Hello From Oxford


[Editor’s Note: Lanier Ivester wasn’t able to make it to Hutchmoot this year, but while we were convening in Nashville, she stopped by the original Eagle and Child Pub in Oxford, England where she sat down in the Inklings’ Rabbit Room and wrote this post. We read it aloud during “The Telling of Tales” at Hutchmoot.]

Oxford is a golden city. The yellow Cotswold limestone from which it was raised seems to have drawn into itself the warmth and light of all the sunny days it has ever known, so that even in the rain it glows like a watercolor of Turner’s. But in the last rays of a vanishing day it awakens to a radiance so aureate it will literally take the breath away, if not the heart along with it, while a crystalline fire kindles in every leaded pane and the cobbled streets, emptied of tourists for the day, grow quiet and begin to remember their past. Poets and martyrs, theologians, painters, and storytellers have all haunted these edifices for centuries, and the time-blackened passages between them are crowded with invisible shrines and unofficial monuments to greatness.

The first time I came here I was twenty-three years old and star-struck with literary hero worship. I wanted to see where a tongue-tied Charles Dodgson spun tales of Wonderland to a little girl named Alice, and I longed for a glimpse of the brown River Isis where Kenneth Graham had spent his school days messing about in boats. I gaped, agog, at Matthew Arnold’s “dreaming spires” from the top of St. Mary the Virgin and I knelt upon timeworn benches for evensong in the chapel of Tolkien’s Exeter. I even snuck into a lecture at All Soul’s—but that’s another story, and college porters tell no tales.

More than anything, though, I wanted to find C.S. Lewis. I wanted to walk the cloisters of Magdalen where he must have sauntered thousands of times, his hands tucked contemplatively behind his billowing black robe or gesticulating in lively debate with another don. I wanted to see his favorite path along the Cher, bordering the deer park, where he loved to stroll and think his long, lovely thoughts. Most of all, I wanted to visit The Eagle and Child, the pub on St. Giles enshrined in the hearts of all Lewisites and Tolkies as the meeting place of the Inklings.

“They called it The Bird and Baby,” my friend told me, who was a student at Oxford and self-appointed tour guide for the week. “And they met here every Tuesday night during term.”

He pointed out The Room as we came in, flattening ourselves against the ancient oak paneling to make way for other patrons going out. I didn’t know then that it was the Rabbit Room, or what that would mean to me in future days. And it was so crowded with locals vying for a spot near the little hearth on that January night, that I barely caught more than a glimpse of the brass plaque on the wall proclaiming its illustrious heritage. But it was enough. I was there, where titans had been. Surely their influence lingered, a bequest to the unlost wanderers who came here seeking they hardly knew what. Heavens! There might even be a portal to a place we had never been but were all homesick for.

We five ambled to a table near the middle of the pub, where we promptly instated ourselves, intent on soaking up the atmosphere with a thoroughness that would have satisfied Miss Eleanor Lavish’s most exacting standards for immersion. One of the guys whipped out a pack of cards and a game of Hearts commenced which lasted so long a bartender eventually came over to our table and asked us to leave. Evidently our one round of Coke was not sufficient inducement to prefer our patronage to that of the thronging customers who were standing about, drinks in hand. So, I guess I can say, among other peculiarities of my life, I have been thrown out of The Eagle and Child. But not before another long look at the Rabbit Room, and a certain photograph in particular hanging over the hearth of a portly gentleman with a penetrating gaze.

What was it about Lewis that prompted such a pilgrimage? I had been pursuing beloved authors all over Great Britain in the weeks previous, from Wordsworth’s Windermere to Bronte’s moors. I had traveled by ferry to the tiny island of Iona in the Scottish Hebrides to trace the miraculous spread of my faith, and I’d had an opportunity to worship at the lively and dynamic Holy Trinity in London. But—I was almost ashamed to admit it—nothing had moved me to quite such an intensity as this crowded pub on a winter’s night. The magic was so palpable I could almost touch it. Lewis’s writings had both validated my longings and touched a blaze to them. Where well-meaning others had offered me my faith as a morality play, he had given me a fairy tale. And I had seen, with that unmistakable stab of confronted reality, that I was in it. Perils and imponderables and impossible joys: these were my lot as a child of God, and Lewis had shone an ancient lamp upon my birthright. I wanted to verbalize my gratitude, here of all places, but the words at my command were inadequate. Fortunately for me, I was in company with those who understood. We had smiled, and clinked our Cokes. And known.

Ten years later, it happened again. Only I was at home in the States, staring at a computer screen, alone at my own desk. And yet, not alone, as the vigorous virtual community I had just stumbled upon was so insistent to avow. Not alone. Was that not, perhaps, Lewis’ greatest gift: the assurance that God had entrusted the same visions to other souls; that this was no solitary pilgrimage through enemy territory, but an intentional campaign of an organized host? It was as if for years I had been huddling over my own little blaze of artistic hope, endeavoring to keep it alight, only to look up and realize that the hillsides all around me were dotted with bonfires and beacons. A cloud of flaming witnesses. A fellowship.

