C.S. Lewis Conversion

As I was reviewing my notes in preparation for facilitating another table group study through Mere Christianity, I was reminded again of why C.S. Lewis and others (Chesterton, MacDonald, etc.) are so near to my heart:
 

"Remember, I had always wanted, about all things, not to be "interfered with."  I had wanted (mad wish) "to call my soul my own."  I had been far more anxious to avoid suffering than to achieve delight.  I had always aimed at limited liabilities.  The supernatural itself had been to me, first, an illicit dram, and then, as by a drunkard's reaction, nauseous.  Even my recent attempt to live my philosophy had secretly (I now knew) been hedged round by all sorts of reservations.  I had pretty well known that my ideal of virtue would never be allowed to lead me into anything intolerably painful; I would be "reasonable."  But now what had been an ideal became a command; and what might not be expected of one?  Doubtless, by definition, God was Reason itself.  But would he also be "reasonable" in that other, more comfortable, sense?  Not the slightest assurance on that score was offered to me.  Total surrender, the absolute leap in the dark, [was] demanded.  The reality with which no treaty can be made was upon me.  The demand was not even "All or nothing."  I think that stage had been passed, on the bus top when I unbuckled my armor and the snowman started to melt.  Now, the demand was simply "All."

"You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet.  That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me.  In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all of England.  I did not then see what is now the most shining and obvious thing; the Divine humility which will accept a convert even on such terms.  The Prodigal Son at least walked home on his own feet.  But who can duly adore that Love which will open the high gates to a prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance of escape?  The words compelle intrare, compel them to come in, have been so abused by wicked men that we shudder at them; but, properly understood, they plumb the depth of the Divine mercy.  The hardness of God is kinder than the softness of men, and His compulsion is our liberation." (Surprised by Joy, 220-221)

So much of this sticks out to me as I read this.  I think one of the things I most identify with is his statement: I had been far more anxious to avoid suffering than to achieve delight.  If there was a statement that would sum up my life, this is it!