Smitten and wounded, deep runs the pain of that other world in me, so longed for, but now, alas, having found, lays bare my hollow chest. My breast heaves under the weight of that foreign glory from which I now either long to escape or else be made like unto. For a children's book has wounded me, with its benevolent magic, and set my head so reeling between reality and that which is fantasy... yet not fantasy at all. Yes, the mind of a man had dreamt it up, but no mind of man can really contain it. No finite mind can contain that infinite magic; that clean northerness; that impossible truth; that final and great Reality. I sensed it through a fairy tale.
Yet now the near unreality of this present evil age would press me into its shallow likeness, and tell me to leave things like children's books alone. To grow up. But then He comes, and parts the sea of grown-ups, and lets this little Israel come to Him. In Spirit I hear that perfect Voice, "Let the little children come to Me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the Kingdom of Heaven."
The innocence of a child has come back to me, and the wonder of all things is new, for the Kingdom of Christ is real.