Snow is falling slowly, gently. It rests upon the quiet trees and bends dry grass in the ditches. A small, soft mound of white covers the top of the old lamp post that marks the eastern border of our Narnia, there beside the evergreens and the lilacs.
For the twenty years we’ve lived here the lamp has stood, useless and rusting, a relic left by former residents who called this house home long before we did. During our stay in this land, we’ve demolished other useless things – dead trees, scraggly bushes, and a decrepit fence – but the lamp post remains, a reminder of our move to Narnia when our children were ten and four.
They were deeply smitten by magic in those days, most alive during the evening hours when we read aloud to them from C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles, Tolkien’s trilogy, and the Resistance Tales of David and Karen Mains. All through their childhoods and adolescents they watched for Aslan, believing he would return as promised when their numbers swelled from two to four.
In a few short days they will arrive, our two sons of Adam and two daughters of Eve. Grown up but still steeped in magic, still believing, they will enter Narnia and celebrate Aslan’s arrival in human flesh, the lion of Judah born in a manger, the Word made flesh.
In the cold, dark winter days before they come, there’s just enough time to dust the ancient wardrobe. Just enough time fill it to bursting with old fur coats. Just enough time to get ready for deep magic.
It’s time to wait beside the lamp post.
It’s almost Christmas.
Aslan’s on the move.
