Originally published at Ignatian Spirituality
It is only an hour train ride from London but miles from my home in Seattle, Washington. The train station has only two tracks—one coming and the other going. I lift my large travel backpack onto my back and walk a mile down the road to a Victorian-era Benedictine monastery. This year will mark my third time at the monastery. It has become a pilgrimage for me. I know in this place I will meet God.
Of course, I know God is everywhere, but here in this monastery tucked in the Surrey countryside, this is a special place and time to meet with him.
This year as I step off the train, it is pouring rain. I sidestep puddles and nearly slip in mud, but I am not deterred; I am ridiculously happy walking toward the monastery. The monks know I am coming. I look at my watch and know they are in midday prayers right now. I know they are praying for me and my safe arrival. If I walk fast enough, I will walk into the church right as prayers end.
I look forward to this trip all year. For several days, I will do nothing but pray with
