Becoming Mrs. Lewis: The Improbable Love Story of Joy Davidman and C. S. Lewis

By Patti Callahan

Meet the brilliant writer, fiercely independent mother, and passionate woman who captured the heart of C.S. Lewis and inspired the books that still enchant and change us today, from the?New York Times?bestselling author of?The Story She Left Behind.

When poet and writer Joy Davidman began writing letters to C. S. Lewis--known as Jack--she was looking for spiritual answers, not love. Love, after all, wasn't holding together her crumbling marriage. Everything about New Yorker Joy seemed ill-matched for an Oxford professor and the beloved writer of The Chronicles of Narnia, yet their minds bonded over their letters.

Embarking on the adventure of her life, Joy traveled from America to England and back again, facing heartbreak and poverty, discovering friendship and faith, and against all odds, found a love that even the threat of death couldn't destroy.

In this masterful exploration of one of the greatest love stories of modern times, we meet a brilliant writer, a fiercely independent mother, and a passionate woman who changed the life of this respected author and inspired books that still enchant us and change us. Joy lived at a time when women weren't meant to have a voice--and yet her love for Jack gave them both voices they didn't know they had.

At once a fascinating historical novel and a glimpse into a writer's life, Becoming Mrs. Lewis is above all a love story--a love of literature and ideas and a love between a husband and wife that, in the end, was not impossible at all.

This expanded edition includes a map of Oxford, an expanded discussion guide with more than 20 questions that are perfect for book clubs, a timeline of Jack's and Joy's lives, Joy's (imagined) letter to Jack, 10 things you may not know about Joy Davidman and C. S. Lewis's love story, and a behind-the-scenes essay on the city of Oxford.

"Callahan crafts a masterpiece that details the friendship and ultimate romance between the real Davidman and Lewis . . . a magical and literary experience that won't be soon forgotten." --LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED review | ". . . an incredible portrait of a complex woman." --PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED review | ". . . a deeply moving story about love and loss that is transformative and magical." --PAM JENOFF | "I was swept along, filled with hope, and entirely beguiled." --LISA WINGATE | "This is the book Patti Callahan was born to write. Becoming Mrs. Lewis is a tour de force and the must-read of the season!" --MARY ALICE MONROE

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Nelson
• Release date: Oct 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9780785218081

Patti Callahan

De la autora de éxitos en ventas del New York Times, Patti Callahan, llega una exquisita novela sobre Joy Davidman, la mujer a la que C.S. Lewis llamó “mi mundo entero”. Cuando la poeta y escritora Joy Davidman comenzó a escribirle cartas a C.S. Lewis –conocido como Jack– ella buscaba respuestas espirituales, no amor. Después de todo, el amor no lograba mantener unido a su desmoronado matrimonio. Todo acerca de la neoyorkina Joy parecía estar mal para el catedrático de Oxford y amado escritor de Narnia, pero sus mentes se fueron amalgamando en sus cartas. Embarcándose en la aventura de su vida, Joy viajó de Estados Unidos a Inglaterra y luego regresó, enfrentando angustia y pobreza, descubriendo la amistad y la fe, y contra todo pronóstico, encontrando un amor que aun la amenaza de la muerte no podía destruir. En esta exploración magistral de una de las mejores historias de amor de los tiempos modernos, nos encontramos con una brillante escritora, una madre ferozmente independiente y una mujer apasionada que cambió la vida de este respetado autor e inspiró libros que todavía nos encantan y cambian nuestra vida. Joy vivió en un momento en que las mujeres no debían tener voz y, sin embargo, su amor por Jack les otorgó las dos voces que ellos no sabían que poseían. Una fascinante novela histórica y una vislumbre de la vida de un escritor, combinadas en una pieza. Becoming Mrs. Lewis es, sobre todo, una historia de amor: un amor por la literatura y las ideas y un amor entre marido y mujer que, al final, no resultó imposible en absoluto.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

1926

Bronx, New York

From the very beginning it was the Great Lion who brought us together. I see that now. The fierce and tender beast drew us to each other, slowly, inexorably, across time, beyond an ocean, and against the obdurate bulwarks of our lives. He wouldn’t make it easy for us—that’s not his way.

It was the summer of 1926. My little brother, Howie, was seven years old and I was eleven. I knelt next to his bed and gently shook his shoulder.

Let’s go, I whispered. They’re asleep now.

That day I’d come home with my report card, and among the long column of As there was the indelible stamp of a single B denting the cotton paper.

Father. I’d tapped his shoulder, and he’d glanced away from the papers he was grading, his red pencil marking students’ work. Here’s my report card.

His eyes scanned the card, the glasses perched on the end of his nose an echo of the photos of his Ukranian ancestors. He’d arrived in America as a child, and at Ellis Island his name was changed from Yosef to Joseph. He stood now to face me and lifted his hand. I could have backed away; I knew what came next in a family where assimilation and achievement were the priorities.

His open palm flew across the space between us—a space brimful with my shimmering expectation of acceptance and praise—and slapped my left cheek with the clap of skin on skin, a sound I knew well. My face jolted to the right. The sting lasted as it always did, long enough to stand for the verbal lashing that came after. There is no place for slipshod work in this family.

No, there was no place for it at all. By the time I was eleven I was a sophomore in high school. I must try harder, be better, abide all disgrace until I found a way to succeed and prove my worth.

But at night Howie and I had our secrets. In the darkness of his bedroom he rose, his little sneakers tangling in the sheet. He smiled at me. I’ve already got my shoes on. I’m ready.

I suppressed a laugh and took his hand. We stood stone-still and listened for any breaths but our own. Nothing.

Let’s go, I said, and he laid his small hand in mine: a trust.

We crept from the brownstone and onto the empty Bronx streets, the wet garbage odor of the city as pungent as the inside of the subway. The sidewalks dark rivers, the streetlights small moons, and the looming buildings protection from the outside world. The city was silent and deceptively safe in the midnight hours. Howie and I were on a quest to visit other animals caged and forced to act civil in a world they didn’t understand: the residents of the Bronx Zoo.

Within minutes we arrived at the Fordham Road gate and paused, as we always did, to stare silently at the Rockefeller Fountain—three tiers of carved marble children sitting in seashells, mermaids supporting them on raised arms or sturdy heads, the great snake trailing up the center pillar, his mouth open to devour. The water slipped down with a rainfall-din that subdued our footfalls and whispers. We reached the small hole in the far side of the fence and slipped through.

We cherished our secret journeys to the midnight zoo—the parrot house with the multicolored creatures inside; the hippo, Peter the Great; a flying fox; the reptile house slithering with creatures both unnatural and frightening. Sneaking out was both our reward for enduring family life and our invisible rebellion. The Bronx River flowed right through the zoo’s land; the snake of dark water seemed another living animal, brought from the outside to divide the acreage in half and then escape, as the water knew its way out.

And then there was the lions’ den, a dark caged and forested area. I was drawn there as if those beasts belonged to me, or I to them.

Sultan. My voice was resonant in the night. Boudin Maid.

The pair of Barbary lions ambled forward, placing their great paws on the earth, muscles dangerous and rippling beneath their fur as they approached the bars. A great grace surrounded them, as if they had come to understand their fate and accept it with roaring dignity. Their manes were deep and tangled as a forest. I fell into the endless universe of their large amber eyes as they allowed, even invited, me to reach through the iron and wind my fingers into their fur. They’d been tamed beyond their wild nature, and I felt a kinship with them that caused a trembling in my chest.

They indulged me with a return gaze, their warm weight pressed into my palm, and I knew that capture had damaged their souls.

I’m sorry, I whispered every time. We were meant to be free.

PART I

AMERICA

"You would not have called to me

unless I had been calling to you."

ASLAN, THE SILVER CHAIR, C. S. LEWIS

CHAPTER 1

Begin again, must I begin again

Who have begun so many loves in fire

SONNET I, JOY DAVIDMAN

1946

Ossining, New York

There are countless ways to fall in love, and I’d begun my ash-destined affairs in myriad manners. This time, it was marriage.

The world, it changes in an instant. I’ve seen it over and over, the way in which people forge through the days believing they have it all figured out, protected inside a safe life. Yet there is no figuring life out, or not in any way that protects us from the tragedies of the heart. I should have known this by now; I should have been prepared.

