“Only the Magic could have made it more than an old table covered with a red shawl and set with rubbish from a long-unopened trunk. But Sara drew back and gazed at it, seeing wonders. . . .” ― A Little Princess
One afternoon, I found my daughter in the kitchen, listening to Frances Hodgson Burnett’s A Little Princess while whisking up a batch of chocolate cupcakes. As the delicious smell permeated the house, I found reasons to lurk by the kitchen, catching snippets of Sara Crewe’s familiar story, remembering how my little-girl heart was captivated by Sara’s unusual responses to her circumstances. Watching her plummet from wealthy heiress to penniless maid-of-all-work, I was fascinated by her ability to keep imagining beauty even in her shabby garret room, which she wryly dubbed “The Bastille.”
At bedtime, I came to kiss my daughter good night and found her with shining eyes. “Mom, I’m at the best part! Sara is about to wake up and find her room all decorated, with a fire in the grate, and muffins and tea and everything . . . Oh, I can’t wait!” Smiling, I tucked her in and went to put on my own pajamas.
While brushing my teeth, I noticed our copy of A Little Princess had been slipped into the bathroom book basket. Picking it up, I found where, years ago, I had neatly dog-eared the corner of that particular page. Like my daughter, I’ve always loved the thrilling moment when Sara wakes to find her dreams for her garret have materialized, but this time it was the preceding scene that captured my attention. Toothbrush in hand, I stood transfixed on the bathroom mat as Sara decorated her bare table with bits of paper, weaving “the Magic” for Becky (the scullery maid from the room next door) and turning their imagined Bastille into a banquet hall.
It was only a bundle of wool wrapped in red and white tissue paper, but the tissue paper was soon twisted into the form of little dishes, and was combined with the remaining flowers [from her old summer hat] to ornament the candlestick which was to light the feast. Only the Magic could have made it more than an old table covered with a red shawl and set with rubbish from a long-unopened trunk. But Sara drew back and gazed at it, seeing wonders; and Becky, after staring in delight, spoke with bated breath.
“This ’ere,” she suggested, with a glance round the attic—“is it the Bastille now—or has it turned into somethin’ different?”
“Oh, yes, yes!” said Sara, “quite different. It is a banquet hall!”
“My eye, miss!” ejaculated Becky. “A blanket ’all!” and she turned to view the splendors about her with awed bewilderment.
“A banquet hall,” said Sara. “A vast chamber where feasts are given. It has a vaulted roof, and a minstrels’ gallery, and a huge chimney filled with blazing oaken logs, and it is brilliant with waxen tapers twinkling on every side.”
“My eye, Miss Sara!” gasped Becky again. [1]
Sara’s friend Ermengarde arrives with a hamper of food and treats from home, and the good things are set on the table. But the girls have only just reached for a piece of cake when jarring reality, in the form of Miss Minchin, barges in. The dour headmistress destroys their little feast, pale with rage over things she cannot understand. Kindness. Wonder. Friendship. Delight. The ability to imagine beauty in the face of bleakness. The power to create merriment in the midst of misery. Instinctively, Miss Minchin longs for these things even as she seeks to stamp them out, unable to tolerate the uncomfortable feelings they awake in her. Still, Sara faces her spite undaunted, conscious of “the Magic” within her as a sweet secret she hugs to her heart, and Miss Minchin simply does not know what to make of her.
Book in hand, mouth full of toothpaste, I’m struck by a thought: I’ve loved this story since I was a girl, but I never noticed how it connects with the relationship between imagination, merriment, and the arrival of the kingdom of God on earth. Francis Hodgson Burnett has created a character who embodies the power we’ve each been given to pull what-is-coming firmly into the now.
Sara is a smitten citizen of another world that is good, true, and beautiful, an inner universe at times more real to her than the outer one. Nourished by a fertile imagination and upheld by the stout conviction that believing oneself the child of a king enables one to act with the dignity and largesse of true royalty, Sara has the ability not only to comfort and sustain herself in hardship, but also to body forth her inner reality with words so real that others who are starving—literally, like Becky, or hungry for love like Ermengarde and Lottie—are fed. Just as each word from our Creator’s mouth transformed swirling chaos into staggering beauty, so Sara’s words have the power to transfigure a drab garret from a prison into a palace.
