A Pint in Bloomsbury

It's hard to write about the last 3 days in London. They have been hectic, as expected, but quiet moments of prayer and overwhelming awe have forced their way into my non-stop schedule. The anxious shuffling of crowds on the street are silenced by the majesty of St. Paul's dome, or by the almost arrogant wisdom of Big Ben, or by the qued pointed roofs that make me wish I was a chimney sweep in Mary Poppins, or by the lit towers of Westminster Abbey. The history within the beautiful buildings and the stories within the pubs give me the sense that I'm part of something, part of the place that so many of my favorite authors have written about and lived in. I just had a pint in a favorite pub of Virginia Woolf's, walked the streets where Karl Marx thought, stepped over the graves of Charles Dickens and Samuel Johnson, and ran up and down the steps of where John Donne went to mass every Sunday.

I've toured museums, stared at the crown jewels, walked Soho at night, but one of the most incredible experiences was in a back, slightly hidden nave at Westminster Abbey. We walked in the huge, dark wooden doors just after Big Ben struck 8:00am. There was no one at all in the church, except for an old man with white hair in a large bright red robe. He signalled for us to follow him, and led us to the rear of the church and through a small side door. There we sat, only about ten of us, and took part in the liturgical communion of the Anglican church, led by the priest of Westminster. We rose, and sat, and rose, and sat, and said "and also with a you" for about fifteen minutes, but then we surrounded the alter in a half circle, prayed, and recieved the sacrament in one of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen. The ceremony was so deeply rooted in tradition, so respectful, so silent and cautious, that it felt like I was undergoing this sacred experience for the first time. The priest's eyes were so kind, but so fearful of the Lord. I felt a little ashamed for I feel like I have forgotten how powerful and holy our God is. But at Westminster, I was reminded.

Tomorrow morning we board the bus for Wales, to the middle of nowhere.

Please leave me a message whenever you get a chance, or email me: kramen1@spu.edu or nhkramer@hotmail.com. I'll write soon, from Wales.

Cheers.