9:00 a.m. I stand outside the door and watch her (blonde hair over the back of her blue jacket, reflector strip on the back of her backpack, pink pants)—I watch her (nary a backwards glance)—I watch her scamper up the walkway, climb the stairs, walk through the door, and disappear into the school—into her world. Through the door—through the wardrobe—into a world I don’t know.
Oh, I’ve heard the names of some of the friends and teachers—even met a number of them. I’ve helped her with assignments with which she’s emerged from this world—with which she returns to this world. I’ve heard stories—even seen artifacts of her experiences in this world, but it remains a world of which I’m told—a world she shares with me, but a world she experiences, not me.
Some observations based on what she’s shared and I’ve observed: one, hers is a world inhabited by strange and wonderful creatures; two, there are those in this world who don’t appreciate and love her like I do—who don’t care about her feelings like I do; three, I can only hope and pray that we’ve loved her enough—loved her enough to offer her balance; four, time works differently in this other world: she feels like she’s been there forever, and didn’t I just drop her off?; five, I believe the great lion, the emperor beyond the sea, the Word, love—God is consistently present in this, that and whatever other world she finds herself; six, whatever worlds she ends up living herself into, she’ll always be a part of mine; seven, I hope and pray, as time goes by, she will always tell me her stories, share with me her experience and invite me into her worlds.
3:45 p.m. I stand outside the door and watch for her—waiting for blonde on blue over pink—waiting for her to come out of her world and into mine … ours?—waiting to hear about her world in a typical afternoon, intergalactic conversation.