Wandering in a cathedral

       There is a peace in this cathedral that I have found nowhere else on earth. The cares and clamors of the world are muted by its stone walls, and glorious cascades of light fall through rows of arching windows. This is a trinity chapel, one that has three complete rows of windows running the length of the nave. I trace the play of light upon each arch, my eye rising ever upward to the full height of the cathedral. The very air is expectant, waiting for the time when a church will no longer be the only outposts of refuge and peace. For in this place, all is changed. The stranger on the train tells me of the times she comes to light a candle for her father, and to sit for a while in a peaceful place. Here stonecutters and artists labored for days over intricately carved statues, which would be placed high in the arches above. Such statues cannot by seen by visitors, but are for the eyes of God alone. Many of the stones bear the signature of an artist, a simple mark made on the top of each stone, invisible when the stone is put in its place. Upon this foundation this church was built. That God alone sees our hearts. That our striving must be to bring Him glory, not ourselves. That He deserves the best of our talent, our artistry, our worship.
       We are ushered into a small chapel set along the side of the nave, a small group of early morning worshippers. The ceiling in the chapel follows the arch of the nave in smaller form, and muted lights illuminate the dimensions of this chapel. We sit in rows of chairs, rereading the booklets handed out to remind ourselves of the order of the service. The priest leads us through the service, and we respond as the booklets prompt us. British and American accents mingle as we recite the Lord's Prayer, and the walls echo with our voices. I am a part of the innumerable Christians who have worshipped here since this church was built, and I hear the words of the Anglican service as if for the first time. I step forward to take communion, having confessed my sin, and asked for the strength to start anew.
       I leave the chapel silently, stealing a last glance at the rows of arches illuminated by the rising light of the day. There is much to ponder here, but for now I am strengthened, joyful, sent out to the challenges of this day. Outside, the morning clouds are lifting, and patches of blue sky are visible. A quick walk to the Underground station takes me by a stretch of the Thames glinting in the sunlight. Then a flight of steps down into the station, where a violinist in the winding corridor is playing Vivaldi, music which dances and sparkles like sunlight playing on the small waves on the Thames. The sonata follows me down the hall, and long after I lose sight of the musician I can hear the violin pouring forth its music. May the peace of this cathedral follow me all the paths of my day.

The Five Signs of Incurable Bookworms

1) Vocabulary. Much of your vocabulary was learned through vast amounts of reading, not in your middle school English class. While you can read and comprehend reading material at higher grade levels, you may have never actually spoken many of these words. This leads to hilarious and occasionally awkward social situations in which you discover that you have been mispronouncing this word in your head for most of your life. Any memories of these occasions can and will be used against you, especially by your siblings or roommates.

2) Conversational Skills. Your propensity for reading and acquiring knowledge has left you with a large database of interesting and lesser-known facts. The urge to shower this knowledge on those around you is usually kept in check, but occasionally you let drop an interesting factoid, reasoning that it is just too interesting not to share.

3) Slang. Your speech patterns reflect your reading interests more than current slang. You find yourself unintentionally using the vocabulary of your favorite fictional characters. Worse, occasionally you are unaware of doing this until a friend points it out. This conversation usually ends with a quiet recommendation to the closest Bookworms Anonymous group.

4) Speed Reading.  You have borrowed, read, and returned a book to a friend within 24 hours. You occasionally wait a few days before returning books in order to avoid explanations.

5) Reading Material. It is impossible to sit down to a meal without reading material. If you have finished your latest book and the newspaper, and your smartphone is dead, you will select the nearest cookbook to read. Given enough desperation, you might even be caught reading an owner's manual.

Talking to God

     I struggled this year over what to give up for Lent. After dismissing chocolate, mirrors, and books, I began to worry that the start of Lent would come and go without me making a decision. What if I couldn't find something? What if I only found something the week after Lent started? It was then that I realized I had a habit that would be more difficult to give up than books: worry. In the end, I decided to try giving up my habit of worrying about each and every detail of my life. And while I didn't succeed in avoiding worry for the entire six weeks, it did teach me some interesting lessons.
     It taught me to pray more. I'm not talking about the prayers before a meal, or at a stoplight, or at confession time in a church service. This is the constant state of prayer when you know that if you let down your guard for a minute, you will fall back into the trap you just left. The concept of relying on God is one that cannot be taught or explained. It must be experienced firsthand. Arcane descriptions pale when replaced by real life understanding.
     It showed me how to replace worry. A vacuum will always seek to be filled, and a plan for banishing worry must include a substitute. Determined thankfulness worked at times. Listing my blessings worked as well. Praying out loud helped a great deal. Did I always do this? I had my days. But the veil was lifting, and I began to see worry for what it was. Fear. Ingratitude. Myopism. And I began to let it go.
     It taught me to face the unknown. Facing my worry brought me to the larger question: What do I really fear? What is the great, underlying fear of any of us? The unknown. To take any step in life we have to face the fact that the possibilities of what can happen are endless, and at times terrifying. Most of the time, we forget this, until a death, a natural disaster, a horrible accident forces this truth back at us. Perhaps this is why one of God's greatest promises to us is not that He will shield us from any and all harm, but that He will be present in it. His name, after all, is I AM. The psalms teach us that we cannot go beyond the reach or understanding of God. Wherever we go, He is there and has been there before us. Whatever pain we encounter, He has experienced it and can empathize. We cannot know the future. But we know what it will be like. We know that God will be there, unchanging, eternal, omniscient. For now, that is enough.
     This Easter Sunday I will rejoice that my Saviour's sacrifice bought my forgiveness before God. I will be glad in the knowledge that I am set free. And I will stand in the house of the Lord, and savour my freedom to live free of fear.
   

Sleeping Babies

     I held my little niece this afternoon while she slept, relaxing against my arms and heaving the deep sigh of one who is utterly content. There is a magical quality about holding a sleeping baby; all cares and worries melt away, and peace steals into your soul. For an instant, one touches the stillness at the center,  the eye of the storm. All is calm. And yet, this center cannot hold. This fragile peace slips away the instant we reenter the world of job stress, and financial worries, and wonderings about tomorrow. Drawn into the maelstrom that is life, we forget that peace, until someday, the shadow of a memory is stirred.
     Many of the psalms written by David are psalms of ascents, psalms composed to be sung when the Israelites were assembling for worship. They prepare the reader to worship God, and provide guidance on what our heart attitude should be. In one of my favorite psalms of ascent, David notes that he has calmed his heart, like a small child. He is not trying to understand the deep magic, the mysteries that we may never fully know. He comes to God as a child comes to a parent whom it trusts. It's possible to take this analogy too far, but it has taught me that I must come to God trusting that He will direct, comfort, and supply me with all I need. I don't need to worry about the big issues. I don't need to completely understand God. I only need to know that He is good, and that I can relax in His arms. And here, sheltered from the storm, I am utterly content.

Happy New Year!!!