I don’t know what will happen next. But He does. Even when I cannot see, He sees all things. And everything that has happened so far has brought me to the place I am now. A place where I live life through a pair of glasses I’ve had since middle school. Where I see dreams as visions for the future not yet reached instead of unattainable and silly goals a childish creature clings to. Dreams may not pay the bills of the American Way, but I never did dream that way. I think of homes and families and picket fences and think what a sham it all is if it never fills the void. Because it doesn’t. It prolongs the realization till you’re 45 and the crisis of mid-life strikes you like a hammer against a bell, signaling the halfway point of your life. I don’t know what happens next. But He does. And though I am unsettled and growing, I can find peace in that kind of unknown. His.
“God is not hurried along in the Time-stream of this universe any more than an author is hurried along in the imaginary time of his own novel. He as infinite attention to spare for each one of us. He does not have to deal with us in the mass. You are as much alone with Him as if you were the only being He had ever created. When Christ died, He died for you individually just as much as if you had been the only man in the world.”—C. S. Lewis (via cs-lewis)
“Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight,
At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,
When he bares his teeth, winter meets death,
And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.”—The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe
People are not like books. You can’t pick them up and sit them down and silently delve into them. You can’t put them on a coffee table or a night stand whenever you wish, knowing they will be there when you want them again. You cannot see them in black and white and look up the definitions of things you don’t understand while they wait on you. Picking up where you left off is rare. Because people are not like books. People are affected by real life. Where injustice and hate are not properly remedied, where there is an overarching theme of emptiness and the seeking of fulfilling that emptiness. Where the delicate tight-rope of etiquette demands you balance upon it when you are frank with certain folk. Others require the tact of a hoofed creature on tile floors. But you cannot always know. You cannot interact in whichever way you honestly would care to, because people are not one way or the other. They are people, and there are books. And we need both for different reasons.