For as long as I can remember, I have always dreamed of seeing England’s fair shores and everything in between. I don’t know why this should be; I think perhaps I assumed it was the one and only land of castles, princesses, dragons and princes (I especially liked the idea of princes). I was a teenager before I realized the images of famous Cinderella style castles I had seen all my life were found mostly in Germany and France. I felt a bit betrayed, yet it spurred me to learn all I could about the castles that actually do live in England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales.

By the time I was in high school, I was reading everything I could conveniently find (I was a teenager so there were one or two things that took precedence such as boys and er, boys) and soon I had become an anglophile, an addict of all things British and official King Arthur junkie. I paid strict attention in my high school Brit Lit class and thereby learned why Grendel attacked Beowulf, what was truly meant by the lyric, “Where Eagles Soar”, and all about the aspersions cast on the name of William Shakespeare. As the years went by, I soaked up everything I could about the British monarchy, the princes of Wales, the Irish chieftains and the Scottish kings. I learned a little about the wool trade, civil government in the Middle Ages, the importance of turning pigs out to graze in the forest and why the melancholy King Charles The First had to die.

Gradually, my drive to read all I could about everything that interested me became a means of escape from my challenging life. One particularly dismal year about ten years ago my view of the future was nothing but a deep, dark well, the present only slightly less dim. We lived far from home and family and my husband had been felled by a chronic illness. In spite of his best efforts he couldn’t support us and all of my energies were focused on trying to get help for him and my oldest who at age nine was suffering from a host of ills, including severe mental illness. I lived day-by-day, hour-by-hour, convinced that the remainder of my life would be spent in drudgery and that none of my dreams could possibly come true.

Around this time, my parents took up residence in England for eighteen months. It broke my heart to have them so far away but it absolutely pulverized it knowing they were in this place that meant so much to me, a place I knew I would never get to see. To my great joy, I was wrong. Through a series of little miracles and tender mercies, I had the chance to go to England and spend a week with my parents in their little house in Stoke, just me, myself and I.

The state of my life had been so grim for so long, I could hardly believe it! Finally I was to see England, the land of my ancestors, obsessions and dreams. Yet, as happy as I was at the prospect, I had no idea how much this week would mean to me, how it would address my sorrows and heal my heart. I had my first inkling when I looked out of the plane window through the clearing fog and saw the green rolling hills dotted with black and white sheep, a scene that had remained unchanged for a thousand years.

In that moment, I felt more gratitude than I knew existed in all the world. I knew that my long-lived desire to visit this “place” was small and inconsequential in the eternal scheme of things and utterly frivolous compared to the issues I was dealing with at home. But I also knew, quite suddenly and with all my soul, that my Heavenly Father knew how much this meant to me, that it was His gift to me, His way of validating me as a person and as His child of whom He was aware and whom He loved. I felt His presence near and my heart pounded so hard I thought it would break out of my chest.

This feeling was reinforced during a conversation I had with my dad the first hour of my stay in England. On the way home from the airport, we stopped at a beautiful old mansion house, the kind that people tour. Old architectural treasures have always had great value in my eyes so I was in high alt. My dad, a highly educated, wise and knowledgeable person, was telling me a little of this and that as we went through the house. One room had beautiful hand carved trim, very ornate and intricate, all around the fireplace and as accents throughout the room. My dad tried to tell me the name of the man who did the carving (over 300 years ago) but he couldn’t quite remember it.

“Oh! You mean Grinling Gibbons!” I cried, thrilled to know I was witnessing the work of this very famous artisan. I was shocked when I turned to my father and saw that his eyes were a bit moist. “Yes,” he said, his voice full of emotion, “Grinling Gibbons,” but it was if what he really said was, “I see you, Heidi”; just me, not my twin sister or any of my other five, not his daughter or his child, just me, Heidi, a unique creation like none other. It’s a moment I will cherish for the rest of my life, as I will the entire visit, one in which my father and I saw England through the same pair of seeking, thirsting, eager eyes. I was neither wife or mother, daughter or child but student and seeker on a full time quest. One thing I learned; England is indeed the land of the princess and for seven glorious days, I was she.