Joy. Bill’s voice through the telephone line came so shaky I thought he might have been in a car wreck or worse. I’m coming undone again and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go.

Bill. I hugged the black plastic phone against my ear and shoulder, the thick cord dangling, as I bounced our baby son, Douglas, against my chest. Take a deep breath. You’re fine. It’s just the old fear. You’re not in the war. You’re safe.

"I’m not fine, Joy. I can’t take it anymore." Panic broke his voice into fragments, but I understood. I could talk him off this ledge as I had other nights. He might get drunk before it was all over, but I could calm him.

Come home, Poogle. Come on home. I used the nickname we had for each other and our children, like a birdcall.

I’m not coming home, Joy. I’m not sure I ever will.

Bill! I thought he might have hung up, but then I heard his labored breathing, in and out as if someone were squeezing the life out of him. And then the long, shrill, disconnected buzz vibrated like a tuning fork in my ear and down to my heart, where my own fear sat coiled and ready to strike.

No! I shouted into the empty line.

I knew Bill’s office number by heart and I called him back again and again, but it rang endlessly while I mumbled a mantra: Answer answer answer. As if I had any control from where I stood in our kitchen, my back pressed against the lime-green linoleum counter. Finally I gave up. There was nothing left for me to do. I couldn’t leave our babies and go look for him. He’d taken the car and I didn’t have help. I had no idea where he might be other than a bar, and in New York City there were hundreds.

Isolated, I had only myself to blame. I was the one who’d pushed for a move from the city to this banished and awful place far from my literary friends and publishing contacts. I’d begun to believe that I’d never been a poet, or a novelist, a friend or lover, never existed as anything other than wife and mother. Moving here had been my meager attempt to whisk Bill away from an affair with a blonde in Manhattan. Desperation fuels one to believe idiocy is insight.

Was he with another woman and merely feigning a breakdown? This didn’t seem too farfetched, and yet even his lunacy had its limits.

Or maybe it didn’t.

Our house in the Hudson Valley at the far edge of the suburb of Ossining, New York, was a small wooden abode we called Maple Lodge. It had a sloping roof and creaked with every movement our little family made: Bill; Davy, a toddler who was much like a runaway atom bomb; and Douglas, a baby. It often felt as if the foundation itself were coming undone with our restlessness. I was thirty-one years old, surrounded by books, two cats, and two sons, and I felt as ancient as the house itself.

I missed my friends, the hustle and bustle of the city, the publishing parties and literary gossip. I missed my neighbors. I missed myself.

Night surrounded my sons and me, darkness pressing in on the windowpanes with an ominous weight. Douglas, with his mass of brown curls and apple cheeks, dozed with a warm bottle of milk dangling from his mouth while Davy dragged toy trucks across the hardwood floors, oblivious to the scratches they dug.

Panic coursed through me as I roamed the house, waiting for word from Bill. I cursed. I ranted. I banged my fist into the soft cushions of our tattered couch. Once I’d fed and bathed the boys, I rang my parents and a couple of friends—they hadn’t heard from him. How long would he be gone? What if we ran out of food? We were miles from the store.

Calm down, I told myself over and over. He’s had breakdowns before. This was true, and the specter of another always hung over our home. I hadn’t been there for his worst one, after a stint in the Spanish Civil War before we met, when he’d attempted what I was frightened of now—suicide. The leftover traumas of war rattling and snaking through his psyche had become too much to bear.

As if I could cure the panic from a distance, I imagined Bill as I met him—the passionate young man who sauntered into the League of American Writers with his lanky frame and the wide smile hooded by a thick moustache. I’d immediately been drawn to his bravery and idealism, a man who’d volunteered and fought where needed in a faraway and torn country. Later I fell deeper in love with the same charming man I heard playing the guitar at music haunts in Greenwich Village.

Our passion overwhelmed me, stunned me in its immediacy as our bodies and minds found each other. Although he was married when we met, he had reassured me: It was never anything real. It’s nothing like you and me. We married at the MacDowell artists colony three days after his divorce was final—symbolizing our bond and dedication to our craft. Two writers. One marriage. One life. Now it was that very passion and idealism that tore at him, unhinging his mind and driving him back to the bottle.

Near midnight I stood over the crib of our baby, my heart hammering in my chest. There was nothing, not one thing I could do to save my husband. My bravado crumbled; my ego crashed.

I took in what was quite possibly the first humble breath of my life and dropped to my knees with such force that the hardwood floor sent a jolt of pain up my legs. I bowed my head, tears running into the corners of my mouth as I prayed for help.

I was praying! To God?

I didn’t believe in God. I was an atheist.

But there I was on my knees.

In a crack of my soul, during the untethered fear while calling for help, the sneaky Lion saw his chance, and God came in; he entered the fissures of my heart as if he’d been waiting a long time to find an opening. Warmth fell over me; a river of peace passed through me. For the first time in all my life, I felt fully known and loved. There was a solid sense that he was with me, had always been with me.

The revelation lasted not long, less than a minute, but also forever; time didn’t exist as a moment-to-moment metronome, but as eternity. I lost the borders between my body and the air, between my heart and my soul, between fear and peace. Everything in me thrummed with loving presence.

My heart slowed and the tears stopped. I bent forward and rested my wet cheek on the floor. Why have you waited so long? Why have I? I rested in the silence and then asked, Now what?

He didn’t answer. It wasn’t like that—there wasn’t a voice, but I did find the strength to stand, to gaze at my children with gratitude, to wait for what might come next.

God didn’t fix anything in that moment, but that wasn’t the point of it all. Still I didn’t know where Bill was, and still I was scared for his life, but Someone, my Creator it seemed, was there with me in all of it. This Someone was as real as my sons in their beds, as the storm battering the window frames, as my knees on the hardwood floors.

Finally, after wandering the streets and drinking himself into a stupor, Bill stumbled into a cab that brought him back to us just before dawn. When he walked through the front door, I held his face in my hands, smelled the rancid liquor, and told him that I loved him and that I now knew there was a God who loved us both, and I promised him that we would find our way together.

As the years passed, our coffee table became littered with history and philosophy books, with religious texts and pamphlets, but still we didn’t know how to make sense of an experience I knew had been as real as my heartbeat. If there was a God, and I was straight sure that there was, how did he appear in the world? How was I to approach him, if at all? Or was the experience nothing more than a flicker of understanding that didn’t change anything? This wasn’t a religious conversion at all; it was merely an understanding that something greater existed. I wanted to know more. And more.

One spring afternoon, after we’d moved to a rambling farmhouse in Staatsburg, New York, a three-year-old 1946 Atlantic Monthly magazine was facedown on the kitchen table and being used as a coaster for Bill’s coffee mug. I slid the mug to the side and flipped through the magazine as our sons napped. The pages flopped open to an article by a Beloit College professor named Chad Walsh. The piece was titled Apostle to the Skeptics and was an in-depth study of an Oxford fellow in England, a man named C. S. Lewis who was a converted atheist. Of course I’d heard of the author, had even read his Pilgrim’s Regress and The Great Divorce—both of them holding a whispered truth I was merely beginning to hear. I began to peruse the article, and it was only Douglas calling my name that startled me from the story of this author and teacher who’d reached American readers with his clear and lucid writing, his logic and intellectualism.

Soon I’d read everything Lewis had written—more than a dozen books, including a thin novel of such searing satire that I found myself drawn again and again to its wisdom hidden in story: The Screwtape Letters.

Bill. I held up Lewis’s book I was rereading, The Great Divorce, over dinner one night as the boys twirled their spaghetti. Here is a man who might help us with some of our questions.

Could be, he mumbled, lighting a cigarette before dinner was over, leaning back in his chair to stare at me through his rimless spectacles. "Although, Poogle, I’m not sure anyone has the answers we need."

Bill was cold hard correct—believing in a god hadn’t been as simple as all that. Every philosophy and religion had a take on the deity I hadn’t been able to grasp. I was set to give up the search, shove the shattering God-experience into my big box of mistakes. That is, until I contacted Professor Walsh, the writer of the article, and said, Tell me about C. S. Lewis.

