Lately I’ve been reading a book titled A Year with C. S. Lewis: each day gives a short excerpt from one of his many works.
I’ve always been his fan, but understanding his writing is challenging. This new book breaks down his ideas into bite-sized bits, and his writings about Easter is enlightening. When I was a kid, Easter was special because my mom would get me a pretty dress for church service. Ugh, the vanity!
As I’ve matured, Easter is more than a pretty dress. Although I know in my heart that Jesus died for my sins, it’s difficult to understand and wholly embrace (gulp, did I just say that? I grew up a Christianmy whole life). But I know that it’s not possible to humanly understand everything about the mysteries of Easter. There’s a lot of scratching of the head and sighs of guilt that here I am still wondering, questioning, and confused.
But an excerpt from C.S. Lewis’ book was helpful in understanding the meaning of Easter better. I hope his words inspire you!
Can someone tell me how socks get lost once they enter the abyss of the washing machine?
I save a bundle of lone socks that have lost its pair. Sometimes I find one in a stack of folded clothes or hidden inside the corner of mattress sheets. The other day I found a lost pair in the garage.
I should throw them away because the bundle is getting too dusty and unorganized; there’s a bundle for kids and a bundle for the grown ups. I keep hoping that one day I’ll reuse them as a glove duster or sock dolls. I don’t even know what is a responsible way to dispose of them. But when I want to reuse it for another purpose, I can’t find the sock bundle. It’s a frustrating cycle of losing and finding things.
Where do they go? Sometimes it’s impossible to find the matching pair. But in the winter it doesn’t matter much when you’re wearing boots. You can get rebellious and wear two different kinds of socks. It’s a win-win situation: environmentally friendly and useful.
Each time I press the publish button, worries about writing the next blog post kicks in.
Writing gives me mixed emotions. On rare, very rare, occasions, words seem to flow effortlessly and I am convinced that I was born to write. But a majority of the time, writing gives me muscular back aches and emotional discomfort as I struggle to quiet my own critical voice.
When it’s going well, it’s exhilarating. When the words don’t come, the process is daunting and downright depressing.
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
– Ernest Hemingway
Producing anything good takes time, effort, and perseverance, but I overlook that on a daily basis. I’m constantly needing to remind myself that a small step taken today is closer toward attaining my goal. It doesn’t all happen in one sitting or in one day; the process is a journey that takes time and many surprise detours.
One thought at a time. One idea at a time. One word. One string of words. One sentence. Build from there.
I tell my kids that learning takes time and that a little progress made today is still progress. Easy to say but hard to do myself.