It is like when you throw a stone into a pool, and the concentric waves spread out further and further. Who knows where it will end? [George MacDonald in The Great Divorce].
In our recent journey through C.S. Lewis’s masterwork, we’ve encountered one of the most poignant scenes in all his writing: the meeting between Sara Smith and her former husband, Frank—or what remains of him. On the surface, this encounter represents a failed reconciliation. But beneath that narrative lies an earnest meditation on the nature of love itself.
The Hidden Saint
Sara Smith, Lewis tells us, was “no one of importance” during her earthly life. She held no prestigious title, wrote no theological treatises, led no movements that would earn her a place in history books. Yet in Heaven, she appears radiant beyond description, honored by Spirits and surrounded by joy. Here we encounter the first great reversal that Jesus spoke of: “the last shall be first, and the first shall be last” (Matthew 20:16).
What makes Sara’s glory so authentic is precisely that she never sought it. Her greatness came not from self-importance but from self-giving love. Lewis writes that “Every young man or boy that met her became her son—even if it was only the boy that brought the meat to her back door. Every girl that met her was her daughter.” Her life exemplifies what Jesus meant when he said the kingdom belongs to those who become like children (Matthew 18:3)—not childish, but childlike in their direct, unencumbered capacity to love.
The Stone in the Pool
MacDonald’s beautiful metaphor of the stone cast into still waters reveals Lewis’s theology of spiritual influence. Sara’s love, like that stone, creates ripples that extend outward in concentric circles, touching lives far beyond her immediate reach. The image challenges our culture’s obsession with measurable impact and visible success.
How often do we ask ourselves: “What difference am I really making?” We long for evidence, for some tangible proof that our small acts of kindness, our patient listening, our quiet prayers have meaning. Yet the economy of Heaven operates differently. The most consequential actions may be those never recorded, never measured, never applauded.
The stone disappears beneath the surface, but its effects continue long after it has sunk from view. This is the nature of love given without expectation of return—invisible yet transformative, humble yet powerful.
The Dwarf and the Tragedian
In stark contrast stands Frank—or what remains of him. Lewis presents him as two connected figures: a Dwarf (his true self, diminished almost to nothing) and a Tragedian (the theatrical mask of self-pity he has developed over years). The Tragedian speaks melodramatically for the Dwarf, bound to him by a chain of his own making.
When confronted with Sara’s authentic joy, Frank cannot bear it. Though she greets him with genuine love, he perceives her happiness as a personal affront. “You have no conception of the depths of my misery,” the Tragedian declares, attempting to manipulate through guilt.
Here we find an important spiritual warning. Self-pity, when nurtured over time, doesn’t just cloud our perception—it becomes our perception. Frank has so long defined himself by his grievances that he cannot recognize actual love when it stands before him. His identity has become inseparable from his suffering.
The trap of self-pity is that it masquerades as depth of feeling while actually preventing authentic feeling. It poses as sensitivity while deadening us to joy. It presents itself as wounded love while being, at its core, a form of narcissism.
The Terrible Freedom of Choice
The most heartbreaking moment comes when the Dwarf (Frank’s true self) briefly stirs, shaking the chain that binds him to the Tragedian. For one moment, reconciliation seems possible—he might break free, might choose authentic relationship over performance. But then he retreats.
Sara cannot compromise. “I cannot love a lie,” she says simply. “I am in Love, and out of it I will not go.” Her statement isn’t cruelty but clarity. True love cannot indulge falsehood, even out of compassion.
Frank makes his choice. The Dwarf shrinks further until he disappears entirely, and the Tragedian, having nothing left to represent, fades away as well. Frank has chosen the familiarity of his grievance over the unknown territory of joy.
The Crack in the Soil
After this sobering encounter, MacDonald shows the narrator something easily missed: a tiny crack in Heaven’s soil—so small it requires pointing out. “That is where the lizard lived,” he explains [recall our discussion last week of the encounter involving the angel who comes to meet the Ghost with a small reptilian creature perched on his shoulder]. “It is also the crack into which the Dwarf disappeared.”
It’s telling that Lewis juxtaposes two images: the rippling water from Sara’s stone and the tiny crack that swallows Frank. Both begin small. Both extend beyond what we can immediately see. But they lead in opposite directions—one toward expanding circles of influence and joy, the other toward constriction and ultimately, disappearance.
Living in the Balance
As we reflect on these contrasting paths, we might ask ourselves:
Which am I cultivating in my own spiritual life—ripples or cracks?
When I encounter authentic joy in others, does it expand my own capacity for gratitude, or does it trigger resentment?
Have I allowed any form of self-pity to become a persona that speaks for me, defining my relationships?
What small, seemingly insignificant choices am I making daily that lead either toward expansion of love or contraction of soul?
The Gospel in Miniature
I think that what makes this passage so powerful is that it presents the gospel in miniature. Heaven, Lewis suggests, isn’t primarily a reward but a revelation—the full flowering of what we have already begun to become. Sara embodies what it means to live in the reality of resurrection joy. Frank shows the alternative: choosing the familiar darkness over unfamiliar light.
The beauty of Lewis’s vision is that the choice remains open until the very end. Even as the Dwarf shrinks to nothing, there remains that moment of hesitation, that shaking of the chain. The possibility of freedom persists.
This is our hope and our challenge. Each day presents us with moments when we can either cast stones of love into the waters of life or deepen the cracks of resentment in our souls. The ripples extend beyond our sight. The cracks may seem inconsequential. But as MacDonald reminds us: “Who knows where it will end?”
Let us choose, then, to be people who create ripples rather than cracks—knowing that though we may never trace their full extent in this life, they are seen and known by the One who loves us beyond measure.
Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience… And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity [Colossians 3:12,14].
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