A Light in London

St Paul's Cathedral Christmas Morning - Our jet-lagged son, Eric

A Light in London

Our family leaped at every chance to travel together, gathering school breaks like precious coins. That Christmas, London called—a weeklong adventure made possible by the points saved from a consultant’s life on the road. We chose Mayfair, beside Hyde Park, where old-world charm met the hum of holiday bustle.

We arrived sleep-deprived but determined to stay awake, to push through the fog of an eight-hour time difference. Easier said than done—especially with a ten-year-old who’d spent the entire flight watching movies across the Atlantic. Still, the city beckoned. We bundled up against the December chill and wandered toward the Serpentine, the sharp air brushing our faces awake.

By dusk, we found a small Indian restaurant near Kensington—our familiar comfort abroad. Spices filled the air—cardamom, coriander, saffron—and we lingered over naan and laughter. After dinner we drifted through Harrods, dazzled by its glittering halls and endless displays. The food counters brimmed with chocolates and cheeses, the jewelry cases sparkled, and the toy floor lured our son into wide-eyed wonder.

Snowflakes dusted our shoulders as we walked back to our hotel on Christmas Eve. The next morning, still jet-lagged but hopeful, we hailed a taxi to St. Paul’s Cathedral for the Christmas service. Our boy, running on fumes, protested the early start, and by the time we arrived, the grand cathedral was packed. We stood in the back, weary travelers adrift in the sound of hymns and the glow of candles.

Then kindness found us. A man—perhaps an usher, perhaps an angel in a gray wool coat—noticed our fatigue and asked if we’d like to be seated. He smiled at our son and said he’d once felt the same, then led us down the long aisle to seats directly before the Bishop of England, with the boys’ choir singing to our left.

When communion came, our son hesitated to sip from the shared chalice and was gently corrected. Red-faced, we returned to our seats in silence. Then, as the final hymn swelled, a sudden beam of sunlight pierced the clouds, striking the stone floor before us in a blaze of gold. The cathedral seemed to hold its breath. For a single, luminous moment, we were wrapped in light.

Years later, I still remember that beam as a promise: even in exhaustion, beauty finds a way in.