This article was written by Carol J. Binkowski
"I'm trying to find St. Mary Aldermanbury, the church . . .where it used to be. . . before the war."
Catching my breath, I embraced the warmth of the office building's lobby, glad to be out of the turbulent wind even for a moment. I had arrived in London less than eighteen hours before and was already on my search. Two perplexed doormen looked up from their posts.
"St. Mary the Virgin, Aldermanbury," I continued. "It used to be here, near here. It was bombed during the war, but there is a square or park or something where it was."
Murmuring politely, the doormen consulted the fistful of maps that I deposited on their desk but shook their heads. Never heard of it. So sorry. I thanked them and left, a blast of air pushing me into the street once more. I gripped my maps and plunged deeper and deeper into the tangle of streets somewhere behind St. Paul's Cathedral.
My quest had really begun five months earlier in Missouri with yet another map. While searching for a scenic alternative to the interstate en route to my original destination, I spied it in the tiniest of lettering: " Winston Churchill Memorial & Library"--nestled somewhere south of I-70 in an area buried in a spiderweb of rural highways. Plagued with curiosity and recalling the state's old motto, "Show Me," I set off the following morning on this irresistible detour, a casual ride through open land with beckoning signs for auto museums, picturesque lakes, and upcoming country festivals.
About two hours later, I found Fulton--the home of Westminster College which, in turn, housed the Winston Churchill Memorial. There it stood tall, just ahead of me. "So many colours on the hillside," wrote Churchill in praise of studying scenic landscapes. He would have been especially pleased with this backdrop of brilliant azure sky on a late spring day, meeting the gentle slope of fresh green grass atop which stood a majestic white church, its steeple rising in the air, that housed the memorial to him. Close by, near tall, leafy trees, was a modern wall sculpture, asplash in eclectic shades of pinkish-orange, slate blue, and mixed verdant hues. All around was peace.
Leaving my car on a quiet residential street, I approached the Memorial and met Sir Winston in the form of Franta Belsky's statue. He leans forward on a walking stick in earnest greeting on that gentle hill. Behind him to his left is the church of St. Mary the Virgin, Aldermanbury, the Memorial's centerpiece whose original location I was to become so obsessed with in London later that year.
The placement of this memorial in Fulton is no mere coincidence, as I was to soon learn. Westminster College was the site of Churchill's visit in 1946 at the invitation of the college president to deliver the John Findley Green Foundation lecture there--an invitation endorsed by Missouri native and then U.S. President Harry S. Truman. Here Churchill presented his Sinews of Peace address, offering his observations on the world in "anxious and baffling times" and urging support of various United Nations peace efforts. Better known as his "Iron Curtain" speech, it also warned of the impending Soviet threat that prophetically materialized during the Cold War era.
As I entered the museum through the undercroft of the church, a friendly woman at the desk greeted and pointed me in the direction of a series of creative and information-packed exhibits about Churchill's life and accomplishments. "History will be kind to me," he once said an understatement here.
I mingled with several families and their young children. We gazed in quiet respect--military artifacts here, family heirlooms there, personal mementos nearby--occasionally exchanging hushed murmurs about what we saw, the recorded soundtrack of a speech serving as background.
It was surprising for me to learn that Winston Churchill (1874-1965) had some early difficulties adjusting to traditional school environments. I was heartened to discover, then, how he went on to excel in so many ways in subsequent years as a war correspondent in Cuba, officer in the British army in India and South Africa, military service in the Boer War, and an illustrious career in politics. So many of these achievements that were thoughtfully presented in intriguing displays.
However while the families who had earlier browsed nearby continued on, I lingered over the portions about Churchill the author and painter. I had always thought of him only as the great statesman and outstanding orator that he was, a name in my school history books. Now I suddenly met another side of the man. I was startled. He was a prolific writer of more than three dozen volumes that ranged in subject and length. His essays, articles, speeches, and miscellaneous pieces alone constitute an impressive output. His books included the voluminous History of the English-Speaking Peoples, The World Crisis, a history of the first World War, a biography of his father and others, as well as such sweeping personal reminiscences as My Early Life: A Roving Commission which, although he felt portrayed a vanished age, still remains fresh with energy. "Writing a book was an adventure," he once commented, tackling each with obvious gusto. His efforts won him the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1953. When did he find the time?
Yet, amid all of his history, military and autobiographical works, my favorite was to become the gentle Painting as a Pastime, a slender volume whose genial wisdom about art and life was featured in the exhibit. It explains, in a simple fashion, Churchill's passion for brushes, oils, and canvas how it drew him into another peaceful world away from war and politics. "Painting is a companion," he said, one with the capability of honing an appreciation of nature and detail, resting the mind, and yielding "vivifying fruits" in facing the challenges of life, particularly in the public eye. It certainly made sense that a man whose responsibilities had ranged from being First Lord of the Admiralty and Secretary of State for War to being a member of Parliament as well as Prime Minister would crave the serenity and restorative powers that painting could offer.
