To the Ones Who Disappeared Into Books
How childhood stories became our refuge
There’s a certain kind of child (maybe you were one) who didn’t just read books but disappeared into them.
You weren’t just turning pages; you were crossing thresholds. Into Narnia through a wardrobe. Into Middle-earth through the worn spine of a paperback. Into Green Gables, secret gardens, cozy cabins dusted with snow, and post-apocalyptic survival zones.
When the world around you felt too loud, too unstable, too lonely, or too broken, you slipped quietly into stories that gave you safety, adventure, hope. You memorized the cadence of a comforting narrator’s voice, traced maps at the start of fantasy novels, and longed for the kind of friendship and wonder those pages promised.
Books were not just entertainment… they were escape hatches. They were teachers, companions, and shelters. And while others may not have noticed, those books became part of who you are.
You learned what courage looked like by following Frodo. What loyalty meant through Sam. What quiet strength sounded like through Anne Shirley’s monologues and what redemption felt like through Edmond and Eustace in The Chronicles of Narnia. And maybe, without realizing it, those stories taught you how to dream of something better.
Maybe they even helped you survive. You could hop on a dragon’s back and fly away from it all, even if only for a little while.
Now you’re older. And maybe you have a family of your own. Maybe you’re building a home where gentleness lives, where books line the walls like old friends, and where your children grow up not needing to escape, but still free to explore.
And sometimes, if we’re honest, there’s a strange ache in that.
Because our children might not vanish into books the way we did. They may love stories, but not with the same desperate longing. They don’t need to.
And while that’s what we prayed for, that they’d grow up safe and whole and known, there’s still a quiet mourning in realizing that their relationship to books will likely never mirror our own. What was survival for us is simply enrichment for them. And that’s good. Beautiful, even! But it can feel a little lonely, too.
Even so, we can give them glimpses of what rescued us.
We can build worlds with our words, create a little Narnia in the backyard, serve afternoon tea under the trees with mismatched china, and read The Hobbit by firelight.
We can take nature walks with baskets and cloaks, give names to the woods and streams, and speak of fairies and dragons and saints. We can leave little notes in books, pack sandwiches in wax paper, and read aloud until the room stills in reverent hush.
Maybe that’s the gift we offer now: not an escape, but an invitation. An innocent, wonder-filled childhood inspired by the very books that once sheltered us.
A Swallows and Amazons kind of life, full of barefoot adventures and secret forts. Boxcar Children lunches eaten under trees, with apples, biscuits, and cheese packed into tin pails. Afternoons spent building rafts from scrap wood, giving names to the backyard creatures, and pretending the garage is a railway station or a shipyard.
We may not live on a houseboat or in a boxcar, but we can fill our days with the same simplicity, creativity, and openhearted joy that once lived between the pages!
We can teach them that stories matter! That wonder is holy, and imagination is a gift. That God speaks through beauty, through parables, through poetry, through the Word Himself. And that every good story whispers of the truest one.
You’re creating what you once only read about. And that is sacred.
To every former child who escaped into books—I see you. I am you. And I want to say this:
What once was your hiding place is now your foundation. The pages that held your tears have become roots. And the stories that shaped you? They still matter. They still breathe life.
I have often grieved that I can’t take my children to visit a safe, warm childhood home. While I may not have that to offer them, we can travel to the Shire together. I can fly with them to Neverland and walk across Prince Edward Island, too. We can linger at The Enchanted Castle and visit with Huckleberry.
We can take them underground with Artemis Fowl and listen to Meggie’s dad read the world of Inkheart into existence. We can board the train to Hogwarts and introduce them to Hermione’s SPEW.
Reading The Hobbit aloud has been such a gift to experience with my second kiddo, and my eldest has discovered The Hunger Games! My youngest has come to enjoy Peter Rabbit whimsy with me too… What joy to share my favorites with my children, to hear their perspectives, and see the connections they make as they discover twists and turns.
So dear friend, dust off those old favorites. Re-read them aloud! Let your kids see the sparkle in your eye when you turn the page to a story you once loved as a child.
Because sometimes the best kind of healing comes from reclaiming joy, from rereading chapters with your feet planted in a better reality than you ever dared to hope for.
You are not alone. You never were!
And now, you're writing a story of your own, and it's the most beautiful one yet.
