A few weeks ago I realized that the permission to be a childish was slipping away into a thick soup. It's always the strangest things that set me off and make me sad. I was standing in the kitchen making breakfast, a few days after I got home from Chicago, a few days before I left for Mexico. I was frying eggs and sausage and the sky was already shimmering with the Texas heat, and I thought "I'm going to be an adult next week." And I was fine. Then I thought of Narnia and Peter and Susan having to leave and move on to greater adventures... and it broke my heart. I've spent so many hours this past year reading C.S. Lewis to my siblings. We've gone over it page by page (we're at the end of The Horse and His Boy now), I make all the voices, I cry too much. Narnia has always been home to me, I've always dreamed of walking into a closet, or opening some drawer and crawling in, just to find that there's a whole world there. I've never wanted to be too old for Alsan to call softly into His world.
I told all of this to Rachel (my sister) and she gently reminded me that we can always find Aslan in our world, and that C.S. Lewis said someday... I'll be old enough for fairy tales again.
It's a week since she told me that and my birthday came and went (yesterday) and I've realized that I'll never be too old for fairy tales. They're with me and they feel as true as writing words on a page.
Growing up is confusing; it pulls your heart in ways you didn't think could hurt, and puts you together again softly. But you know what? I think I like being 18 so far. And I look forward to every year to come.