Life has been dramatic this past week: not junior-high-girl drama, but epic drama. Samwise-Gamgee-lifting-Frodo-onto-his-shoulders-for-the-final-ascent-of-Mount-Doom drama--the kind of drama that makes you realize that this world is not our home, and that the American dream is but a hypnotic mist.

Lewis said that we are children who refuse to go to the shore, content instead to make mudpies in the slums. I've accepted that trip to the seashore, and have discovered riptides, sharks, and tsunamis. The great foolishness is that the beach with all its dangers is a glorious Kingdom, inexpressibly grander than the slums. But you must rememer: Aslan is good, not tame.

Death has been hovering. So has bone-crushing joy. And when Christ pours out his freedom, when the captives go free, the jailor gets mad. And he's been striking back.

I lost an acquaintance last week. Someone I respected, and hugely admired. Someone who died young. A week has passed, and grief is just starting to catch up with me. During this same week, a dear work friend had a lawnmower blade come through his windshield on the freeway--but Grace kept him safe. If I started listing how many of my friends and acquaintances have been injured, threatened or have traveled to extremely dangerous places recently--this post would be too long. I'm a wreck.

Not a wreck for worry, but for grief and struggle. In the LOTR movies, when we first meet Faramir on the borderlands of Mordor, he is strong and wise and yet weary and sad. I don't know how many of those qualities I share with him, but I feel like I'm carrying the same expression. Not worry or nervousness, just well-earned weariness and determination.

Part of me thinks this is far too personal and significant--and vague--for a blog...but there it is. I hope it's not too rambling, not too stream-of-consciousness.