Discovering the Grand Design

Contributed by Caleb A. Chung

In her memoir Out of Africa, the Danish author Karen Blixen relates a story from her childhood, which begins with a man waking up one night to a loud noise.¹ Searching outside for the source, he wanders back and forth, stumbling frequently in the dark, before finally discovering that his lake’s dam is leaking. The man fixes the leak and returns to bed. In the morning, he looks out the window. He is surprised to discover that his wandering footprints from the previous night trace the shape of a stork on the ground. 

The man, while tripping over rocks and falling into ditches at night, could not have envisioned the image his journey was producing. Yet he remained fixed on his purpose—Blixen describes this as the man keeping his faith—and only after repairing the source of the terrible sound did he find a greater design. Blixen naturally wonders if her travels might, in their own way, also trace a stork. She then relates this story to the narrative of history, referencing part of the Apostles’ Creed: that Christ was crucified, died, and was buried, that He descended into Hell, that He rose on the third day and ascended into heaven, and from thence shall come again. God’s plan for redemption unfolded in a disorienting manner, particularly for those living in the midst of it, but the bewilderment gave way to beauty.  

This story of the stork is well-known because it captures the seemingly random nature of life. It also provides comfort: the inevitable trials that accompany joy are important because only a dynamic life can draw a stork. Such was true even for Christ. While we often feel like the man at night, Blixen encourages us to take faith, fix our hearts on the end, and trust that a greater design will someday be evident. As the Creed illustrates, God’s path for us is rarely straight. 

What I like most about the story, however, is Blixen’s reflection on who will interpret the shape of her own life. She writes, “[w]hen the design of my life is completed, shall I, shall other people see a stork?” Blixen begins speculating when she will personally see the design, but she then quickly corrects herself, asking when others will. It is the realization that the stork, even if traced by our footprints, might not be for us to see. Unlike the man in the story, we rarely have the convenience of seeing the larger purpose of our lives all at once. Nor will we, like the early disciples, necessarily witness crucifixion and resurrection within a few days. Instead, the meaning of our lives unfurls over the course of a lifetime. We are more like the prophets, who built toward the Death and Resurrection but finished their lives before God finished His work. Our storks are found in the legacy that we leave for others. 

Blixen wondered if others would see the completed design of her life. This wondering was all she could do. Here is the true meaning of faith—that we trust there will be a stork in the morning, even as we know that the morning might not be ours. We draw confidence from the storks drawn by the people who wandered before us; we press on, hoping that our footsteps might too be beautiful. 

In truth, the end we press on toward need not be perfect. The man created a bird because he was annoyed by a sound. So long as there is some end for us to remain fixed on, we will have reason to resist surrendering to the darkness. Worldly work, the labor before us, compels us along the path, but it will not define the path. The path shall define itself. This, too, is a matter of faith.

Out of Africa became a movie in 1985, two decades after Blixen’s death. Not only did her memoir soar in popularity, but the film went on to win seven Academy Awards. I wonder what Blixen might think if she could peer out the window and see the stork she created. Some might say this life is the night, and morning arrives in the next. Perhaps she is indeed looking out the window now, seeing the stork she left for others. 

But I think it does not matter. Her wish came true regardless: we read about her life and call it art. 

DIETRICH BONHOEFFER

A version of this article originally appeared in Terra Firma, the May 2024 print issue of the Salient.

1.  Karen Blixen, Out of Africa, Putnam, 1937.