Fantasy in My Veins (#SilmAwards2017)

Well, my friends, the 2017 SilmAwards have come to a glorious and bittersweet end. If you missed any of the presentations, I finally got around to putting a list at the end of my own presentation post, which you can find HERE. Thanks for joining us in this epic event!


Now, to wind it all down on the very birthday of Lord of the Rings, we're throwing a party to celebrate Tolkien and all things fantasy! Feel free to join in with your own blog post or update on Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/whatever, using #SilmAwards2017. The more the merrier, of course. (And one side of me is chuffed as chips that this coincides with Realm Makers--how appropriate!)


Last year I presented a small smorgasbord of Lord of the Rings stuff--quotes, pictures, musings on what the books and movies and soundtracks mean to me, etc. Today I wish to broaden my view with a reflection on my reading history, and fantasy as a genre.

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picture via Pinterest, graphics my own

Fantasy is my literary homeland.

See, I grew up in a family that treasured stories. My parents read to me copiously as a child. I vividly remember afternoons snuggled up next to my mom with a picture book, prodding her awake and asking her to reread pages when she grew sleepy and began slurring the words I'd memorized . . . evenings gathered around the kitchen table to eat night snack with my siblings while my father read a storybook of our choice . . . trips to the library every three weeks, during which my family of six would haul out 60-70 books at a time . . . lonely bus rides during my earliest elementary school years (prior to homeschooling) when I would bury my nose in a book and ignore the noisy teenagers in the back seats . . . I even recall bedtimes as a teenager, when my dad read a chapter of a novel to me every night just for old time's sake.


I remember learning to read. I remember my parents telling me that books were like picture windows. When one learns how to read, one can go through those windows into another place.


I remember grade one, when a beloved teacher taught me the bare bones of crafting a story: beginning, middle, and end. She unlocked the first of many doors into a world of making my own magic.

I was hooked.

The moment I mastered beginner readers with stories like "The cat sat on the mat," I reached for bigger books with longer sentences. From there I jumped to novels like Anne of Green Gables, which was marvellously long and dense for such a young mind, and full of words I didn't yet understand. As I outgrew animal stories about puppies and horses, I discovered the mystery genre. The Boxcar Children, Jigsaw Jones, Nancy Drew, and Mandy Shaw books held me in suspense and piqued my fascination with the unknown, with secrets to be discovered and trails to be followed.


But the moment a young classmate recommended The Chronicles of Narnia to me was the moment that changed the course of my reading years. I distinctly remember climbing to the second floor of my school library and hunting down the name C.S. Lewis. That day I went home with a copy of The Magician's Nephew, and I was utterly enchanted.


I was rather young at the time, perhaps eight years old. My parents were wise enough to put the rest of the series, which was a wee bit over my head, on hold for when I turned ten. Yet another clear memory: the day they put a massive tome containing all seven Narnia books in my hands.


There was no looking back. I had found a world that entranced me, inspired me, kept me captive and set me free all at once. The idea that another world might be as close as the next wardrobe nestled somewhere deep inside my heart. Here was a genre that deepened my understanding of reality by stretching my vision into realms beyond my own. Here was a genre that strengthened my hands with the courage of a knight and filled my heart with the compassion of a hero. A genre that allowed me to soar on dragon's wings.


Thereafter followed several years of testing my mother's patience every single time we visited the library. I very quickly exhausted their supply of age-appropriate fantasy, plagued my mother with cries of "I have nothing to read!" and subsequently turned down every thoughtful suggestion she made that fell outside the realm of my beloved fantasy. (God bless Mom.) She eventually managed to help me stretch my horizons, and I found enjoyment in a collection of other genres as well.


Older horse stories took me to Thoroughbred races and equestrian shows. Frank Peretti took me to wild jungles with the Cooper family. Melody Carlson immersed me in the elitist ranks of drama-loving high school girls. Countless other authors introduced me to all sorts of wonderful things.


But fantasy remained my One True Love. From the beginning of my teenage years, Bryan Davis and Wayne Thomas Batson pulled me into worlds of dragons, slayers, quests, and swords. More recently, authors like Anne Elisabeth Stengl have painted heart-rending images in my mind's eye of love and loss and beauty all wrapped up in another realm. And so many other authors in between have done the same.


I'm thankful for all the genres I've read, no doubt. But fantasy is where I feel most at home. Fantasy is often where I experience the greatest joys and deepest sorrows as a reader. It's where my imagination takes flight. And most importantly, it's where I see facets of the real Author's character the clearest.

pictured above: The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis // Liberator, Bryan Davis //
The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien // Halt's Peril, John Flanagan // The Door Within,
Wayne Thomas Batson // Heartless, Anne Elisabeth Stengl // The Bones of Makaidos,
Bryan Davis // White, Ted Dekker // The Return of the King, J.R.R. Tolkien //
Prophet, R.J. Larson // Raven's Ladder, Jeffrey Overstreet

In Aslan of The Chronicles of Narnia, I witness His sacrificial love.


In King Eliam of The Door Within, I see His blinding glory.


In the actions of Billy, Bonnie, Professor Hamilton, Sapphira, and their friends from the world of Dragons in Our Midst, I see what great warriors of the faith are capable of doing.


In the Prince of Farthestshore of Tales of Goldstone Wood, I see my Savior wooing me to His side, and in the song of the wood thrush I hear Him calling me to His path.


In the waters of Elyon from the Circle quartet, I find transformative joy.


In the Keeper of the Auralia Thread, I sense His mystery.


In the courage of hobbits, the strength of men, the wisdom of elves, and the determination of dwarves in Lord of the Rings, I see treasure hidden in jars of clay. I see what happens to the small and insignificant when committed to the hands of One much greater.

I escape into fantasy not to avoid the trials of this life here on earth, but to find wells of inspiration that bolster my faith to face them.

And that, my friends, is why I call fantasy my homeland. These books and more echo the cry of my heart for something beyond this world, for something greater than myself, for wonders hidden beneath what my eyes can see--and to all those desires, I hear my Father answering yes, yes, yes.

Yes, the unseen is more real than the seen. Yes, I AM greater than you yet know. Yes, I have hidden jewels of wonder in the crevices of your days, and the final treasure trove awaits beyond the veil of this life. Yes, I am here. Yes, I am present. Yes, I care. Yes, I am the One who compels you to a quest of your own, the One who charts your best path, the One who infuses your weary limbs with strength, the One who promises a crown to all those who stay the course.

Perhaps I stray too close to the ditch of exaggeration, but I think not. God knows what best speaks to our hearts, and I think He finds pleasure in my delight over the fictional worlds I travel. Whatever mouthpiece will speak the loudest, the clearest, is different from person to person. But as for me, the far-flung reach of fantasy is one of the greatest calls I hear.

It's a call I have listened to for years, and it is one I shall return to again and again for years to come. For me, fantasy is woven into the song of my Father.