"Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it. It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the deserts that our lives have already become." ~C.S. Lewis

Reading and writing have been my inhale and exhale for as long as I can remember. As a child, I escaped the tumult of a difficult childhood through story, as well as a pen and my page.

As the stages of my life shifted and flowed from adolescence to young adulthood, from university to career, from marriage to motherhood, from widowhood to remarriage, stories and journal pages have been my constant and have seen me through the mountain tops of great joys and the valleys of deep laments. They give me a voice when I’m voiceless, ideas when I’m thoughtless, hope when I have none, and weep with me—and all humanity—when my heart feels the darkness closing in.

Ideas have consequences. Stories are their backbone.

I’ve discovered through the years, through the seasons and sojourning of life, when the ground feels shaky, I can embrace the friendship of a good story and ultimately remember, stories rescue.

Sometimes it’s the transportation from our seemingly despairing situation to one in a different world altogether—one of fawns and talking beavers, hobbit holes and magic rings. Other times it’s because just like some pig, you need a friend to write a message to the world about who you really are, even if it comes in a delicate spider web. And so many times—probably more than you can ever realize—you need to see (and believe) the dragon slain.

We need stories to remind us we’re human. We want stories to remember who we are.

When my husband passed away, the world became so big. I felt the darkness pressing in like I had never felt before. I didn’t know where or who I was to be, what my next steps would look like, or what would happen to my small, homeschooling family. Would I be able to continue staying home with my child? Would I need to work outside the home? Could we make it, mother and child, alone, wandering through a never-ending valley of dead bones? I couldn’t see ahead. I couldn’t predict the terrain around the bend.

So I did what I’ve always done. I turned to stories and realized they had been there before I even knew what was coming. They had been waiting for me, had gone before me, and would, in their way of wonder, carry me home.

So I stayed in, sheltered myself and my child from the pelting rain of sorrow and grief, riding wave after wave of uncertainty and took hold of story.

My son and I would curl up on the bed, deep grief sweating from every pore, with a tight-fisted grip on a talking lion who is not safe (but he’s good) and followed the Pevensies, the Jewels of Anniera, Pa Ingalls, Wilbur, Frodo, Puddleglum, Mr. Darcy and so many others while they fought their own fights, traversed desert and sea, battled Fangs, lost loved ones, escaped Vanity Fair, encountered white witches, and finally, when all seemed lost and hope demolished, conquer their own dragons, real and imagined. It was then we too knew we could do it also. It was then we could carry the weight on for another moment, take another step, lay down our weapons, and take up the awe of another day realized, knowing that if Reepicheep could see the day dawning, we could—and would—as well.

Read, sweet momma. Read. And then, read some more.

And be reminded of who you are.

Take your babies, blankets into tents, popcorn and cracker crumbs adrift, and find your journey home in story. Go to those far off lands and be reminded of your humanity. Align yourself with the fairy tales and myths, the feechies and talking trees, the pirate ships and swamplands of Tolkien, McDonald, Lewis, and others. Hope to find hope, dream to take hold of dream and be reminded, the journey of their souls is your journey as well. Despite mortgages, lost jobs, miscarriages, cross-country moves, ailing parents, the losing of husbands, you too, against all constraints, trade hope for bleakness, wonder for despair, laughter for discouragement, and feel again, what binds us all in universal emotion through the stories that have gone before us. 

Pursue story. It will not heal every wound, but will lift you on a tide of hope (and rest), one your weary soul longs for amongst the uncertainty of the outside world. 

Story reminds us hope is just around the corner.

And hope always saves.

*Originally written for a homeschool publication*