapped in a body that will catch up soon enough, I’m sure. My cogs and gears are churning madly, albeit inefficiently and smokily at times, overanalyzing the snot out of most things. Think along the lines of:
“Good morning!” said Bilbo, and he meant it.
“What do you mean?” [Gandalf] said. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”
My poor husband.
But there is ivy abounding in my brain, green leaves of dreams, tendrils of fantasy, and sinuous vines of darker things—fears, quirks, and sadness. It seems like these would overpower the workings of the machine, bringing rational thought to a screeching halt. But it doesn’t. Somehow, the gears and the ivy can coexist. And for that, I blame (and thank) C.S. Lewis.
And Tolkien, too. I’m sure you’ve already suspected that based on my allusions here, but I wanted most of the credit to go to Lewis because he was my first love.
My poor husband once again.
But that is quite enough about me! What about you? If I could peek into your mind, what would it be made out of? Don’t be shy, and don’t feel obligated to write a novel about it. Just jot down whatever you think, because I’d love to hear from you!
Blog Post the First: Being a Declaration of Intention and Desire
Edmund Spenser was preparing to write an epic.
Back in the day, it was customary for someone that audacious to declare his intentions in advance by writing something a bit more manageable first. For Spenser, this was a series of 12 pastoral poems called The Shepherd’s Calendar. (Actually, it was called The Shepheardes Calender, but I didn’t want to frighten you with archaic spelling right off the bat.)
Anyway, it was a collection of twelve poems masterfully crafted in different styles in order to showcase his mad poetic skillz. He was imitating the example of earlier authors like Virgil and Chaucer, hoping to drum up some interest for his own upcoming epic. I think this declaration of intention was actually a way to test the waters, a thermometer stuck under the readers’ tongues to see if they had caught Spenser fever and would, therefore, be lining up to purchase a special-edition collector’s copy of his epic when he finally published it. Well, it must have worked. He is considered one of the greatest English poets of all time, even though he tragically kicked the bucket after writing only half of his epic, The Faerie Queene.
I think this declaration of intention was actually a way to test the waters, a thermometer stuck under the readers’ tongues.
I’m sure you see where I’m going with this.
Epics will kill you.
No, that’s not what I was driving at. The takeaway from this, my first blog post, is that I’d like to write a book. Actually, I’d like to write a fantasy trilogy and then many more books after that. But I’m a nobody, and I don’t think I’d do a good job of writing 12 fancy poems to try and change that fact. So even though I had lots of reasons not to start a blog (who would care about my posts, wouldn’t writing a blog take time away from writing a book, what if nobody reads it, what if somebody reads it, etc.), I still had one reason to start it anyway: I wanted to connect with you and declare my intentions.
So hear ye, hear ye: I intend to write some books, and I hope you’ll join me in my journey. In fact, you’re cordially invited to follow my tragedies and triumphs (even if the ratio is top heavy) because I need you. I need you to give me feedback, advice, questions, and occasional swift kicks in the pants when I slack off. And in return, I hereby do solemnly swear that I will write about a variety of subjects (not just literary stuff), that I will make the blog as interactive as possible, and that I will not write blog posts that take an hour and a half to read.
For those of you who know me, that last one should come as a surprise.
I need you to give me feedback, advice, questions, and occasional swift kicks in the pants when I slack off.
So I leave you now not with a pastoral poem of outstanding beauty but with an original poem nonetheless. I penned it just for this occasion. I hope it suffices.
A writer there was—unenthusing—
whose poems were hardly worth using.
As a serious verse
you could scarcely find worse,
though she hopes you find lim’ricks amusing.
Thee Ende
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