Joan of Arc wins me £12.50
Parents, pay close attention to the media your children consume.
Even before I became a semi-lapsed Christian, I liked to think I had a healthy skepticism toward organised religion and an irreverent attitude to Church authority. So, I was surprised to feel a slight thrill when I noticed Sarah Mullally, soon to become the first female archbishop of Canterbury, among the clergy entering St Paul’s Cathedral on Sunday evening.
She was there as Bishop of London, and I attended as a bereaved daughter. Every year, St Paul’s holds a memorial service for families of patients who died at the nearby St Bartholomew’s Hospital. The ward where my father spent his last weeks overlooked the cathedral.
It was an unusual way to spend the evening. My father had ended his young, zealous days with vehement atheism, quite differently from me. As I stepped into the cold, dark night to travel to the service, I heard his voice in my head asking:
“What are you bloody doing that for?”
My stepmother and I took our seats beneath the grand domed ceiling. Watching the other attendees bundled in coats and scarves, I thought what a strange and somber group we all were.
Author's summary: A reflective account of attending a memorial service at St Paul’s, blending personal grief with unexpected encounters in religious settings.