Oxford Days

And so two weeks have quietly drifted by. As I sit here at Green Gables in the lovely little glass conservatory overlooking the garden, I cannot quite tell what this time in Oxford has meant. I could not ask for anything more pleasant: my morning walk to the Bodleian Library past houses and fields, over a small river and by the entrance gate to the college of Christ Church, then down beyond High Street to the narrow lane behind the covered market and through the cobbled square with the beautiful Radcliffe Camera (a lovely, round stone building) at the center and the soaring St. Mary's spire at the far end; reading in the Bodleian, with millions (no exaggeration!) of available books, many of which are ancient treasures--leather-bound, crinkling pages that I turn with ginger delight--not to mention the astounding Lord Humphrey's Reading Room, whose carved panels and ceiling, balconied book-shelves, and arching stained-glass windows make it hard for me to concentrate on my book; lunch on Broad Street, sitting along the stone wall opposite the Sheldonian Theatre designed by Christopher Wren for all the University's important ceremonies; wandering through Oxford's streets, peeking in college courtyards, discovering a hidden garden with dusky, climbing roses, walking round handsome monuments, giving directions to tourists in my British accent (well, I could, though so far most of the tourists who've asked me have been British, and I didn't want to seem to be insulting them, but I'm ready for the next American who asks!). And all that doesn't relate my punting and rowing expeditions, or seeing Julius Caesar performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company, or ever so many other pleasant experiences.

I am so thankful for this time! But I'm still not sure what to make of it. What is God teaching me? Am I absorbing and learning and growing as I should? What will I remember when I look back? What will I regret? Perhaps these are not all helpful questions; they are at least too difficult for me to answer at present. But more than anything, I have been struck in my time overseas by the necessity, the calling even, to live every moment fully, to run unfaltering in the path God has given, even when I'm not quite sure why He's given it. I must "press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus." (Phil. 3:?) And although I am tempted to think of how often I fail, I am reminded that failure is not really a consideration, "being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus" (Phil. 1:6). How faithful, loving, and kind is our God! Praise and thankfulness must be my response.

St. Peter's at Sunset

One of the many gorgeous pictures my brother took of our time in Rome. St. Peter's was awe-inspiring. Yet is was sad, too--but more on that later. Just had to share this!

Why a Rose?

Let me tell you the most incredible story I know. It begins with the Prophecy of a Rose:

For He shall grow up before Him as a tender plant,

And as a root out of dry ground.

He has no form or comeliness;

And when we see Him,
There is no beauty that we should desire Him.

He is despised and rejected by men,

A Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.

And we hid, as it were, our faces from Him;

He was despised, and we did not esteem Him.

Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows;

Yet we esteemed Him stricken,

Smitten by God and afflicted.

But He was wounded for our transgressions,

He was bruised for our iniquities;

The chastisement for our peace was upon Him,

And by His stripes we are healed.

All we like sheep have gone astray;

We have turned, every one, to his own way;

And the Lord has laid on Him the iniquity of us all.

Isaiah 53:2-6

I always wonder how we could despise something so beautiful as the Rose--Christ, the source of beauty and truth, the One who created all the world and pronounced it "very good." But the answer is obvious. It is because He laid aside His glory ("...made Himself of no reputation, taking the form of a bondservant and coming in the likeness of men" Phil. 2:7). We--I--did not reject Him because He looked like a man, but because He revealed what men are. He lived perfectly, as I cannot, and He suffered perfectly for my sins. He bore my thorns. And when they had nailed Him, head bent and bleeding, to a wooden cross, God crushed the Rose, His only Son. How strange that I should recognize the beauty of the rose because of its thorns--my thorns! But it is true: I love Him because He first loved me, and demonstrated it to me in this, that Christ died for my sins. And there is more. After He had taken my place, bearing my sin and shame, He gave me His place and His beauty: "I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys" (Song of Solomon 2:1). What a beautiful thing is the Church! And we have not yet seen her as she will be, for we have not yet seen Christ in His glory. When we do, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is. And we will know, really know, that secret Rose.