What I had stumbled upon, of course, was a gathering of God’s artists who were compassionate enough to allow their hearts to be broken over this world’s sorrow and brave enough to believe in beauty, truth and goodness in the face of it all. They, like Lewis himself, were saying things I had always known but hadn’t known I’d known. In short, They were telling the Truth, and they were telling it in a way that was alive. These people not only believed in fairyland–they knew it was Home.

Last summer this community took on flesh. I still remember how nervous I was, walking into the Church of the Redeemer, clutching Philip’s hand and feeling like something stupid was just on the tip of my tongue. It was, of course. I immediately mistook Pete for Andrew and called Evie “Ee-vee.” But it wasn’t five minutes into that invocation of Andrew’s that my mind was drawn blessedly away from myself and my silly inadequacies and swept up into the remarkable story that was telling itself all around me. And just as in the very best stories, I was an indispensable part of it, ludicrous as it might seem at first glance. An unlikely heroine, in a room full of people who felt exactly as I did.

The friendships inaugurated that weekend had an air of Kingdom freshness about them and a sympathy as of long years’ duration. This was the real Rabbit Room, embodied in a living conviction that there was a meaning in joy, even at its most inexpressible and fleeting and a reason for hope, even when the world seemed crumbling to tragedy all around us. And that any effort to contribute to the great undergirding conspiracy of goodness by creative human effort had its resounding affirmation in the heavenlies.

I had a striking realization in the middle of Jennifer and Pete’s wedding not a month before, so thunderingly obvious it nearly bowled me over right there in the pew. It was during Russ’s reading of the Gospel, the centerpiece of an Anglican service, and as the holy words filled the room a holy awareness settled itself in my heart. This was it: The Gospel was what it’s all about. It was the hilarity behind all these kindred connections in the Rabbit Room; the essence of all the “what, you, too?” moments at Hutchmoot last year. It was the author and end of all these artistic ambitions and it was the immaculate original of the deathless vows that were being taken before our eyes that August afternoon. In the way that only the most stupendous things can do, the truth overwhelmed me with its titanic presence, like the giant sustaining Jennifer’s Mount Majestic.

We Rabbit Roomers are not just lovers of Lewis and Tolkien; we love who they loved. We’re not out to solve the mysteries of the universe, but to celebrate them. Philip and I are here in Oxford, but our hearts will be in Nashville this weekend, with a curious and courageous band of artistic adventurers, gathered not merely to share their stories, but to tell each other the Gospel in a thousand unique ways.

The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and give you peace.

Lanier Ivester is a “Southern Lady” in the best and most classical sense and a gifted writer in the most articulate and literal sense. She hand-binds books and lives on a farm with peacocks, bees, sheep, and the governor of Ohio’s leg. She loves old books and sells them from her website, LaniersBooks.com, and she’s currently putting the final touches on her first novel, as well as studying literature at Oxford.


  1. Linda

    Your first paragraph left my heart aching. My husband Jon, son Nathaniel, and I spent half of this year in Oxford as visiting students and Jon is applying to go back next fall. You’re right, there is a magic there that lingers in the pubs and back corners and the halls of stone and wood. Thank you for making it fresh in my mind again! Hope you had a great trip!

  2. Loren

    Sweet and beautiful. Thank you, Lanier. I’m feeling homesick for a place I’ve never been–I think it’s one of those flashes of joy that Lewis speaks of so often.

    …And I totally expected a British accent when you started talking in the video 🙂 . You fit right with the scene!

  3. Laura Peterson

    So, so, SO great, Lanier. I think the town of Oxford should hire you for advertising! That first paragraph made me want to visit there as soon as possible.

    Hillsides dotted with bonfires and beacons – what a picture of fellowship. Wow. I think I know what you mean, and I think you know that I know. 🙂 Dear Rabbit Room – you’re pretty wonderful.

  4. Chris C

    Lanier – thank you for describing your visit to the Rabbit Room in Oxford so we all can visit it vicariously.

    And this sums it up for me, “[w]e Rabbit Roomers are not just lovers of Lewis and Tolkien; we love who they loved. We’re not out to solve the mysteries of the universe, but to celebrate them”. Very nicely put!

  5. S. D. Smith


    Lanier, you have such a gift for words and meaning. At Hutchmoot, this was SUCH an event when Andrew read it to us after we watched the video. You were with us.

    The world will be nourished the more words you cook up and serve in your lifetime.

  6. Donna S

    I’ve had a parched day. How lovely to come to the RR tonight and get not only refreshed, but invigorated. Thank you.

  7. Marsha Panola

    Lanier, you’ve touched on something that’s very close to my heart concerning the Rabbit Room and one reason I keep coming back over and over. There’s a feeling here that just makes me long for that wedding supper of the Lamb we’re looking forward to, and although nobody here knows me, really, I have a sense of belonging, as if I’m sitting among friends and family around a cozy table. There are hearts here that understand.