Professor Walsh had visited Lewis in Oxford and spent time with him. He was turning his articles into a book with the same title and he replied to me. Write to Mr. Lewis, he suggested. He’s an avid letter writer and loves debate.

There Bill and I were—three years after my blinding night of humbleness, three years of reading and study, of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and debate, of joining the Presbyterian church—when an idea was born: we would write a letter to C. S. Lewis, a letter full of our questions, our ponderings, and our doubts about the Christ he apparently believed in.

CHAPTER 2

Open your door, lest the belated heart

Die in the bitter night; open your door

SONNET XLIV, JOY DAVIDMAN

1950

Didn’t most everything begin with words? In the beginning was the word—even the Bible touted that truth. So it was with my friendship with Lewis.

I descended from my second-story office in our farmhouse into the frigid January day to grab the mail. Two separate trains of thought ran along the tracks of my mind: What would I cook the family for dinner? And how would my second novel, Weeping Bay, be received into the world in a few months?

Frosted grass crunched under my boots as I strode to the mailbox and opened it. As I flipped through the pile, my heart beat in double time. On top of the pile of bills, correspondence, and a Presbyterian Life magazine was a letter from Oxford, England. I held the white envelope with the airmail stamp of a young King George in profile, his crown hovering over his head, in my hand. In slanted, tight cursive handwriting, the return address stated C. S. Lewis across the top left corner.

He’d finally written a reply. I ran my gloved finger across his name, and hope rose like an early spring flower in my chest. I needed his advice—my life felt unhinged from the new beliefs I’d thought would save me, and C. S. Lewis knew the Truth. Or I hoped he did.

I slammed shut the metal box, icicles crackling to the ground, and slipped the mail into my coat pocket to navigate the icy walkway. My sons’ quarrelling voices made me glance at our white farmhouse and the porch that stretched across the front—an oasis before entering. Green shutters, like eye shadow on a pale woman, opened to reveal the soul of the house, once pure but now clouded with anger and frustration.

The front door was open, and four-year-old Douglas came running out with Davy, age six, chasing close behind.

It’s mine. Give it back. Davy, only an inch taller than his little brother, brown hair tangled from the day’s wrestling and playing, yelled and pushed at Douglas until they both caught sight of me and stopped short, as if I’d appeared out of nowhere.

Mommy. Douglas ran to me, wrapping his arms around my soft hips and burying his face in the folds of my coat. Davy kicked me in the shin, he wailed. Then he pushed me on the ground and sat on me. He sat on me too hard.

Oh, how God loved to make a variety of boys.

I leaned down and brushed back Douglas’s hair to kiss his round cheek. In moments like this my heart throbbed with love for the boys Bill and I had made. Davy’s lithe body and frenetic energy were from Bill, but Douglas’s sensitivity to mean-spiritedness was mine. He’d not yet learned to cover it as I had.

This is all nonsense. I rustled Davy’s hair and took Douglas’s hand in mine. Let’s go inside and make hot chocolate.

Yes, Davy said with gusto and ran for the house.

All the while the letter burned in my pocket. Wait, I told myself. Wait. Expectancy always the thrill before having.

Davy flew through the front door, but not before riling Topsy, who now barked as if to warn us of a monstrous intruder.

Be quiet, you fluffy mongrel, I called out, or you’ll make me sorry I ever rescued you. I stepped over a pile of toy trucks in the foyer with Topsy fast at my heels. By this time in our lives we’d gathered a menagerie of animals—four cats, two dogs, a bird, and now Davy wanted a snake.

Bill was in his refurbished attic office, typing as fast as his fingers knew how, working on his second novel to pay the bills, which were piling as high as the snow would soon be. The shouting and barking and bedlam must have stirred him from his typewriter, for suddenly there he stood at the bottom of the stairwell.

Douglas cowered, and I reached for his hand. Don’t worry, I said softly. Daddy won’t yell. He’s feeling better.

Bill’s hands were limp at his side in a posture of defeat. At six foot three inches, my husband often gave me the impression of a reedy tree. His thick, dark hair was swept to the left side like an undulating wave that had collapsed. He was sober now, and his verbal lashings had subsided. AA was doing its job with the Twelve Steps, spiritual sayings, and group accountability.

He pointed at the spilled basket of library books beside the door, then pushed up on his rimless glasses. You could pick all of that up, you know.

I know, sweetie. I will.

I darted a glance at him. His blue button-down shirt was wrinkled and misbuttoned by one. His blue jeans were loose on him; he’d lost weight over the past months of stress. I, meanwhile, had gained—so much for life being fair.

I was trying to write, Joy. To get something done in a house so full of disarray I can scarcely focus.

Dogs. Kids. I tried to smile at him. What a combination. I walked into the kitchen. I wanted to defuse any anger—the argument that could ensue would be a repeat of a thousand other quarrels, and I wasn’t in the mood. I had a letter, a glimmer of hope in my pocket.

Davy climbed onto a chair and sat at the splintered wooden table and folded his hands to wait. I shook off my coat and draped it on a hook by the door, placing the mail on the kitchen table. Except for the letter. I wanted to read it first. Wanted something to be just mine if only for a small while. I slipped off my gloves and shoved them into the pockets to conceal it. With bare hands I dug into the dirty dishes piled in the sink—another reminder of my inadequacies as a housekeeper—and found the saucepan, crusted with tomato soup from the night before.

This house had once been the fulfillment of a dream. When Bill’s Nightmare Alley was released and Tyrone Power starred in the movie, we’d found ourselves flush with cash for the first time in our lives. It was just enough money to buy this patch of farm upstate. We didn’t know that dreams coming true weren’t always the best thing. That wasn’t what the stories told.

I turned to Davy, my voice full of manufactured cheer. We might get snow today. Wouldn’t that be great fun?

Yes, he said, swinging his legs back and forth to bang on the underside of the table.

Bill strode into the kitchen and stood by quietly, watching me clean the crusted pot.

More bills, he said, rifling through the mail. Fantastic.

I felt his eyes upon me and knew they weren’t radiating with love. Love dwindled, but each day I gauged what remained. Companionship? Admiration? Security? At the moment it felt like rage. I lifted the clean pot and wiped it with a green dish towel from the side of the sink, then turned to him with a smile. Would you like some hot chocolate?

Sure. He sank into a chair next to Davy. Mommy is going to warm us.

I opened the old Coolerator—more white coffin than fridge—and stared at the lonely shelves. Wilted lettuce, an open can of last night’s tomato soup, milk, eggs, and a pan of ground beef that had gone the dark, foreboding brown of rancid meat. I needed a trip to the market, which meant another afternoon of writing would be lost. My mood curled over like the spoiled meat, and I hated my selfishness that cared more for the page, the writing, than for my family’s meals. I didn’t know how to change, but oh, I was trying.

I watched as the milk came to a slow boil in the pot; then I poured the chocolate flakes into the white froth, transfixed. Outside, the first snowflake fluttered into view, then melted as it settled on the windowpane; it was a natural wonder and it lifted my heart. The bird feeder hung from a low branch, and a cardinal paused there and turned its black eye on me. Every simple thing radiated for a brief moment with extraordinary beauty, a daily grace.

I poured the melted goodness into three mugs just as Douglas came barreling into the kitchen.

Did you forget about me? he asked, his hands overhead like he wanted to fly.

No, my big boy, I did not forget about you.

We gathered around that table, my three boys each holding a mug of hot chocolate and I a cup of tea. I wished for whipped cream to top it off for them. Why did the everyday-ness of my life sometimes feel constricting, when the everyday-ness was everything?

I had other family, my parents were still alive, but I had no immediate desire to visit them. My brother worked in the city as a psychotherapist, yet I rarely saw him. Aside from our new Presbyterian church community, this was my family.

There on our acreage in upstate New York, I felt isolated from the world, yet I listened to the news: Truman was president, the atomic bomb was still all the talk—what had we unleashed in splitting that atom? Apocalyptic chatter everywhere. In the literary world, Faulkner had just won the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Thanks, Mommy. Davy’s voice brought me back.

