I missed my train by two minutes, maybe less. The trains in Sheffield are even more punctual than the trains out of London, and I wasn’t quite punctual enough. A very kind rail worker informed me that the next Manchester/Piccadilly line stopping at Edale would not arrive at the station for two hours. It was time to wait. So, I found myself a bench next to platform C2 and opened my book.
Red Moon Rising. A wonderful book. When my friend, Molly McKinney, told me that I should read it, I wasted no time purchasing a copy. She’s that kind of friend ... the kind who should always be taken seriously because you’ll never regret it. I was half way through a chapter entitled “The Rain Maker.” Excellent chapter. The entire book is about the 24/7 Prayer movement through Europe, and the this particular chapter was focused around the stunning prayer movements that were changing lives on the party island of Ibiza. I read story after story of God’s intervention on behalf of the bohemian masses snorting cocaine, attending crazy raves, and hosting orgies on an island that is slowly dying under their weight. I was partially through a story about one of the team members - a young woman named Carla, who was walking the streets of the island praying for people to be healed and telling them about Christ. Before I could finish the chapter, I shut the book - disgusted. I threw it down on the seat beside me, and I began this dialogue with God:
Me: Why?
God: Why... what?
Me: Why aren’t I in love with you?
God: I don’t know ... I love you.
Me: Yeah, you ARE love, of course you love me. I mean, I know you’re good, I know that you created me, I know that you bless me ... But I’ve lost my passion. I know you’re worth loving, but I’m just not in love with you. Where did it go?
God: You’re asking me?
Me: Yeah, I am. God, I see you everywhere, I am constantly amazed by your beauty and your goodness... I know you’re good to me. But I have no passion for you. Why? I’m SO jealous of people like that Carla girl. Why does she get to be passionate and go tell people about you?
God: Because she goes and does it!
Me: That’s not fair! God, I don’t even know what I would say! I mean, how do I convince someone that you’re worth it? Or even that you’re real?
God: I love you.
Me: I know ... But why can’t I get excited about it?
God: Maybe you don’t understand it ...
Me: I definitely don’t understand it.
God: Well then accept it!
Me: I do! I just can’t get excited about it ...
God: No, I mean accept the fact that you’re no passionate about it right now.
Me: Can I do that? Is that allowed ...?
*silence*
Yesterday I was in Oxford. Beautiful. I was instantly in love with Oxford in the fall. After wandering through the colleges for a few hours, I meandered into the Oxford Press shop and searched for an interesting book to read while I wandered this academic town. My eyes strayed to a small blue and white hard cover. W.H. Auden: Selected Works - perfect. Then it was time for a walk. The Christ Church park was open for a few more hours and so I entered by the large iron gate to meander next to the stream. Coming across a beautiful bank side next to a small eddy I stopped to sit, opening up Auden and zipping up my jacket because the wind was raw. Verse after verse flowed from the page, but as time passed, my body became more and more aware of the need to move and become warm. So, standing up, I continued my stroll through the autumn leaves, passing old stone bridges and rugby paddocks. “Paysage Moralisé” came to mind and I began reciting it to the air and the trees.
The train is pulling into the Edale train station and so I gather my things and mind the gap as I step onto the old cement slab. It’s 5pm and I have a lot of hiking to do before I’ll be anywhere I can spend the night. As I hike from peak to peak, valley to valley, green field to green field, I become enchanted. I cannot imagine a more beautiful place, a more perfect scene, or a better way to spend my time. The Stanage Edge stands against the skyline, inviting me to come and climb. So I do. After a night of rain, I make my way up to the Edge and search for other rock climbers. They aren’t hard to find, and soon I am happily installed with three Irish sprites and a French gentleman who are happy to let me climb with them. After four or five routes, it’s time for me to continue my walk to Sheffield so that I can catch my train back to London.
I can’t stop thinking about my family. I can’t stop thinking about my friends. Too many sleepless nights on street corners have left my nerves on high alert and now anything that slightly reminds me of the people I love sets me near tears. I pull out the book of Auden poetry and read it to the herds of sheep as I walk. Auden always reminds me of my sister Karissa. I start folding the corners of pages containing poems she would like. I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to read them to her, but it makes me feel better to look forward to it. Someday. Christmas pops into my stream of consciousness. I will miss Christmas at home ...
The Oxford choral evensong was at 5:30pm and my intentions were to be there. I arrived four minutes late - just in time to walk in as the notes of an English choral piece reached my ears. I was instantly in love ... and instantly transported. Images of my family around a Christmas tree, singing British Christmas carols in six part harmony flooded my mind. My mother would make a huge bowl of Danish rice and my sisters would have carefully wrapped their gifts in the room next door. Christmas with The Cambridge Singers and A Brass and Organ Christmas would be playing on my father’s magnificent speaker system, and I would be lying on the floor, looking up at the Christmas lights - dancing like stars in the Bethlehem sky. But not this year. The sad realization snapped me back to the present and I took a seat in the back of of the chapel. But I couldn’t hide the tears which began to slowly fall down my face, becoming uncontrollable sobs. As we sang the congregational hymns, I couldn’t open my mouth for fear of a wail coming out instead of a melody. So I hummed along and tried to maintain my dignity. I had forgotten my love for British choral music, and I felt nearly transported as the chords drifted to my ears. But the evensong was over too quickly, and it was time to wander the streets of Oxford once again, this time in tears.
“There’s no place like London...” Johnny Depp’s voice was ringing in my ears as I walked to through Gatwick Airport, looking for the Easy Jet counter so that I could board my plane and leave this city. I continued to hum various melodies from Sweeney Todd as I strolled through the airport, so glad to be finally leave. There really is no place like London, and I couldn’t wait to get away. I had spent three sleepless, cold nights on its streets and even picked up an accent. I can think of no worse place to be homeless than London, and I wanted nothing more than to land in Geneva, walk to my school, and fall asleep in my dorm room. It was time to go home. I missed my family, I missed my friends, I missed my passion for God, and I even missed hearing nothing but French. I was reeling. I had so many questions. I needed answers ... I felt like I had aged ten years in ten days, and perhaps that was more accurate than I could ever know.
I’ve learned that I need people. I’ve learned that I need some security. I’ve learned that I need direction. I’ve learned that I need God ... and that God needs me. And I learned that there really is “no place like London.”
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