It was likely the first time I appreciated the power of story, and I was only a boy of about four-years-old. Charlotte’s Web, which was written by E.B. White, illustrated by Garth Williams, and published in 1952 by Harper and Brothers, was not read to me before bedtime; rather, like many other kids who were born in the 70s, I experienced this classic work of children’s fiction via what my grandfather used to call the Boob tube. The story of a barnyard pig who escapes the slaughterhouse thanks to an impressively literate spider remains loved by millions around the world. When the farmer begins to eye up Wilbur, the pig, for what his butchered body might fetch at market, Charlotte, the spider springs into action by spinning messages into her webs, reasoning that the farmer would never dream of selling a famous pig. Her efforts pay off, and Wilbur is even entered into a contest at the county fair. While he does win a special prize from the judges, the joy is short-lived because Charlotte, who had accompanied him to the fairgrounds, is dying, and after she gives Wilbur her egg sac, trusting him to look after her offspring and confident that the farmer will continue to spare the life of her swine friend, she, at last, expires. She dies, and in doing so, made one four-year-old boy cry hard enough to concern his mother.
The 20th century American poet, Charles Bukowski once said that, for an artist, literary or otherwise, an early experience with death was not necessarily a bad thing. I think about that from time to time, having lost my own father when I was nine; however, it is worth pausing here to consider how story, in this case Charlotte’s Web, is able pose difficult heart questions, even to the littlest among us, while also holding out the balm of a more mature, time-tested, and peace-giving perspective. I did not understand why Charlotte had to die, but I did understand what her children meant to Wilbur, even as he said goodbye to all but three who decided to stay in the barn. Life continued despite the absence of a dear friend. Joy and pain somehow mingled with a single result: life. This was life. This is what it means to be sentient. Victories and setbacks, happiness and despair – to be on this side of paradise is to experience it all.
Charlotte, for her part, lived until she had nothing else to give. Perhaps this is the ultimate lesson in this story. When times are good, we are called to give. When times are tough, we are still called to give. This applies to our families, of course, but we should also not be lost on the fact that Charlotte is an arachnid, and Wilbur is a hog. The mission extends outward just as much as it extends inward because we are all fighting against the slaughterhouse. This is the great battle. Self-sacrifice is the only answer. There is, as Christ says, no greater love.
Just like Wilbur’s human advocate, Fern Arable, the girl who first pleaded for his life, I, too, grew up and found other interests. This is typically how it goes, after all. But I would hard-pressed to deny what White’s story awakened in me even at such a tender age.
Love and loss, it turns out, are hard to reconcile. It seems impossible that they can exist together, yet they do, at least in the temporal sense.
John, in his account of the gospel, gives us the words we need to navigate this conundrum. He quotes the Messiah as saying “he who believes has eternal life.” It is not “will have” but the present “has.” Right now. Upon giving your life to Christ. As such, there is no real loss, just a suspension of relationship. Hard, yes, and certainly nothing to be dismissive and callous about – Jesus wept after hearing of the loss of his friend, Lazarus, after all. But only temporary. Nonpermanent.
Charlotte’s Web taught me an important lesson about love and loss, but it also put into motion a series of questions and conclusions that brought me to Christ. It was not the sole factor, of course, but it was a significant one. In the end, what does this all mean? Story has the power to influence and change, but it also has the power to ask the right questions, and if we let it, if we are patient, point toward hopeful, more promising answers that in turn help us to trust. The pig, the spider in the beginning. The spider, the pig in the end. Trust is the vessel on which love floats.