I smiled at him, at his chocolate moustache, and then glanced at Bill. He leaned back in his chair and stretched. He made such a handsome picture, the perfect mythical husband I’d once called him during our great falling-in-love. I sometimes wondered how I appeared to him now, but my survival instincts didn’t leave room for vanity. My brown hair, long and thick, stayed in a loose and tangled bun at the base of my neck. If I was pretty at all, it was in an old-fashioned way, I knew that. Small at only five foot two, with large brown eyes, I wasn’t the va-va-voom kind of beautiful that men whistled at. It was more of a pleasing beauty that could be enhanced if I tried, although lately I hadn’t. But Bill? He was dashing, which he loved to hear, his Southern Virginian plantation ancestry adoring that particular word.

He tossed one leg over the other and gave that lopsided smile, the one Douglas had inherited, at me. I’m going to the seven thirty AA meeting tonight. Are you coming?

Not this time. I think I’ll stay home with the boys and finish mending their winter clothes.

Under the table I clenched my hands, waiting for the rebuke, which didn’t come. I exhaled in relief. Bill stood and stretched with a roar that made Davy laugh before he walked to the entranceway of the kitchen. I’m going to work now, he said. Or at least try one more time.

Okay. I nodded with a smile, but oh, how I ached to return to my own work. The editor of the magazine on the kitchen table had asked me for a series of articles on the Ten Commandments, and I was scarcely making headway. But Bill was the man of the house, and I, as he and society reminded me, was the homemaker.

The little boys ran off to the playroom adjoining the kitchen, bantering in a language all their own. I hesitated, but then called out, Bill, C. S. Lewis wrote back to us.

Well, it’s about time. He stopped midstep out the doorway. What has it been? Six months? When you’re done reading it, toss it on my desk.

I haven’t opened it yet, but I know you don’t have much interest in any of that anymore.

Any of what?

God.

"Of course I do, Joy. I just don’t obsess over answers like you do. Hell, I’m not as obsessive about anything as you are. He paused as if weighing the heavy words and then tossed out, You don’t even know what he wrote. He might request no more contact. He’s a busy man."

I deflated inside, felt the dream of something I hadn’t yet even seen or known collapse. Bill, I can’t let my experience mean nothing. It can’t be discarded as some flicker in time. God was there; I know it. What does that mean?

I sure don’t know. But do whatever you want, Poogle. Write to him or not. I must get back to work.

In my office, I shivered with the chill. If only our house were as full of love as it was books—now more than two thousand of them piled on shelves and tables and, when needed, on the floor. The house was drafty and again the coal had burned low. I would send Davy to bring more inside. Weeks before, we’d had to let the housekeeper go. I would write anything I could for the money just to get her back.

Things had to change and soon.

I held the letter in my hand and, pulling my sweater closer around me, settled into a threadbare lounge chair. I wanted my husband to understand the longing inside me, a yearning for the unseen world hidden inside the evident world. Lewis was seventeen years older than I—the experience and the searching well behind him. I wrote him seeking answers that would satisfy both my heart and my intellect.

I ran my fingers along the rise and fall of his words. The ink, obviously from a blue fountain pen, bled tiny lines from each character into the veins of the cotton paper. I lifted it to my nose and inhaled nothing but the aroma of cold air and dust. I slipped my finger under the sealed flap, eager to read every word, yet oddly I also wanted the expectancy to last—waiting and longing are often the cheap fuel of desire.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gresham,

it started.

Thank you for your long and elaborate letter.

I smiled. Long and elaborate indeed.

My eyes quickly scanned to the bottom of the page to be sure.

Yours, C. S. Lewis

He had written to us.

Of all the hundreds of letters he received, he had written to me.

CHAPTER 3

I have loved some ghost or other all my years

Dead men, their kisses and their fading eyes

PRAYER BEFORE DAYBREAK, JOY DAVIDMAN

The day after Lewis’s letter arrived, I listened to the wind whistle its wintry call. A pile of sewing sat on the far chair, and yet I ignored it to stare out the window. I missed my rambling walks through our acreage and the apple blossom–tinged air of my spring garden that lay dormant beneath the frost. Spring would come again; it always did.

I returned to my work, to the black-faced keys of the Underwood, blank paper in waiting. I had blocked that afternoon hour for my poetry: a gift to myself.

The fires are in my guts and you may light/A candle at them that will do no good.

I paused, sipped my tea, and tucked stray hair behind my ears. With eyes closed I searched in the depths of myself for the next lines. All my life I’d written from the knotted places inside me with a hope for the unknotting.

Joy! Bill’s voice shattered the stillness.

The line of poetry was blown away by his voice, a fragile dandelion pod now empty and scattered.

Up here, I called just as he appeared and leaned against the doorframe, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Not in the house. My words would do no good, but still I said them.

The boys are at school. He inhaled a long drag and then exhaled two plumes of smoke from his nostrils before asking, Didn’t you hear the phone ringing?

I shook my head, drew my sweater closer.

Brandt and Brandt called. They want to schedule your author shot with Macmillan for the back flap.

My agent calling about my publisher.

Thanks, I said, slightly annoyed I’d missed them and it had been Bill who spoke with them. I’ll call back.

Are you okay? he asked, walking closer and dropping ash into the trash can by my desk.

I’m restless. And I can’t find my words this afternoon, or at least not any that make sense.

Why don’t you call Belle to come for a visit from the city? She always cheers you up.

She’s busy with her family too. And we’re both writing as much as we can. Phone calls must do for now.

This path we’ve chosen, he said and drew his cigarette near his lips. Being writers. Maybe we should have chosen something easier. He was joking; it was a kind moment.

As if we could have chosen anything else. I looked to him. I miss my poetry, Bill. I miss it terribly.

We do what we have to do. You’ll return to it. He kissed my forehead as he held the cigarette high in the air. Now back to work.

He clicked on my little space heater and then shut the door. These acts of kindness eased the tension, reminded me of feelings that now felt like mere memories. I faced the typewriter again. But instead of poetry, I wanted to answer Mr. Lewis. It had only been a day, and though I didn’t want to appear anxious, I certainly was.

C. S. Lewis:

Your spiritual search is much the same as mine has been. It’s quite stunning to be pursued by the great Hound of Heaven, is it not? My first reaction was rage and terror. I wonder if you felt the same. I believe I have spent my years since that moment attempting to make some sense of it all. But are we to make sense of it? I’m not quite sure that is the reason for our encounter. Yet, still we try. It sounds as if you are caught in the mesh of His net—you have not much chance of escape.

It seems that my friend Chad Walsh has told you much of my life, do tell me about yours. What is your history, Mr. and Mrs. Gresham?

I paused with a desire to take this slowly, thoughtfully, not rush into it as I did nearly everything else, stumbling and falling and getting back up.

My history—that is what he had asked for. It had been too long since anyone cared for more than what was for dinner or if the laundry was finished or the schoolwork done.

Dear Mr. Lewis,

How very wonderful to receive your letter during the frigid cold of the New Year here in New York.

So now? How does one begin to articulate what is only seen dimly by the person who lives it? All my life I’d been seeking the Truth, or at least my version of it. If there was anything I’d always done with single-minded intent, it was this—seek means to soothe my troubled heart.

I’d believed in so much and so little.

I’d ruined myself and saved myself.

This is Mrs. Gresham writing in return. Thank you for answering some of our questions. Most astoundingly, you have knocked the props right out of my argument about longing being something we must battle—your assertion that if we long for something more, then surely that something more must exist (God)—rings as true as the sky above me.

But, by cats and whiskers, you’re not asking me to argue or agree with you. You ask about my history.

I paused, took a breath.

Shouldn’t I be funny and witty? A pen-friend he’d want to answer and engage with in intellectual pursuits? Intelligence was the one thing that had sustained me through the years. As my parents reminded me (and anyone else who would listen), I was not fully bestowed with beauty, grace, or charm. My cousin Renee encompassed that particular set of attributes. She was the pretty one. And wasn’t I smart?

Masks are the hallmark of my life, my theme if you will, the history of Joy. The façade changes have been innumerable, but the aching and emptiness inside have remained steady, which I now believe is the longing that brought me to my knees.

Was this too serious?

No, he had asked.

It was my parents who gifted me with my first mask: a Jew. I was born Helen Joy Davidman. But I have always been called Joy.

