On Rediscovering Purpose

C. S. Lewis and his friends have captured me once again. And, oh, how I have missed them.

This weekend, I had the privilege of participating in the 14th annual C. S. Lewis and the Inklings Society conference. I almost wasn't going to, you know. I fought it--hard--really, I did. Although I'd considered the possibility of attending the conference as soon as I heard that it would be held in Tulsa, I was fairly positive that there was no possible way that I could write and present a paper myself. Jumping back into grad school this semester after nearly 2 years off has been enough of a battle--there was nothing more that I could give, I was convinced.

Or perhaps nothing more that I wasn't afraid to give.

Of course, my former boss and coordinator of the conference saw things a bit differently. Time after time, he would ask me if I was presenting a paper. I'd decline, and he'd ask again. Pushing, always pushing. But he's allowed to do that. One of the few.

So, of course, I finally caved. "All right," I said. "You win. I'll present something." Knowing that I'd done some previous research on the Arthurian imagery in That Hideous Strength, I submitted a title and hoped for the best.

And, friends, it was meant to be. After six years of wondering, Oh, God, WHY seminary? and Why do I bother with anything academic in a society where getting a job in the Humanities is hardly a "good return on investment"?, I may finally have reached a place where everything makes sense again.

I found myself among friends, fellow scholars and lovers of literature who adored the same books I adored, and what's more, had things to say about these books and writers that I had never even considered. Every presentation, even the mediocre ones, nudged me in the direction of Purpose (yes, capital P).

This is it, I kept thinking. This is where my heart lies. These are the people I want in my world; this is the study I am meant to do. Even if it's not full-time. Even if my contributions are miniscule in light of the greater corpus. This is where I am meant to be.

I find myself particularly thankful for one of our keynote speakers, Andrew Lazo, whose brilliant talks on Till We Have Faces reminded me not only of all the things I have loved and missed about literature (and the Inklings in particular), but also that there really are other people out there who understand.

I feel a bit like Moses, after having come down from the mountaintop. My face is radiant--I'm certain of it--and after so very long, I carry words.

Tomorrow will be tomorrow, creeping in its petty pace towards who-knows-what. I know that. I'm ok with that. Today, I possess the grace to believe that all this sound and fury really does signify something. And, for today, it's enough.