“Reason is the natural order of truth; but imagination is the organ of meaning.” C. S. Lewis
One would think that after spending forty-eight hours alone in the woods, the last place I would want to be would be away from the group. But the stories and adventures were calling me, and in their presence I was far from lonely. I had been hiking in the Smoky Mountains for six days now, accompanied by my new fellowship of seven other student leaders. The fourth and fifth days of this intense journey were spent on Solo- no tent, no sleeping bag, no food, no Bible, no journal, and no other people for a long two days. When we finally came back together on day six, the woods echoed with all our pent up stories and laughter. After eating a feast of pancakes and fried spam, we set off on the day’s trek.
I’m not sure if it was the mountains or the long hours alone with my own mind that did it, but that day I was more imaginative than ever. Not that this was new for me, any who knew me as a child could attest that my favorite pastime has always been creating stories. And even during the first several days of our hike it was not unusual for my mind to be in Narnia or at the side of Frodo. But that day a wellspring of childish delight flowed from me from sunrise to sunset. In the early afternoon our path took us from secluded woods to an old road that ran right through the mountain. For half a mile we trekked through this wide tunnel, our voices echoing off the walls. I’m sure that even in the dark my euphoric smile could be seen shining. Here I was, a VERY heavy pack on my back, still wet from the constant rain, and surrounded by companions as we marched through this ancient tunnel. If that won’t cut to the heart of a Tolkien lover, nothing will! By the time we escaped from the Mines of Moria, I was feeling both ancient and childish.
The adventures continued when we reached our campsite. We had made good time, so we still had several hours of daylight left to explore once we set up camp. But while the others sat around talking or napping or attempting to wash off six days of grime, I took to the woods. Near the path stood a tall stone chimney, the remains of a house from before the land became a National Forest. I walked all around it, rubbed my hand over the stones, sat down by the hearth. Further in the woods were parts of foundations, green with moss and full of mystery. A cellar sat full of debris- a rusted bathtub, a large basin, remains of other tools and structures.
I wandered over to the river, the cold water heightening my senses and dulling the connection to anything outside this moment. I climbed over mossy rocks and stuck my head under icy little falls. I explored the woods and sat on the ancient boulders in the stream. Who else had sat there? Who had lived in this magical place? Maybe this very rock was the special spot of a heartbroken teen or a lonely child. Maybe someone else had sat where I did, had seen the sun hit the running water with the same transcendent sparkle. Maybe they too encountered something Holy and Mysterious in this place. My heart swelled to think of the adventure I was in.
I had entered into a story that stretched back generations. I felt small, like chaff in the wind, an insignificant blip in the ageless history of this place. And yet my very presence and attention to the spot added to its meaning.
Floating on the joy of my discoveries, I made my way back to camp. If I had delighted in our experience before, it was nothing compared to now. My soul felt bared, raw, uninhibited, fully true.
Every night of our ten day hike, someone would tell their life story and the next day we each gave that person a new name. I told my story the last night we were all together. When I was given my names, I was overwhelmed with the love our team had for me and I for them. But one name has remained on my heart for the past several months. “Naomi, my name for you is Queen Lucy. To Lucy, Narnia was her playground and Aslan her friend. I think we’ve all seen how these mountains are your own magical land and how you delight in simply walking with God.”
I see Narnia where others see stones and trees. I hear Aslan’s roar in the silence. I swell with adventure amidst the rain and cold. This is the blessing and the curse of Queen Lucy’s childish imagination.
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