I typed as if in a fugue state—pages dented with black ink, the staccato sounds of metal on rubber. When my sons’ calls let me know they’d returned home from school, I typed the last of it.

After the profound conversion experience that shook me from my firm atheist foundation, my soul will not let me rest until I find answers to some of my spiritual questions—questions that will not go away, questions that have every right to nag at me until I find peace. Who is this God I now believe in? What am I to do with this Truth? Was it real at all or have I deluded myself with another cure-all that cures nothing?

Yours,

Joy

When I finished, my heart stretched as if waking from a long and lazy slumber, and a secret hope fell over me. I smiled. Then I whisked the final page from the typewriter and folded the four pages into an envelope.

The winter afternoon howled with a coming storm; my sons played knights fighting for the maiden, my husband closed himself into his office, and I sealed a letter to C. S. Lewis, shedding all my masks.

I wanted him to know me. I wanted him to see me.

CHAPTER 4

And this is wisdom in a weary land;

ask nothing, shut your teeth upon your need

SELVA OSCURA, JOY DAVIDMAN

Nineteen months later

August 1951

August shimmered thick with heat and rain as our old Impala, choking on fumes, pulled into Chad and Eva Walsh’s Vermont summer property. After I’d contacted Chad about his article, we’d forged an intellectual and spiritual friendship through phone calls and letters, and then finally his wife and four daughters visited our farm in upstate New York. The Walshes had become dear friends.

Davy and Douglas bounced around the back seat, weary from the long drive and hungry, as they’d eaten all their well-packed snacks before we crossed the New York state line. Bill’s hands were tense on the silver steering wheel as we entered a lush landscape of craggy rocks and moss-crusted trees, of thick, wild fields and a crystalline lake winking in the sunlight.

Reviews for Becoming Mrs. Lewis

[lcjohnson1988_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Title: Becoming Mrs. LewisAuthor: Patti CallahanPages: 416Year: 2018Publisher: Thomas NelsonMy rating: 4 out of 5 stars.I am always looking for a good book to read. Are you? Do you choose it by the cover, who endorses it, the synopsis on a website or are there other criteria you utilize? For me, when choosing a book, I use the previous list and sometimes authors whose other works I have previously enjoyed. Here though is a new author to me, and frankly so is the subject of the historical work of fiction, Joy Davidman. C. S. Lewis’ works I have read but I was totally caught off guard to learn that Mrs. Lewis also wrote prolifically.While the author concedes that much in the story is from her imagination, she does interject words that were written by Joy for example in her correspondence with C.S. Lewis. The bibliography in the very back of the book has a treasure trove of sources to learn more about Joy Davidman, her faith and her writings. Someday I may just pick up some of them to learn more about the woman behind a well-known man.The writing pulls readers in and not just mentally but by the heart too! There were times in the story my heart felt heavy just thinking about what Joy might have experienced or felt in different seasons of her life. It is clear from the onset that her father demanded much from her and her mother was elusive, or is that fiction too? You the reader will have to decide.There were different times I had to put the book down because the scene was somewhat depressing. There were other times I wondered if Joy may have done what action was described in the narrative for real. In either case, the author spurred my desire to want to know who the real Joy Davidman was before she met C. S. Lewis, their relationship and their marriage until her death. Even if it is a work of fiction, I am glad to be spurred on to learn more about this woman from the past, her life, her love and her faith.Note: The opinions shared in this review are solely my responsibility.

[jessicadelellis · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I received this book for free as part of an Instagram tour (Just Read Tours specifically) I did to promote the book.I was interested in reading this book because I am a fan of C.S. Lewis. I hadn’t heard of Joy Davidman before, so I was curious to learn more about her. Please note that although this book is based on real people and real events, it is still a work of historical fiction. This book was incredible. It beautifully depicted the relationship between Lewis and Davidman. Their romance was unconventional but epic. The love they had for one another is truly remarkable. I loved how they influenced each other’s work and treated each other as equals. Joy was such a strong woman. I enjoyed learning her backstory and seeing how she had the courage to not only leave her alcoholic and cheating husband, but also to start a new life with her children in another country. I loved the epilogue. It really gave Joy a voice. She comes from a time where people often silenced her voice and contributions. I liked that the author let Joy have the final word. Since this is a book about C.S. Lewis, is also discusses the Christian faith but it doesn’t go overboard with it. If you’re worried that it might be too religious, don’t be. The heart of the book is really their love story. Lastly, the endpapers of the book feature a map of Oxford which I found to be a really nice touch, since the Narnia books are known to have maps. Overall, this is an amazing read! If you are fan of C.S. Lewis or love books about incredible women, then pick this one up!

[colie77 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I just couldn't get into this story. I had zero interest in the characters or how their story would unfold. To be honest, the only reason I finished the book is because it is for a book club at work.

[dianekeenoy · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'm so glad that I took my time with this book. I read several chapters a day in the bedroom while my little Havanese ate her meals! I didn't know that much about C.S. Lewis and even less about Joy Davidson! What an incredible story!

[shazjhb · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Amazing book. A complicated relationship between literary stars. Joy and Jack. Not sure who will love it but it is amazing

[gypsysmom_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book was chosen by my book club but I wanted to read it anyway. I had read another book by Callahan, Once Upon a Wardrobe, which was written after this one and I liked it very much.

Joy Davidman Gresham was a poet, writer, mother, wife who had been raised Jewish but turned atheist at a young age. Then, one night when she was worried about where her husband was she prayed to God and felt him answer. She converted to Christianity and convinced her husband to join her. She saw an article about C. S. Lewis and started to read his books as he was an adult convert as well. Joy found his writing to hold answers to her questions about God. The writer of the article advised her to write to Lewis and thus started a lengthy correspondence between them. Her husband, Bill, wasn't as committed to Christianity as Joy was. Although he had gone to AA and been sober for some years, he started drinking and then he was unfaithful. Money was always tight as both of them were trying to make a living as writers. Joy moved out of the marital bedroom but she couldn't leave Bill without having some way to support herself and her two boys. The letters from Lewis (who soon asked her to call him Jack) were one of the bright spots in her life. In the winter of 1952 Joy became ill and their doctor advised her to go away to get rest. This became possible when Joy's cousin, Renee, fleeing her own alcoholic husband came to stay with Joy and Bill. Renee could look after the boys and the house while Joy went to England for a rest and reprieve. Besides Lewis, Joy had another friend living in London and that is where she went first. After about a month she met Lewis in Oxford and their connection was even stronger in person. There was no question of a love affair with Jack but just having someone with whom to debate and discuss all the imponderable ideas was transformative. Before Joy returned to the US she got a letter from Bill saying that he was in love with Renee. Joy knew she had to get her boys out of that situation. Although it took time she was able to get custody of the boys and return to England with them. Lewis and his brother Warnie became a big part of their lives and Joy was in love with Jack. Lewis felt there were four kinds of love: storge (familial or affectionate love); philia (friendship), eros (romantic love) and agape (spiritual love). Joy felt eros for Jack but he claimed their love was philia. Even when they married in a civil ceremony so that Joy could stay in England, they lived in separate houses. It was only when Joy was diagnosed with cancer that Jack realized he felt ther eros type of love for Joy. They had a religious marriage ceremony in Joy's hospital room but soon after Joy was sent to die in Jack and Warnie's home, The Kilns. In what amounted to a miracle, Joy went into remission and they had three years together. People who were not so grounded in their Christianity might have railed against this short time but for Joy and Jack it was a time of great love. Jack did grieve when Joy died; in fact he wrote a book called "A Grief Observed" where he said "I know that the thing I want is exactly the thing I can never get. The old life, the jokes, the drinks, the arguments, the lovemaking, the tiny, heartbreaking commonplace."

None of us know how long we have on earth but it must be a comfort to those who believe in God that there is something after our earthly life. I do hope that's true.

[mrstreme · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Patti Callahan transported me to 1940's and 1950's England, and the love story of C.S. Lewis and Joy Davidson. This book has it all: Provocative spiritual discussions, suspense, love, fear, and a rich setting. Patti's writing is superb. I can't wait to read the accompanying novel Once Upon a Wardrobe once it releases. One of my favorite books read in 2021--be sure to grab it if you haven't read Becoming Mrs. Lewis yet!

