The Silver Chair

My dislike for The Silver Chair
Stretches back to childhood.
The intensity of
The man-eating giants,
The woman become snake,
The underground imprisonment.

But mostly, I see now, the horribleness,
For one who longs to be perfect,
Of an imperfect beginning,
An imperfect middle,
Of having four instructions and muddling three.

As an adult, I still found myself raging
At the injustice of the difficulties of the signs,
At the physical challenges,
At the lack of clarity.

Perhaps this one suffers from abundant verisimilitude.
Reading is not escape if you recognize yourself and your failures.

And yet, I noticed something else as I read.
Despite their imperfection, their very real failures,
All worked out.

They missed help from Caspian,
Gained help from Puddleglum.
Missed “Under Me,”
But had a night when they slept warm and dry.
Fled for their lives,
Found the way anyway.

The timing worked out precisely in every way.

If a human author can orchestrate such a story,
I expect God can, as well.

Let not the same charge be leveled:
“Four babies playing a game can make a play-world
Which licks your real world hollow.”

I expect God’s world is better than we can ask or
Imagine.