The Theodicy of Encounter

tales from the English countryside

I first wrote a much shorter version of what you’re about to read as an instagram caption while living in Cambridge. It’s been a year since we left the life we loved so much in England, and in honor of that I’ve edited and expanded that story to share one of my happiest memories with you all.

“But Grantchester! ah, Grantchester! There’s peace and holy quiet there, Great clouds along pacific skies…” [Rupert Brooke]

Armed with wooden swords, Wellies, and a picnic blanket, my boys and I walk down our short gravel lane (which crunches satisfyingly underfoot) and head south. We march first through houses tall and imposing, hidden behind large hedges pruned assiduously by their owners; then, on to streets with much smaller row-houses sitting so close to the sidewalk we can almost touch them. As much as I love catching sight of the grand homes standing proudly behind gates and greenery, it is their more approachable neighbors with wild vines and colorful doors that are my favorite.

Many homes do not have window coverings, and as we walk by, inches from living rooms or kitchens, I catch a glimpse of the life lived there. Blankets tumbling off a couch, books stacked on a shelf, shoes discarded next to a comfortable chair, flowers on a mantel—together forming a still life framed by the window.

Eventually the houses and pavement peter out—much to the delight of little boys in Wellies, eager for the potholed roads to splash in—into the soothing green of the English countryside.

One of my favorite things about this large island is how the cities and villages give way to soft pastures dotted with cows or sheep and lined with brambly hedges. One hundred and forty thousand miles of footpaths crisscross the country, and are considered as much a part of their rich history as the castles and estates you’ll find folded into the hills. Anyone is free to make use of them, walking through gates designed to keep livestock in but let people through, or climbing over step stiles in the manner of Elizabeth Bennet on her way to Netherfield Park. Coming from cowboy country where people love to hang signs that say something cute like, “Trespassers will be shot, survivors will be shot again,” the freedom to roam is a liberty unlike anything I’ve experienced.

By the time we reach the wide open space my boys are off in all directions, stomping through the small stream that diverts from the River Cam or attempting to climb the weeping willows that line the river’s edge. People out for a walk, their dogs loping ahead, give me a curt but friendly nod and a “Hiya” as we pass. Occasionally I see a lost mitten or scarf, thoughtfully hooked by a stranger on the barb of a prickly hedge. Spared from being flattened in the mud, the article has a chance at being noticed the next time its owner walks through.

The Grantchester Meadows walk is unassuming but ancient like so much of England. I casually walk the same meadows that Tennyson and Keets are said to have loved some two hundred years ago. We go as often as I can manage, and in our six months here, I’ve seen the landscape in many different moods. Our first visit was just before the chill of Autumn rolled in. The sun was shining through a thick mist that rose off the ground, giving the impression that Darcy might walk over the next rise at any moment. I’ve seen it white with delicate frost, as well as damp and grey, boots suctioning with every weighted step through the mud. Each mood beautiful in its own way.

L. M. Montgomery, author of Anne of Green Gables, also loved walking through the beautiful countryside on her small island, PEI. She wrote of a certain “flash,” a glimpse of glory, during her solitary walks:

“It has always seemed to me… amid all the commonplaces of life, I was very near to a kingdom of ideal beauty. Between it and me hung only a thin veil. I could never draw it quite aside, but sometimes a wind fluttered it and I caught a glimpse of the enchanting realms beyond—only a glimpse—but those glimpses have always made life worthwhile.”

Others of my favorite authors have described this separation between us and the “kingdom of ideal beauty.” Chesterton called it seeing “everything from behind.” Ramsey writes that “Beauty is a relic of Eden—a remnant of what is good…. It trickles into our lives as water from a crack in a dam, and what lies on the other side of that dam fills us with wonder and fear.” Scripture tells us we are looking through a dark glass (1 Cor 13:12) and creation eagerly awaits the revealing of glory (Rom 8:18–21).

Standing amidst the overwhelming beauty of the English countryside I experience what Sarah Clarkson calls “the theodicy of encounter.” She writes, “The beauty we find in the swaying fall of crimson autumn leaves, in the taut notes of a Bach cello suite… these allow us to taste and see goodness, alive and abroad in our broken world.”

These flashes of delight are preparing me for the full radiance of my Savior’s presence. I look forward to the day I come face to face with Glory. But until then, He’s given me places like Grantchester Meadows.

—“Oh what a foretaste of Glory divine!”

If you ever have the chance to visit Cambridge I highly recommend grabbing a pain au chocolat and coffee from Maison Clement in the in the Newnham neighborhood, before heading out on a leisurely walk through Grantchester Meadows.

A few footnotes for reference or further reading:

“The Old Vicarage, Grantchester” by Rupert Brooke

L.M. Montgomery and what she called “The Flash”.

“The Man Who Was Thursday” by Chesteron

“Rembrandt is in the Wind” by Ramsey

“This Beautiful Truth” by Clarkson

Thank you for reading, I would love to hear what places and vistas have stirred up in you this same longing for unveiled glory—let’s discuss in the comments!

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