[hobbitprincess · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I knew some of the story behind this book, the marriage of C. S. Lewis and Joy Davidman. I found the dialogue to be realistic, and I like how the author did so much research, especially by reading letters only recently uncovered. I always appreciate a book that inspires me to do my own research, and this one fit the bill.

[dabble58 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I really wanted to like this book. Interesting topic, interesting people, etc- but I had to put it down in the end because it was badly written. Confusing location changes, inappropriate references (like a “queen-size bed”), etc that made me doubt the truth of anything that was written.
Actually came here researching the author because I was finding it so troubling.
Needs editing, needs fact-checking, and despite my interest in the subject, I just can’t continue.

[pdebolt_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In this engaging novel, Patti Callahan recounts the fictionalized version of Joy Gresham's life and her correspondence with the noted theologian, C.S. Lewis. Their correspondence began with her interest in Christianity after being raised in the Judaism faith. When they eventually meet in England, their mental, spiritual and physical attraction is immediate. Joy is still married to a man who has been unfaithful numerous times and they have two sons, Douglas and David.

For anyone who has read the very noteworthy book by Lewis, A Grief Observed, this recounting of their relationship will be especially poignant.

[bereanna · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Long and Excellent discussion. Joy Davidman, author and poet, becomes a pen pal to Oxford don and writer C S Lewis. Based on many sources, this historical fiction taught me about Lewis and his books which include The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and books about Christianity. This novel was fulfilling and satisfying spurring me to google many things.

[lori6868 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great book. Easy to read the text flowed smoothly, great writing. A great love story, based on reality. I learned so much that i didn't know about C.S. Lewis and Joy Davidman. This book led me to buy works I had not previously considered reading by both authors. A sad tragic, but beautiful love story. Highly recommended to all historical fiction fans.

[judithrs · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Becoming Mrs. Lewis. Patti Callahan. 2018, Janet lent me this novel, an account of the life of Joy Davidman before and after she became Mrs. C. S. Lewis. I enjoyed it more than I thought I would as I did not have a very favorable opinion of her for some reason. It was impossible not to compare it to the play/movie “Shadowlands.” Both versions. I found her more sympathetic as I learned more about her life. If you are intrigued by the Davidman /Lewis courtship and marriage and/or if you like a good love story, you will enjoy this book.

[bgknighton · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Delightful, well researched. The women who travel beside the famed are often overlooked. Joy had her own life and publications but her life is overshadowed by Lewis'. They both tried to live a Christian life and strongly influenced each other. Joy's motives are still being discussed. Very informative, very interesting.

[librarycin · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

When New York author Joy starts corresponding with C.S. Lewis, she is beyond thrilled. They discuss religion in their letters and she is happy to be able to travel to England to meet him (while leaving her husband and two sons behind). Of course, she falls in love with him.

I listened to the audio, and though I lost focus sometimes in the first half, I was pretty much paying attention in the second half, but it didn’t help the story any. I probably did miss some things in the first half of the book, as Joy eventually accused her husband of abuse, but that’s something I completely missed (although he did cheat on her with her cousin).

With regard to the “relationship” between Joy and “Jack” (C. S. Lewis’ nickname), apparently this was based on real life (I had just assumed it was completely fictional), but in the story itself, I didn’t see or “get” it. Yeah, she was head over heels for him, but I didn’t see that he loved her at all. All the gushing at the end was just ridiculously eye-rolling and gag-inducing to me. I didn’t believe it. Oh, and the religious stuff bored me.

[smits_52 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I have to say that I have never read anything by Joy Davidson or C.S. Louis and I think that makes a difference reading this book. I just did not invest in the characters. the dialogue went on and on. The last quarter of the book did tug on my heart strings but that's about it.

[gpangel_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Becoming Mrs. Lewis by Patti Callahan is a 2018 Thomas Nelson publication.

This book is the fictionalized version of the love story between Joy Davidman and C.S. Lewis. I have been meaning to read this book for ages and have been wildly curious to see how Callahan approved the material.
While I did like the story, and appreciated the way Joy’s particular challenges were presented, I struggled to stay invested.

The relationship is fascinating, their initial correspondence very insightful, especially from Joy’s perspective as a woman trapped by poor health, a bad marriage, and the longing to write and pursue her career as a poet and writer.

I am familiar with C.S. Lewis, like most people, but I never studied his personal life. I was aware, vaguely, there was a tragic love story, but I knew nothing about Joy. Her story is a bit melancholy, no?

I am so happy she found her spiritual/Christian calling, which is quite a feat considering her background. I am also happy she found Lewis- who was a beacon to her as she navigated unfamiliar territory. I am also happy she found comfort and love after the years she spent in an unhappy and abusive relationship. I’m sorry though, that she never enjoyed the fullness of marriage with the man she loved, which, in my opinion was unnecessary, and I’m sorry her health was so fragile, and she died so young. Her characterization here, though, is terribly somber. The story is flat- bland, even, and I had to force myself to keep going at times. A book I thought would be inspirational, only left me feeling a little bereft, instead.

I was SO positive I was going to love this book, and am disappointed it didn’t grab me, as it has so many other people. I do have “Once Upon a Wardrobe” on my Kindle and will read it shortly. I’m sure I will have better luck with that one.

Overall, I am a little let-down I didn’t have the experience I was hoping for with this book- but I did like the book enough to give it a three- star rating- mostly based on the quality of the writing and that I learned a lot about Joy’s life and found her journey to be unique and interesting, if very sad.

3 stars

[tsarinatyna · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I just finished this wonderful book this morning and I'm suffering serious book hangover. I was not really familiar with Joy Davidman Gresham Lewis's story before reading this and it was so emotional getting to know her through the amazing literary portrait that Patti Callahan painted of her. I cried tears of joy, frustration, and sorrow throughout the read and I already miss her, Jack, Warnie and the boys. A truly beautiful life of devotion and love.

[karenodden · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

As a child I had read Lewis's Narnia books; and as an adult, I had seen the movie *Shadowlands* and read a portion of C.S. Lewis's *A Grief Observed,* his meditations after the death of his wife Joy from cancer. So I knew the basic story of their love affair, which is heartbreaking and--in both those works--told with restraint, eloquence, and deep feeling. This book, BECOMING MRS. LEWIS, aims at following in the tradition of recent books about women who are married to famous men--e.g. The Aviator's Wife (Lindbergh), The Paris Wife (Hemingway) and Lady Clementine (Churchill)--but whose stories have been elided by history. I love that sort of feminist recovery project, but to succeed that sort of book needs to provide fresh and meaningful insight into the events or into the woman's subjectivity. It pains me to write a poor review, but this book disappointed me, in nearly every way.

Being written in first person, from Joy's perspective, the book sets up the expectation that we will be privy to Joy's intimate thoughts, but the events of her first marriage and divorce are presented in sometimes tedious detail and with immature, trite psychological insight (as when she asks her friend, "How did we both fall in love with and marry alcoholics? ... Was it something in our childhood?"). Further, at the top of each chapter is a couplet from one of (the real) Joy Davidson's sonnets that she wrote while falling in love with Lewis (whom she called Jack). These couplets are lovely, evocative tidbits that stand in contrast to the uneven prose in the chapters and dialog that at times made me wince. Callahan has Joy speak in trite metaphors such as: "This river ... It's very much like life." And their love affair feels predicated on the craving for admiration and the sort of push/pull characteristic of teen romance; Joy says, "I imagined a few opening lines for the moment I saw Jack." She says to her son, "Look at the moon and know that I'll be looking at it too. We will be under the same stars and the same sky." I must admit, that passage felt to me a little too close to the song "Somewhere Out there" from the animated classic *An American Tail*. ("Somewhere out there beneath the pale moonlight/Someone's thinking of me and loving me tonight ... And even though I know how very far apart we are
It helps to think we might be wishin' on the same bright star...")

The book I think Callahan could have written more successfully is the one that begins to emerge in her epilogue--her discovery and research into Joy and Jack's love affair. That is, I'd have relished reading *why* she was so fascinated by their relationship and how it related to, or informed her own life. Perhaps it could be a twinned narrative, like *Julie and Julia*, for example, moving back and forth between the two stories. I think that could have been a compelling, intimate book.

