Today the mailman and I pulled up at the same time.
“I have something for you,” he said with a smile, handing me the package.
There are many writers and thinkers I admire. There is a smaller group of writers and thinkers whose works I have read more than a few times. And then there is the group–smaller still–that I read, and read, and read again–because I discover therein wisdom for the ages. There’s a vast significant difference between entertainment and wisdom.
For me, Lewis is in that smallest group. In his works, there is wisdom. Like all wisdom, it is for the ages.
With and through his pen, he spoke to the scholar, to the thoughtful adolescent, to the skeptic, to the believer, to those with questioning faith, to those with courage to examine their own presuppositions, and to all who would think clearly about how every person matters.
Lewis excelled in showing the specifics as the universal. He wrote about how we spend our time, about how cupboards and books and walks and homes and streams and wardrobes matter. Why? Because they signify. They are signs to a bigger story, to the story.
He wrote about the centrality of our minds. He understood that the souls of men matter. They truly matter.
Well done, Jack. We owe you, still.