I always felt that I was born at the wrong time. Not the wrong time of day or even the wrong month. I was pretty sure I was born in the wrong century. I first suspected this when, as a child, I finished reading Little House in the Big Woods. My suspicions grew after I completed Anne of Green Gables. The night I stayed up till 2 am so I could get to the end of Jane Eyre, I was practically certain. And when I finished Pride and Prejudice, there was no doubt left in my mind. There had been some sort of mistake. I should be living in Jane Austen’ England, or Laura Ingalls’ frontier America – I was sure of it. I wasn’t sure how the gross error had come to pass – that was a matter entirely too complicated for my young mind. But I knew there had, indeed, been an error. Why else would I feel the way I felt when I finished those books? Why would I experience a longing in my heart that was so powerful it was almost painful? Why would I slowly close those books, hold them to my chest, enfold them in my arms, and try to somehow push myself into the stories? Everything in those books spoke to my soul and touched some secret recess deep inside of me in a way that I could not verbalize – only feel. Surely that meant I was supposed to be born back then, not now…
I hold Laddie, by Gene Stratton-Porter, in my hands. I close the book and my eyes. Slowly, I draw it to my chest and enfold it in my arms. That now-so-familiar feeling fills my chest – that almost painful longing deep inside. It has been years since I closed the cover on Little House in the Big Woods, but the feeling remains largely unchanged. Could it really be that I was born at the wrong time? Perhaps. But the thought comes that this yearning might be something entirely different. Perhaps it is a yearning for place rather than time – a place where there is, in fact, no time. Perhaps this yearning is really an awareness that the timeless principles portrayed in the story are familiar to me; that they were part of those first lessons learned in a heavenly home now-forgotten. Perhaps this yearning is a sense that I need to continue those lessons – to become more like the people I read about - in order to be ready to return to that home. Perhaps what I always thought was a longing to live in a time when I could roam through pristine meadows and orchards is really a longing to be more aware of and grateful for God’s magnificent creations. Perhaps what I thought was a longing to live a hundred years ago is really a longing to be a woman who faces personal frontiers with courage and determination. Perhaps what I thought was a longing to live in the days before the information age is really a longing to live with more purpose, more simplicity, and more focus on things of lasting value. Perhaps the longing that I feel, and have always felt, is simply a reminder that I am a wanderer in a strange land. My soul was born in another place, and it longs to be there again. Perhaps the longing I feel is really an acknowledgement of the need to mirror in my life the lessons of light and truth I find in written pages so that I will become who I was meant to be. Perhaps it is a longing for a day – not in the past – but a day yet to come, when I will return to my former home, having made of my life, not something merely classic, but something gloriously divine.
Image by Abhi Sharma
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