Rose, Lewis, and Starting Again

Rose was very Catholic. Her devotion played out practically in a sweet and tender spirit. After raising three relatively well-adjusted kids, and fostering a enviable marriage, she was nearer to the end than her rebellious beginning. Rebellion for her, of course, consisted in tempered risks that would warrant a second glance only for those of us who knew her more subdued persona. On a more honest day, many of us would trade her youthful indiscretion for our own. Whatever form these risks took, they were cheerfully set aside in favor of a slower burn towards piety and rarified compassion. When my life clumsily intersected with hers, or more accurately with her oldest daughter, my circumstances were dire. The warmth displayed by Rose, her family, and her faith, turned out to last much longer than the brief days of awkward affection.

I was not religious in much. Fresh off a military discharge, a Type 1 Diabetic diagnosis, and implosion of a four year relationship, I was willing to entertain spiritual thoughts. Truth is, I have always been. When faced with choices between the tangible and the intangible; the known and the unknown, the force within my chest always pulsated toward the mystery. It was here that Rose’s family met me. It was also here that my spiritual imagination was further awakened. Receiving an impeccable new copy of “The Screwtape Letters” by C.S. Lewis for Christmas was like a breath of life to a confused 22 year old. Rose never over promised or over sold it. Her quiet faith simply suggested I give it an honest read. A few months previously, I had frustratingly bought a Bible. It is strange how only the one who has read such a book is qualified enough to understand how to buy such a book. I decided merely on looks over content (this explains a lot about me) and the results were a total of 5 minutes read before a few years on my nightstand. I always meant to read, but honestly and for a variety of reasons, could not.

Whatever forces within us that sustain our urges to give up while reading great works, are refined over time. Reading is in essence a muscle toned over time and with great effort. That winter and spring led me to great intellectual refinement. One book led to two, which led to a ravenous consumption of all things C.S. Lewis. In a very authentic sense, his thoughts were my church. For a confused young man, conflicted and internal, these readings awoke the man who I would later become (not that any of us ever stop becoming).

This week I walked into church and former workspace for the first time in over a year. The people were gone and the show had long been displaced from Sunday, but the echo was still there. After timidity and fear, I was there to pick up the rest of my belongings. Months removed from a life that saw me as a leader within those walls, I mustered enough courage to step back into a lost part of my life. In many ways, the near decade I spent there gave my life a needed direction and hope. It was bittersweet to walk the youth room again and remember who I use to be.

This last year has in many ways been a lost one for me. I have retreated to who I was before I met Mr. Lewis and Rose. Through the battered boxes of the life I left behind, I found what I was there for, a mildly worn but deeply treasured copy of “The Screwtape Letters”.

Here’s to starting again.