[celticlady53 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Becoming Mrs. Lewis is the story about the love affair between Joy Davidman and C.S.Lewis. If you don't know who C.S.Lewis is; Clive Staples Lewis (29 November 1898 – 22 November 1963) was a British writer and lay theologian. He held academic positions in English literature at both Oxford University and Cambridge University. I know he wrote the Chronicles of Narnia and The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, but not much else.

Joy Davidman was an American poet and writer. Often referred to as a child prodigy, she earned a master's degree from Columbia University in English literature at age twenty in 1935. She was married to William Lindsay Gresham, they had two boys and I think that she was very unhappy in the marriage. An introduction by a fellow American writer, Chad Walsh, brought Davidman to begin a correspondence with C. S. Lewis in 1950. She spent Christmas and a fortnight at The Kilns with C.S. Lewis and his brother, Warren. Though Davidman was deeply in love with Lewis, because of his Catholic faith, he did not reciprocate. In the meantime, her husband was having an affair with her cousin Renee, which ultimately led to divorce. Joy went back to England with her sons. The relationship with C.S.Lewis was intellectual at first but later evolved into love.

Joy's work visa was not going to get renewed so Joy and C.S.Lewis went into civil marriage and they lived separately. Upon having a fall it was found that she had cancer, went into remission but later the cancer came back and she died in 1960, C.S.Lewis died three years later. By that time they did get a Christian marriage.

At first, I didn't think that I would like this book. But after I started reading I did not want to put it down. This fictionalized version of the relationship between C.S.Lewis and Joy Davidman is very readable. I did not know anything about either of them and found that I was pulled into the story. I was sad that they had such a short married life but happy that they were able to spend time together. At first, a cerebral relationship that turns into a great love story, love for each other, and love for writing. I think if you love historical fiction, you need to read this book. I give it 5 stars!

[hardlyhardy · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Rarely does one find a bibliography at the end of a novel. That “Becoming Mrs. Lewis” (2018) by Patti Callahan has one, even if it's called by a different name, suggests how earnestly the author sought to make her novel conform with the true story of Joy Davidman and C.S. Lewis.

A month ago I reviewed “Joy,” a biography of Davidman by Abigail Santamaria (See "Surprised by Joy Davidman," May 11), and it is one of the sources Callahan used in writing her novel. Yet as faithful to the facts as the novelist tries to be, her Joy Davidman seems easier for the reader to love than Santamaria's. Wherever the truth lies with regard to Joy's character, there is no question but that Lewis loved her. That is clear in both books, as well as in every other book written on the subject, including Lewis's own.

Callahan dwells little on the earlier years of Joy's short life. Mostly the novel covers the period from the early 1950s — when, her marriage to Bill Gresham floundering, she begins corresponding with Lewis — to their marriage and her terminal cancer.

I am not convinced Callahan chose correctly in telling her story in first person from Joy's point of view. For one thing, this means that the author must find another way to mention the later stages of Joy's illness and her death. This she must do in an epilogue. For another, when we tell our own story we paint ourselves in more positive terms than we may deserve, which probably explains why Joy is more likable here. For yet another, a third-person narrative could have given insight into what Lewis, her two sons and even Bill Gresham were thinking during the growth of this relationship.

One of the best things about the novel, at least from my own perspective, is the way Callahan uses the Lewis book “The Four Loves” to show the development of his love for Joy, or at least how she sees that development, from friendship to romantic love.

There is much to like about “Becoming Mrs. Lewis.” Perhaps if I had not read Santamaria's book so recently I would have liked it even better.

[evatkaplan · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

EXCELLENT WRITING,
drawn out, a bit anti-semitic (according to some in bookclub); ver Christian; Jewish Poet, Davidson, finds Jesus and communicates with C.S.Lewis about her epiphany. This forms into a love affair and they get married

[claudia.castenir · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Reading Becoming Mrs. Lewis gave me the sensation of wading into the depths of troubled waters, then swimming only to find the choppy waves crashing about me. Often it was necessary to come up gasping for air. This work of fiction is based on extensive research into the real lives of Joy Davidman and C. S. Lewis, and those closest to them. Knowing this, made the arising emotions more real, more pertinent. Davidman's struggles to set aside the masks she wore, to understand the God she longed to grow closer too and to know herself as loved, were blessed by moments of epiphany, and lessons learned through pain. Lewis' oeuvre speaks to his Christian journey, many quotes from which are included in this book as he and Joy wrestle with understanding their pasts, and their relationship with God and one another.

The back matter included by Callahan is helpful in processing and discussing Becoming Mrs. Lewis. Thoughtful discussion questions, while beneficial for a book club, are great for personal reflection. A gem is found in Callahan's imagined second letter from Joy to Jack following those questions gives the reader the gift of extending the story. A timeline is included for all of us left-brained readers, and “Ten Things You Probably Didn't Know About Joy Davidman and C. S. Lewis's Love Story” and more information on Oxford hold special nuggets of information as well. Finally the author invites readers to a seven-part podcast that explores in greater depth this beautiful love story.

I am so very grateful to Thomas Nelson for providing me with a copy of Becoming Mrs. Lewis, via NetGalley. All opinions stated here are my own, and I was under no obligation to provide a positive review.

[debs4jc · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A fictionalized account of the life of Joy Davidman - the woman who eventually became the wife of C.S. Lewis. She was a writer and a poet, a mother, and when we first meet her she is the wife of an abusive, alcoholic husband. Joy begins her spiritual journey when she reaches out to God during a desperate moment when she is left alone by her husband, afraid that he might never come back. She begins to write to Lewis to see if he will answer some of her questions. At first she includes her husband but he becomes disinterested so she begins to write on her own, sharing some really deep matters of the soul with the famous author. Through many twists and turns in her personal life she eventually meets up with Lewis on a trip to England and then of course the book delves into how they eventually become more than friends - which was quite a long and tortuous process.
I enjoyed this look at Joy's life, especially seeing Oxford through her eyes and getting a glimpse into the personal side of her and C.S. "Jack" Lewis. Some parts of the book went "over my head" as these were very intellectual writers who would spend hours discussing literature and philosophy and poetry and mythology. Much of their lives centered around this "work" which was not something that translated into action on a page. But I'm sure it was true to life! My favorite scenes were seeing how Joy's boys reacted to the fairy tale like atmosphere of Oxford and the Kilns - I won't soon forget that. As for Jack's friend Tolkien - he comes off as rather gruff! But again, the author has done an excellent job with her research but also in capturing some of the humanity of these historical figures. Definitely one to pick up if you are a fan of C.S. Lewis, the literary scene of the 1940's, Oxford, or deep character studies into someone's spiritual and personal journey.

[janismack · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Sweet love story between an American author and C.S. Lewis. Poor Joy had such a rough life, married to a cheating alcoholic and then falling in love with a man that was terrified to commit. I don’t want to spoil the end but I’m happy the poor woman had some happiness before her death.

[lamb521 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Title: Becoming Mrs. Lewis
Author: Patti Callahan
Pages: 416
Year: 2018
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
My rating: 4 out of 5 stars.
I am always looking for a good book to read. Are you? Do you choose it by the cover, who endorses it, the synopsis on a website or are there other criteria you utilize? For me, when choosing a book, I use the previous list and sometimes authors whose other works I have previously enjoyed. Here though is a new author to me, and frankly so is the subject of the historical work of fiction, Joy Davidman. C. S. Lewis’ works I have read but I was totally caught off guard to learn that Mrs. Lewis also wrote prolifically.
While the author concedes that much in the story is from her imagination, she does interject words that were written by Joy for example in her correspondence with C.S. Lewis. The bibliography in the very back of the book has a treasure trove of sources to learn more about Joy Davidman, her faith and her writings. Someday I may just pick up some of them to learn more about the woman behind a well-known man.
The writing pulls readers in and not just mentally but by the heart too! There were times in the story my heart felt heavy just thinking about what Joy might have experienced or felt in different seasons of her life. It is clear from the onset that her father demanded much from her and her mother was elusive, or is that fiction too? You the reader will have to decide.
There were different times I had to put the book down because the scene was somewhat depressing. There were other times I wondered if Joy may have done what action was described in the narrative for real. In either case, the author spurred my desire to want to know who the real Joy Davidman was before she met C. S. Lewis, their relationship and their marriage until her death. Even if it is a work of fiction, I am glad to be spurred on to learn more about this woman from the past, her life, her love and her faith.
Note: The opinions shared in this review are solely my responsibility.

