The Lantern

When we first moved into our home in the spring of 2010, the lamppost in our front yard  glowed at night. Soon it stopped, though, regardless of how often we changed the light bulb, and since I’m no electrician, that was that. It remained in our front yard, often crooked, seemingly useless…

Or so I thought.

Earlier this month - on the twelfth day of Christmas - it snowed. 

Then, in the morning hours of Epiphany - January 6th - it snowed again.

And in the snow, particularly with lumpy flakes bumping into each other on their way to earth, I couldn’t help but be reminded of another snowy lamppost that stands prominent in a “children’s book” written by a certain British author.

The lamppost in C. S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia series - first introduced to us in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, - is something of an anachronism. It seems out of place, glowing softly in a snowy medieval forest full of fauns, dwarves, and other talking beasts. We later learn the lamppost was propagated to Narnia from London, an accidental magic trick born out of a struggle between a wicked witch and a magician’s nephew.

For many years I thought about having the lamppost removed. I found it an eyesore, useless, an annoyance to mow around each summer. This winter, though, at the end of the Christmas season, surrounded by snow, I saw it as something different. The lamppost became a totem, a reminder of the beginning of our life here in this home.

In fact, the lamppost became a quiet symbol of childhood itself, because when we first moved into this house, our first born was just a toddler. A year later she was joined by her baby brother, and together the two of them grew up in a childhood full of pirate adventures, ferris wheel rides, and breezy holidays at the beach. Years later, during the Christmas season of 2015, they were joined by their sister, and although she struggled mightily during her first years of life, thanks to the bravery and kindness of a dear family friend, she, too, was given the gift of a childhood.

But now, even more years later, it’s 2025, and it often seems that childhood itself has been buried beneath the busyness of our calendar and the cacophony of our gadgets. When it snowed, though, all three of them laughed together and played again like children, in a silly little Narnia of their own, if only for a little while.

And so I think the lamppost will stay. It does look best in the snow, but it’s a reminder - in all seasons - to take time to play and to imagine, to be brave and look toward the Lion.