"Childish Wonder" by Eli King

This excellent post from KingdomPen.org showed up in my inbox this morning. It really resonated with me, and Eli graciously gave permission for me to share it...

Childish Wonder

by Eli King

How old are you? Seventeen? Twelve? Twenty-one? Okay. Now how old do you feel? Seventeen? Twelve? Three?
 

I first started telling my brother stories at age six, seven or eight (I forget just when), a practice that died temporarily before being revived at age ten or eleven with the addition of one and then several more brothers. This story-telling was the predecessor to my writing, as I didn’t complete my first book until just before I turned fifteen. I can remember many happy hours spent with my brothers, sometimes late into the night, making up stories as I told them. These stories were huge—in written words they would be full novels, and probably very large novels. Most of them were fantasy. My largest story collection consisted of maybe fifteen novel-length stories that I collectively called the “AK stories”, which took me several years to complete. They were about a wild world of dragons, swords, evil villains with armies of monsters, strange little creatures with feisty attitudes and a kingdom of men dedicated to fighting darkness. To keeping the world free of oppressive evil through triumphant honor.
 

I can’t speak much to the theological ramifications of my stories, but maybe I can get a break since I was all of 10 to 15 or so when I told most of them. The stories weren’t about plot either, and often they would ramble, wander and extend far beyond the reaches of reason or patience. For all that, though, they held my brother’s rapt attention for hours on end. I’m talking about dozens of hours, here. Probably hundreds. My brothers would beg me to come to bed and tell them stories, and then keep me up late into the night, still telling while they begged for more when I got sleepy.
 

My point in relating all of this is not to brag. To be blunt, the stories were horrid. Embarrassingly clichéd, borrowed, ill-plotted and themeless. The point is not what they weren’t, however, but what they were.
 

Today I write for older teens and young adults. My age group, basically. I’ve moved away from fantasy and more into the thriller/action genre, and I enjoy it. But when I told these stories, I told them for children. Boys between the ages of about two and ten. They grew, and I grew, but we were all still kids and we were engaging in something very kiddish—we were entering worlds beyond adult logic and reason for no other reason than because it delighted something very special about childhood. It delighted our wonder.

Joy

It is a very foggy morning. I have a griddle full of 8 pancakes steaming away beside me. To make enough pancakes for my family takes quite some time so I've been sitting here awhile. To keep myself occupied (since no one else is up yet), I am copying down a favorite Bible passage. I am concentrating very hard when I notice a beautiful sound. Somewhere outside, a bird is singing cheerily. The sound instantly reminds me of golden summer days. Knowing how quickly weather changes here and thinking, "I haven't heard the birds sing in thick fog," I surmise the sun must have come out. Eager to see the radiant, lush world causing the bird to sing, I jump to the window. I blink. Outside, a thick, grey fog dampens the world. I can hardly see the line of trees marking where the river flows. Earth and sky are one. Then it hits me: if only I could be like that little bird—singing for joy in the midst of darkness and gloom, causing others to jump to the window to see what I am so joyful about! "Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven." (Matt. 5:16)

(Written 11/22/08)