[oddandbookish · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I received this book for free as part of an Instagram tour (Just Read Tours specifically) I did to promote the book.

I was interested in reading this book because I am a fan of C.S. Lewis. I hadn’t heard of Joy Davidman before, so I was curious to learn more about her. Please note that although this book is based on real people and real events, it is still a work of historical fiction.

This book was incredible. It beautifully depicted the relationship between Lewis and Davidman. Their romance was unconventional but epic. The love they had for one another is truly remarkable. I loved how they influenced each other’s work and treated each other as equals.

Joy was such a strong woman. I enjoyed learning her backstory and seeing how she had the courage to not only leave her alcoholic and cheating husband, but also to start a new life with her children in another country.

I loved the epilogue. It really gave Joy a voice. She comes from a time where people often silenced her voice and contributions. I liked that the author let Joy have the final word.

Since this is a book about C.S. Lewis, is also discusses the Christian faith but it doesn’t go overboard with it. If you’re worried that it might be too religious, don’t be. The heart of the book is really their love story.

Lastly, the endpapers of the book feature a map of Oxford which I found to be a really nice touch, since the Narnia books are known to have maps.

Overall, this is an amazing read! If you are fan of C.S. Lewis or love books about incredible women, then pick this one up!

[nicx27 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I knew a little about C.S. Lewis and Joy Davidman/Gresham from a film I watched years ago, Shadowlands. So I was already interested in the story of the two writers and how they came to be married. But Becoming Mrs Lewis goes way beyond that with what I suspect must be a huge amount of research on the part of Patti Callahan.

I don't want to go too far into the facts but Joy Gresham was an American, married with two young sons in 1950, when she entered into a correspondence with C.S. Lewis, the already very well known author, scholar and theologian. In doing so she embarked upon a course of action that would change her whole life. In the exchange of letters she discovered a man who would make her feel a way that her alcoholic, cruel husband could never do.

Joy's ill health leads her to take time away from her home life and America and to travel to England where she meets Jack, as Lewis prefers to be known, and his brother, Warnie. Jack is her intellectual equal and their time together makes her incredibly happy, but Jack is holding back all the time, unwilling to take their friendship any further. A period back in America and then a return to England follows. The title, and history, tells us that Joy became Mrs Lewis but I'm not going to say any more about the plot. If you don't already know what happens then it's best you find out when you read the book.

Becoming Mrs Lewis is a beautifully written book. I so enjoy books that fictionalise fact in this way although it does seem so much harder to write a review. For instance, I can't say really comment on the plot or the characters as they were not of the author's imagination, but were real people and known facts. However, what I can say is that Callahan brings them to life so well, making the reader feel like an onlooker in the 1950s, not a reader in the 2010s.

I would be lying if I said I didn't struggle at times with the writing style. But this is by no means a reflection or criticism of the author or her writing. We enter a very scholarly, literary world as soon as the book is opened and some of it was over my head. I don't tend to spend time philosophising, I'm no writer and I'm no scholar. This is also a book set in the early 50s, partly at Oxford, and I have to say that the author portrays that era and that world effortlessly. I thought it read very much like a book written during that time, rather than a book written in the modern day but set then.

What I'm trying to say is that whilst I found some elements difficult to read, the greater part enthralled me. This is Joy's story, narrated by her, and I found it compelling. She took a massive leap, leaving her husband and kids behind and coming to England, even if only for a few months initially. In the 1950s that was probably quite shocking. But thank goodness she did as it led to her Becoming Mrs Lewis.

Even though I knew what was to going to happen to bring the book to a close, I still found a tear escaping my eye. This is an epic love story in many ways, about a woman who was let down by her first husband and by the medical profession, but who eventually found true love and a greater peace. It's a story of perseverance in more ways than one, of hope, of friendship, trust and ultimately, love.

If you're a historical fiction fan, or someone who loves a bit of faction, then this is an ideal read for you. Patti Callahan has done a great job.

[maydacat_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

How can a divorced American woman writer, with a Jewish ancestry, formerly an atheist, and an ex-communist develop a lasting, loving relationship with an devout English don and religious author? Just read this book and you will see how this unlikely pair became enamored with each other. Joy Davidman and C. S. Lewis first were pen pals, pouring out their thoughts and hopes and beliefs in letters. Later, as Joy’s marriage fell apart, she fled the unhappy and even dangerous scene to be closer to the man she’d come to know and respect. They were indeed kindred spirits, but had much to overcome, including their past lives, he a lifelong bachelor, and she a divorcée, as well as the dictates of the church. Though a work of fiction, author Patti Callahan has done much research into their lives, and the characters do come alive on the page. Their struggles are evident but so is the joy they experienced with each other, and if their happy ending was cut short, it did not lessen their devotion to each other, even after death. And death did not still their love.

[geraniumcat · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I saw this title on NetGalley and was interested as I'm one of the many who grew up on the Narnia books, progressed to C.S. Lewis's adult books and later enjoyed the film Shadowlands, about his marriage to the poet and author Joyce Davidman.

What I hadn't realised when I requested the book was that this is a fictionalised version of that story, though it makes much use of letters between the two from their first correspondence - Davidman wrote to Lewis because his description of his religious conversion struck an immediate chord with her. He replied, and a lengthy and intimate exchange grew up between them. In many ways, fictionalisation is a good choice for biography - it serves to remind us that any account of another's life is necessarily a fiction, even when we have their writing to base it on (come to that, it's the case even when they've written it themselves). Initially though, it gave me some problems, because I found it rather overwritten - later, I told myself that Davidman (events are told in the first person, from her point of view) was, as a poet, given to wielding words dramatically, so a degree of self-dramatisation was appropriate.

I think the book's author, Patti Callahan, admired both Davidman and Lewis fairly uncritically, so I found myself reading between the lines quite a bit. Not with the sort of vilification that met Davidman when she had the "effrontery", as many saw it, to marry Lewis - they seem to me to have been a very successful couple, despite his qualms about her divorced state, their relationship being a genuine marriage of two minds - but I found Callahan's version of Joy quite hard to like, and I think that might well hold true for the real person. But then, I find Lewis quite hard to like too, if I'm honest - though the Inklings fascinate me and I find them eminently readable, I don't think I would actually like any of them.

I suppose my biggest problem was with the account of Davidman's first marriage, to fellow author William Gresham. He certainly comes across as a pretty loathsome person, but I suspect that during the time they spent together they would both have seemed, to me at least, self-centred and histrionic, probably bringing out the worst in each other. After her conversion to Christianity (she was Jewish, non-practising, and had flirted with communism – a much greater sin in the US than here in the UK), Davidman left her husband and two some for an extended research and writing trip to to the UK, during which she planned to meet Lewis in person. I can understand that she felt her writing was suffering at home, and that she needed to write to earn, but still found it hard to reconcile the length of time she was away from her children, particularly since there were already signs – according to Callahan’s account, at least – that at least one of the children feared their father, who had an explosive temper and was possibly a suicide risk.

Readers who share the Lewises' religion will almost certainly enjoy this retelling of their relationship, while those who, like me, are interested in the Inklings will find much of interest, albeit secondhand. I imagine for many it will provide an impetus to go back to Lewis's own non-fiction and some may be inspired to further explore Davidman's poetry, which is oft-quoted, which didn't appeal to me. I did, however, find a previously unread author amongst Davidman's Oxford friends (unfortunately, long out-of-print and therefore almost unobtainable). I found myself sympathising again with C.S. Lewis's brother Warnie who, although much troubled, seems to have been a gentle individual, and enjoyed an American's impressions of the shabby shambles in which the Lewis brothers lived in peculiarly English fashion. At one point I had wondered whether to give up on the book altogether. I’m glad that I didn’t, because I did end up enjoying this rather poignant story. Thanks go to NetGalley for providing me with a review copy.