I eagerly read more of his graceful and reflective words on the subject, comments that seemed to closely mirror his painting style--whether in depicting sunlit European landscapes, vases of flowers, and portraits of friends or in rendering sandswept scenes at Marrakech, grand interiors of castle homes, and boats swaying in safe harbors.
I finally wandered into the sanctuary of the church itself. A young couple was shyly taking photographs of the antique altar candlesticks. I glanced again at the tour sheet that the woman at the desk had given me. Built in12th-century London, the church was destroyed in the great fire of 1666 and rebuilt to Sir Christopher Wren's exquisite design eleven years later. It was sadly reduced to ruins by a bomb during World War II, echoing Churchill's comment that "war is very cruel." Later, the church's remains were transported to Fulton, Missouri, where they were painstakingly reconstructed to Wren's original design on the Westminster campus and, in 1969, rehallowed as the college chapel and rededicated as the Churchill Memorial. Two countries united to create this center for study and peace from the ruins of war, honoring Churchill and his lifelong efforts to inspire all nations to work together for world harmony.
I kept pace with the young couple, and we all gazed around at the twelve original columns lining the aisles--stately and grand, they have survived centuries and bombing. Later on, while leafing through a catalog of Churchill's paintings, I discovered his depiction of a sunlit terrace at Trent Park with beautiful columns, so reminiscent for me of those in the church that day.
The remaining portions of the church's interior were recreated with an eye to historic details--a communion table, various woodcarvings, and many antique items that were presented to the church by groups from both the U.S. and Britain--once more, a show of unity and respect between two friendly nations.
Now we all moved closer to the delicate ceiling designs of flowers and leaves as our combined footsteps echoed on the climb to the loft with its magnificent organ. We were rewarded with a spectacular view of the sanctuary, huge arched windows filling the whole interior with light, an effect that Churchill valued highly in his artistic pursuits, continually referring to its importance in the process of painting.
Strolling outside, the brilliant sun illuminated a startling contrast nearby: "Breakthrough" which is a massive modern sculpture created in Churchill's honor by his granddaughter, Edwina Sandys, and dedicated at the college by Ronald Reagan in 1990. It incorporates colorful pieces of the fallen Berlin wall. (And how Churchill loved colors: "I rejoice with the brilliant ones," he once said.) It contains open doorways cut into the shapes of people, signifying Eastern Europe's emergence into freedom. Several visitors walked carefree through these doorways now just as Soviet minister Mikhail Gorbachev had done in on his visit in 1992, the man who effectively paved the way for the end of the Iron Curtain of which Churchill had so prophetically foretold those many years ago. Gorbachev's address of peace and progress was the John Findley Green Foundation lecture, just as Churchill's had been. And it was delivered at the lectern used by Churchill bringing the events at Westminster full circle.
It was this discovery in Fulton that made me so determined to complete my own full circle and to find the Memorial's roots that stormy day in London five months later. I had been so moved by the Churchill Memorial, particularly by its revelations about the private man behind the public hero, statesman, and orator, the man who championed peace on a worldwide platform and sought inner peace and fulfillment through the arts and nature. He had been the inspiration for two countries to transform the ruins of war into a center for peace half a world away. I had to stand on the original site of the church and discover what had become of it. This would complete the circle for me.
Finally, after receiving no clues from those polite London doormen and several others, I huddled in the archway of a building scrutinizing my maps with careful precision. Then I continued to wander.
Picking my way through a chalky street under construction, I stumbled onto a spot almost hidden in the midst of tall buildings. It was a small square with a delicate pool of water, a tiny fountain in its center. Hardy green plants and shrubs lined the perimeter. A lone figure--an old man--sat on one of the benches near the pool eating a sandwich from a brown paper bag, enjoying this appealing outdoor sanctuary even on such a grey, windy day. Then I looked up. On the side of a building wall was a simple sign: Aldermanbury Square.
I tried to imagine the church on this site so long ago and then picture its war-torn ruins. Instead, I could only conjure up the scene before me--something beautiful and restful and healing. The old man and I were the only ones there to contemplate this hidden place with its quiet water and abundant greenery both as serene and reflective as the grassy slope at the church's new home far away in Missouri.
No doubt Churchill would have taken much joy in both places and in how they were transformed and what they have come to represent. And perhaps in some of his quiet moments, he might have chosen to paint each in his unique, reflective style. I like to think that if he had, these creations would have contained some of the elements of one of my favorites: a painting that somehow reminds me of both the Memorial in the church in Fulton as well as Aldermanbury Square and one that yields "vivifying fruits" for me just as an observer. It is a work of Churchill's from 1945--a scene of a rural church by Lake Como, its tall steeple punctuating the skyline. Sunlight falls on the walkway making shadows in different shades of lavender. A tall tree is in the foreground; and leafy shrubs grow above sloped grasses, all in verdant hues. The quiet waters of the lake ripple gently alongside. And all around is peace.