The particular delight of the story of A Little Princess is the generous way Sara’s next-door neighbor secretly steps in to bring her imagined reality to life. When Sara wakes up after that horrible evening with Miss Minchin, she is so deliciously comfortable that she thinks she is still dreaming. It takes all her physical senses to convince her that what she is seeing and feeling is actually real. As she looks around, her wonder turns into such exquisite joy that she immediately darts next door to bring Becky into the miracle.
As the girls swallow hot soup and strong tea and sink their teeth into soft muffins, their rapturous comfort blooms in my own heart. My bathroom has dropped away, and I am there with them in the transformed attic, feeling the hot food fill my empty stomach, caressing the silky fabric of my new dressing gown, reveling in the heat of the crackling fire on my skin. I see the misery on Sara’s dear little face—as real to me as my own—transfigured into starry joy.
This ability to create a new reality out of thin air, to describe a mind’s eye picture in such a way that others can actually smell the rich stew and feel the fire’s warmth, is a gift given only to humans. It’s proof that we, and we alone, are the ones made in the image of Him who spoke the universe into being.
This power was not given to us just to create delight, however; our imaginations enable us to begin to envision and live out of the truer reality of the kingdom of heaven. If we are filled with the same depth of conviction that infused Sara Crewe, we will be able to describe the kingdom of heaven in a way that makes it undeniably real for our hearers, regardless of our circumstances. I’m reminded of the story of Paul and Silas in Acts 16, imprisoned after being falsely accused and beaten. How were they able to sing hymns in the middle of the night with lacerated backs and their feet in stocks? They were deeply aware of an unshakeable inner reality that couldn’t be affected by physical discomfort. The other prisoners heard and sensed the reality of God’s comfort and love as if God Himself were right there with them—because in fact, He was.
As I turn off the bathroom light and head to bed, I consider my own inner reality. Is it a vivid place in which I find and meet with my Creator? What do I see in my mind’s eye? A shimmering city on a high green hill. Wide fields of flowers. In the distance, I hear the gurgling of a river lined with ancient, fruit-laden trees. Under my fingertips, I feel the silken grain of a long table as I inhale the mouth-watering aromas of a feast. My cup is filled with well-aged wine. As I look, I see the Bridegroom himself, eyes twinkling merrily as he looks down the table at His beautiful, gathered Bride and lifts his own cup to drink our health.
In what ways could I share this inner place of transformative merriment? How can I body forth the kingdom of God to those around me? I want to plant seeds of the coming Reality in the despondent soil of minds and hearts, and watch for green, leafy tendrils to sprout and unfurl. What if I attempted to share a glimpse of hope with my elderly neighbor who lives next door, or the sad-looking supermarket employee I see every week? Could I risk being seen as odd—as Sara was by the other girls—and trust that the Lotties and Ermengardes and Beckys around me, starving for beauty and goodness and truth, will draw near like hungry children to a laden table?
How might my presence and my kingdom imagination turn someone’s Bastille into a banquet hall?
“My noble father, the King,” says Sara, presiding in her garret over her rubbish-adorned table, “who is absent on a long journey, has commanded me to feast you.” [2]
[1] Frances Hodgson Burnett, A Little Princess. HarperCollins Publishers: New York, 1987. 184.
[2] Ibid, 186.
The featured image is courtesy of Julie Jablonski and is used with her kind permission for Cultivating.
A writer, songwriter, and amateur music producer, Carolyn holds a Bachelor of Music from Wheaton College, where she pursued her twin passions for music and spiritual formation. Living overseas for the past twenty years has given her a keen interest in the connections between the inner life, the craft of making, and the art of sojourning, especially how tending her own soul affects her ability to tend the souls of others. Carolyn has contributed to an anthology of pandemic art, Beauty from Brokenness, and to Yet We Still Hope, a collection of honest, vulnerable essays by women serving overseas. You can connect with Carolyn and find her music and resources for the sojourning life at www.carolynbroughton.com.
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