It had been some years since my husband and I had spent a winter in England, and it was turning out to be a very cold, windy, and damp one. We were in the habit of walking daily for exercise, but the prospect of walking in bone-chilling weather for weeks on end was not a pleasant one. Then one day, while strolling in the city, we came upon a way to escape the cold—a visit to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The more than 2,300 paintings that line the long corridors comprise the largest collection of western European art in the world and are open to the public.

Unbundling ourselves, we were glad to resume our stroll in the warmth of the gallery. We were soon captivated by the portraits and landscapes, flowers and flocks. Such a variety of subjects and styles! It was easy to see why these artists are known as the Great Masters. The vibrant golden sunflowers of Vincent Van Gogh, the portraits of Rembrandt that seemed alive enough to step off the canvas and join our stroll, the gentle landscapes of John Constable, the softly colored gardens of Monet, and so much more. We became witnesses to the endeavors of men who had at their disposal small quantities of paint, a few paintbrushes, and a lot of talent. It was breathtaking to view, and the small plaques that accompanied each work, describing the artist’s intent and technique, were fascinating to read.

Weeks passed and the weather gradually improved. The parks of London came back to life as crocuses peeked up timidly to greet the first sunshine in months. Soon daffodils trumpeted the arrival of spring in an array of yellows and golds. Trees and shrubs budded, and the grass reverted to a rich green. Even the smallest daisy, with its tiny golden heart and delicate white petals, had its particular beauty. Walks became increasingly pleasurable as the weeks progressed. As spring turned to summer, the parks were awash in color. Birds sang, butterflies fluttered through the flowers, ducklings paddled after their mothers, swans stretched their elegant necks. This too was art—a living art that varied from day to day, an art that went beyond the visual to envelop us in sounds and scents.

What intent and skill had created such beauty? I can’t believe that this all came about by chance. The masterpieces of the National Gallery were not produced by random splashes of paint on canvas; they were thoughtfully designed and skillfully executed. They were not the products of chance any more than the wondrous world around us was the result of random events. I agree with the Psalmist—“The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament shows His handiwork” (Psalm 19:1). God is the Greatest Master of them all!

Abi F. May is a member of the Family International in England.