St Matthews, Great Peter St

Squashed between modern office blocks, advertising conference facilities, stating 'Welcome, open for prayer and services everyday', I walked through the open door. Out of the sunlight, half an hour set aside before picking the boys up from school, worrying that I had said I would bring a skateboard to the playground and hadn't got it, worrying that I had set myself this blog task and it seemed foolish. Worrying and somehow, this seems the overriding fear that to walk in through the door of a church in the middle of the day, with no obvious purpose, was to appear in need. To want something.

In the entrance, was a huge wooden altarpiece (I think) that looked like it had been taken from an earlier church and a memorial to a curate who had become the Bishop of Zanzibar. I carried on round expecting the interior of the church but couldn't find or reach it. Through locked doors and glass windows I could see metal grilles and an ornate altar piece- very Catholic looking, with that still, grey, dry-choking elegance - even hear the organ playing but I couldn't find an open way into the church. I tried doors, scaled stairs, there was only more locked doors.
My unease at having walked off the street, into an unknown building, with no one there was that I felt I could only be 'discovered' that even the logical question 'can I help you?' was a difficult one. I scarpered.

I don't know. I did it. But. I am doubting the whole project. I couldn't reach what I had wanted, discovered nothing, am not up to the task. I should have asked someone, should have slowed down, observed what I could see, not panicked about the expected outcome.

Back in the warm spring light with time to collect the skateboard and get to school on time, I sat in the playground, nursing a bump on my younger son's head with a coca cola ice pop.

Amen

Are you coming with me?

OK.  This is the plan.   Just like it says.  I am going to sit in churches to think. I have been daring myself to do it for months.  I live in central London and each day, taking the children to school, doing the shopping, going to work, always running to the next bit, always racing, I walk past so many churches.   I imagine the interiors as beautiful, peaceful places.  And yet, I am scared to go inside.  I am the single mum of two young boys, with an ex alcoholic ex husband living in a hostel on our street, a load of debt and  a rejected novel.  My life isn't very pretty.  Though I love it.  Love those boys, love writing, love London, love having discovered so much along the way. But somedays it is a struggle to keep going, keep everyone else going, keep OK and I think that must be why those beautiful, peaceful places look so appealing.

I intend to go to the nearest church to our small flat first, and then the second nearest etc but I am not going to measure distance on maps, just guess it.  I want to describe the churches I sit in.  Name them, give some details of the place, some history. I am fascinated by the idea of people building them, building so many, the gradations of belief and faith that meant another, a street away, would be necessary.  I will enter any church that will let me.  I aim to start tomorrow. Though I am scared.

Amen.