It was just a day for
discovery. The sun was out, there were no classes, and I had an Oyster Card
burning a hole in my pocket. So I decided to take the tube to an unfamiliar stop and then walk whichever direction seemed best. It turned out better than I thought.
There were no wrong turns as I wandered from Liverpool St. Station down to the south bank of the Thames. It was
relaxing to have no place to be, and the sun warming the back of
my neck. I would stop here to crane my head back and look up at a church
steeple, and change course there to meander through a park. The buildings were
grand and stone, and fun to marvel at. Eventually, things got a little more
familiar as the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral appeared on the skyline.
Up and over the Millennium Bridge I went, taking in the fresh air and the xylophone stylings of the current street performer. The sun brought out people in droves, and we all shared the good weather. Surrounded by strangers, there was hustle and bustle, but there was also peace in flying solo. I love going out with friends, but there was a goodness in just being alone. It was also really nice to walk around alone and not get kidnapped (thank You, Lord). I certainly felt quite the intellectual lone wolf as I drifted through the Tate Modern, and later through the Museum of London (really some fascinating things there). And in between, I stumbled upon the Borough Market, a colorful, lively place with delicious, moist brownies just begging to be purchased (sadly, mine did not survive long enough to be pictured here).
could have just taken the tube everywhere, but finding my way by foot
gave me so much more perspective than if I had been underground. And
as I headed home, I got one more precious surprise. I was walking back in the direction of St Paul's when a walled garden caught my eye. When I first entered, it seemed like any pleasant park, but as I stepped further in, my breath caught. I was in Postman's Park.
Postman's Park is beautiful, but not for the reasons you may think. Because in the midst of the blooming flowers and the inviting benches there is a tiled wall, each tile bearing the name and story of a person now passed. But what makes this park so poignant is that every person honored on that wall died saving the life of someone else.
Story after story of lives changed and saved and ended. Once I started reading, I couldn't stop. And it was so, so good, to stand there in the cooling afternoon with a lump in my throat and eyes that burned. Those people, dear to others and unknown to me, helped me to
remember. That there can be beauty in death, hope in tragedy. And it just
made me think: sacrificial deaths, deaths that give life, have a different
quality about them. Maybe that's because they're a reminder, a small
picture of how God chose to die for us. Even if I don't always think about it or acknowledge it, it's a truth that's written into who I am, as it's written into every single person who ever lived, that Jesus died for. Standing there, I was awake. It was beautiful.
me--which I guess there was. It was my pleasure to wander through the streets of London, walking with memories, walking with strangers, walking with God.
It certainly was a walk to remember.