A Streetlamp in the Snow: Building a Piece of Narnia
Last week, something magical happened—I built a piece of my childhood dreams, right in my own woods.
Growing up, The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis weren’t just books on a shelf. They were doorways. They were escape hatches. They were maps to a world where wonder still lived and right still triumphed. From the first time I read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, I was spellbound. Narnia wrapped itself around my imagination like a second skin.
I wasn’t the only one. My siblings and I would lie on the floor, heads buried in pillows, reading by flashlight late into the night. We dreamed up adventures, plotted our own journeys through forests and castles, and tried—more times than I can count—to climb into every wardrobe we encountered, just in case this one was the door. Spoiler: it never was. So we kept reading.
As time passed, life marched on, as it always does. Childhood gave way to responsibility, and fantasy made space for the daily rhythms of adulthood. But the stories never left me. They became woven into my understanding of bravery, of faith, of good and evil, of the quiet strength it takes to stand up for what’s right—even when no one else does. Narnia wasn’t just a fantasy—it was a compass.
When our children were old enough, I knew exactly where to begin when it came to bedtime stories. I introduced them to Narnia, half-expecting them to humor me politely. But I needn’t have worried. They were hooked, just as I was. They marveled at Aslan’s roar, rooted for Lucy, feared the White Witch, and held their breath through the battles. There’s something uniquely powerful about watching your children fall in love with the same world you once escaped to—it bridges decades in a heartbeat. It’s like sharing a secret only the two of you know.
And then—last week—it happened.
I stumbled upon a listing online. Someone nearby was giving away a heavy, old-fashioned streetlamp. It wasn’t pristine or polished—it was weathered, industrial, and bulky—but it had potential. More than that, it had possibility. I saw it and immediately thought: Narnia.
For those who know the stories, the lamppost is iconic. It’s the first thing Lucy Pevensie sees when she steps out of the wardrobe and into the snow-dusted world. It marks the border between the ordinary and the extraordinary. It’s the silent sentinel of magic.
Without a second thought, I hauled it home, grabbed a couple of bags of concrete, and got to work. The installation was straightforward, but my heart raced the whole time. I felt like a kid again, willing the magic into place with every shovel of dirt. I could barely wait for the concrete to cure. I’d check it every hour, pacing like a child on Christmas Eve.
Finally, it was solid. I mounted the light fixture, stepped back, and took a breath.
There it was.
A real-life Narnian lamppost, standing proudly in my forest. A dream made tangible. A piece of fiction that had followed me from childhood into parenthood, now glowing softly under the old wooded forest.
It may seem like just a lamp to some. But to me—and hopefully, to my children—it’s a reminder. That magic is real. That stories matter. That sometimes, we have to build the wonder we once hoped to find
The children haven’t seen it in person yet. I want the moment to be right. I want to take them out on a cool evening, maybe after a bedtime chapter, and let them discover it for themselves. I want to watch their eyes light up with recognition—to see that spark, that flicker of belief, that joy of knowing that something imagined has come to life.
Because that’s what Narnia taught me. That courage, imagination, and love transcend pages and decades. That sometimes, even when the wardrobe stays shut, you can still find your way to magic—if you’re willing to build it.
