One Year Later

I want to tell you about the light.

It is nearly five o’clock in the morning when we emerge, blinking, into the grey pre-dawn of St Petersburg. We push through the crowds milling outside the bars and clubs and turn East towards the promise of the rising sun. Ahead of us is the Cathedral on the Spilled Blood, offering its resplendent golden domes as a substitute for the sun that has not yet reached the horizon; but we want the real thing, and continue on past the cathedral, over the canal, until we reach the dewy expanse of the Field of Mars.

Five o’clock comes and goes, and we sit on a cold bench, watching the sky grow lighter and listening to Arthur and Christy argue over the definition of a takeaway (when it is delivered to you and you don’t physically take it away, is it still a takeaway?). The trees of the Summer Garden delay the appearance of the sun, however, and we decide that food is now a priority; so we retrace our steps to the canal (there is the cathedral again, more resplendent than ever as its spires catch the first rays of the new day) and wend our way onwards.

Then (glorious, glorious) the street is flooded with light richer than any material gold, as the sun finally breaks free from its slumber. Palace Square is vast and empty and we are tiny and full of the wonder of the dawn.

At work, the light streams dustily in through the tall windows. I am made welcome from the moment I cross the threshold as Nadya greets me enthusiastically and races back and forth to ensure I meet the entire team. Will smiles. ‘Nadya runs a lot. That is, she runs around. Not the business.’ We sit down and he tells me about Eclectic: about the high quality translations and the importance of being native; and the light shines on the lemon tree and the chilli pepper plant.

After work, I walk down to the river, and sit cross-legged beside the gentle water. The sun is warm; the fishermen cast their lines; and a little way away a group of tourists boards a vast cruise ship. Two Russian men ask me to take a photo of them (‘Ты откуда? Where are you from?’ they ask. ‘From Finland? Germany?’), and I oblige, but no photo can do justice to the rippling light I see.

The hours of darkness are fleeting, and bright with a thousand city lights as if day had never departed. More common are the grey clouds that scud across the sky, and I remember that joy is a light to be treasured.

And then there is the one light that really matters, and that is the light I feel even when I close my eyes, even when there is no visible light. Jesus, the light of the world.