Having been (very happily!) submerged (as much as a mother of four ranging from 3 to 20 years can ever be submerged in anything other than the crisis of the moment) in C. S. Lewis for the past couple of weeks - Mere Christianity talks with Andrew Lazo, The Problem of Pain in print in preparation for upcoming Sunday School study with Timothy Rouch, The Four Loves via audiobook with Chris, The Weight of Glory in hopes of attending Camp Allen retreat in the fall - I surfaced an hour ago, looked around to see what else was floating nearby, and my eye landed on George MacDonald's The Truth in Jesus edited by Michael Phillips.
Being a strange, bookish girl, I naturally started reading with the introduction, and just had to laugh (delightedly!): "When a man recognized as perhaps the most influential Christian author of the twentieth century speaks of his spiritual "master," one might naturally assume the elder to be as well known as his protege. Curiously, this has never been the case in the spiritual relationship between C. S. Lewis (1898-1963) and George MacDonald (1824-1905)..."
I (strange, bookish girl) did know of the connection between the two, but had no idea it was mentioned here. So enjoying my summer reading.
PS - Rounding things out, I'm also loving Splintered Light: Logos and Language in Tolkien's World by Verlyn Flieger.
I don’t remember a time when I couldn’t read; books have always been the lenses through which I view the world. The Book, the Word, the Light, brings into being my very faculty of sight. Some books are corrective glasses, clearing up distortions and bringing into focus all things needful for me to see. Others are binoculars, extending my field of vision to identify far off things of which I would otherwise have only blurry glimpses. Certain books are microscopes, showing me minute particulars which despite their seeming smallness are of vital significance. Still others are telescopes, directing my gaze past this finite world to wonders of the great Beyond. Some books are windows, letting light and air into the rooms in which I am too apt to shut myself up. And some are mirrors, holding up before me the honest reflection of my true self which I would not otherwise see.
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