I should just own up. I need to. It's the right thing to do.

But my faith is weak. It's a silly child's faith. She'll cry her hurt, then speak in her reasonable voice, and I will search my heart, and I will realize that I am hurting her for a mirage, a Freudian grasp at immortality or some such thing, and the whole beautiful Narnian dream will evaporate, and I'll be left with nothing but the self-loathing.

That's right: I'm not firmly-enough convicted to risk hurting my wife's feelings even in obedience to the commandment of God. But I am firmly-enough convicted to complain about it in a blog. I hold on to the pretense because it's the pretense or simple nihilism, I guess. I once heard John Piper say, "Until you realize that life is a war, and the stakes are your soul, you will probably play at Christianity." Indeed. Or until you can somehow stop doubting that you have a soul.