    And the fairy tale that often comes to mind when I think of this place is “the Ugly Duckling”. I had to go re-read it just now, because I wanted to hear God speak through that little story. Listen:

    One evening–the sun was just setting in his beauty–there
    came a whole flock of great handsome birds out of the bushes;
    they were dazzling white, with long flexible necks; they were
    swans. They uttered a very peculiar cry, spread forth their
    glorious great wings, and flew away from that cold region to
    warmer lands, to fair open lakes. They mounted so high, so
    high! and the ugly little Duckling felt quite strangely as it
    watched them. It turned round and round in the water like a
    wheel, stretched out its neck toward them, and uttered such a
    strange loud cry as frightened itself. Oh! it could not forget
    those beautiful, happy birds; and so soon as it could see them
    no longer, it dived down to the very bottom, and when it came
    up again, it was quite beside itself. It knew not the name of
    those birds, and knew not whither they were flying; but it
    loved them more than it had ever loved anyone.

    I think that pretty well captures the joy of finding beauty in someone else, and also that ache that comes with it. And the ache is the desire both to bless in return and to join in. The Rabbit Room is an invitation to fellowship with the swans, and an amazing discovery that in Christ, we are the swans. And if we belong to Him, we belong to each other.

    The people of our world really need that invitation to come into God’s family and feast at His table! They need to know what beautiful creatures God made them to be and how welcome they are to join in.

  8. Jonathan Rogers


    Wait…it’s not Ee-vee?

    Lanier, I have considered sitting down and trying to hammer out what the Rabbit Room and Hutchmoot have meant to me, but you just did. I guess that frees up some time to watch more TV.

    I appreciate your using the word “hilarity.” There’s a lot in that word; once you start unpacking it it springs out like a snake-in-a-can from Spencer’s. It brings the idea of eternal joy down to the level of everyday experience. To laugh at jokes we’ve heard a hundred times–that may not be a bad working definition of joy.

    Marsha, thanks for mentioning “The Ugly Duckling.” What a great picture of the gospel. I love that idea of longing to be what we turn out to have been already. There’s divine comedy for you. Hilarity, you might say.

  9. Jess

    Well, I’m rather speechless. Let’s just say this left my heart throbbing and yearning for Home… where we’ll all finally get together and sing for joy. That’s what the whole Rabbit Room does; it pours just enough beauty into my soul to make me happy to be alive, and withholds just enough to make me ache with anticipation for what is to come. Hallelujah. 🙂

  10. Lanier

    Linda, I am so jealous. 🙂 I hope y’all get to go back.

    Loren, thanks—I don’t think I even have a Southern accent on video. 😉

    Laura, yes, I know. 🙂 I love the understanding in this place.

    Chris and Hannah Joy, so glad you liked it. And Jess, yes, you nailed it.

    S.D., you always give me courage, friend. Thank you.

    And Marsha—yes, yes and YES. It is always humbling (in a beautiful way) when someone says in a comment what I’ve been reaching for in paragraphs. I have always (usually subconsciously, I think) internally identified with the story of the Ugly Duckling. Thank you for shedding such grace-light on it.

    Jonathan, glad to hear I’ve cleared up some quality time for you. And that is the best definition of joy I have ever heard.

  11. Lanier

    And Donna, thank you. I have always seen this place like an oasis in a the desert, giving out ‘good news from a far country’ like cups of cold water. I’m honored to know your soul was refreshed…

  12. Marsha Panola

    Lanier, thank you for your kind words, and for understanding. And thanks again for the lovely post.

    Jonathan, thank you for your understanding, too. Joy to y’all!

  13. Jen

    Lanier, this is wonderful, and it was such a sweet moment when Andrew read it at Hutchmoot. I wish you could’ve been there with us, but Oxford and the original Rabbit Room? Yeah, that’s not a bad trade. 😉

  14. Melissa

    A thousand feasts to dine up on this week thanks to this breathtaking post and the kindred comments that followed.

    Thanks, from an RR lurker who feels, acutely, the painfully sweet happiness of spying a Company of Swans.

  15. Marissa

    Lanier, your words are wonderful. It’s like Oswald Chambers says:
    “The author who benefits you most is not the one who tells you something you did not know before, but the one who gives expression to the truth that has been dumbly struggling in you for utterance.”
    I’ve only been coming to the Rabbit Room for a short time, but you’ve put into words the beautiful ache of longing for home and what it is to see people reflecting the creative nature of God as love. That is what I see here and desperately want to share in.
    From another lurker: I second Melissa’s comment.
    Thank you.

  16. betsy

    I live in Oxford. Sometimes just typing those words it seems like I must be dreaming it, but I’m not. I do. You have here expressed something about this timeless worn-soft cathedral of minds that I have struggled to grasp for a year and half. Thank you.

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