Best practice: If you are flying on the inaugural flight from Chicago to Reykjavik, make sure that (1) the plane has a battery that works and (2) that the captain won’t time out.

Amidst a most unpleasant evening of twists and turns, at two in the morning, when we should have been landing in Iceland, my best friend and I found ourselves landing instead in a hotel room at O’Hare airport trying to figure out how we could get to Iceland (or not) before the next flight available to us on United—arriving Wednesday, 4 days later!

Which is why we find ourselves back at the airport today, preparing to board a flight to Minneapolis, where we will depart yet again tomorrow night on another airplane to Iceland via Icelandair.

There hasn’t been much rest. Lots of internet surfing, phone calls, waiting, waiting, waiting in uncertainty, and very little sleep.

Once again, I am grateful for my many privileges. I know how to maneuver the travel system to find lodging and alternate flights. I have money to cover costs until United can work out reimbursement for our out of pocket costs.

So many prayers for the other 250 or so passengers whose lives were upended through no fault of their own—trying to get to weddings, speaking other languages, managing with small children, and every other unique situation that made a potential joy become a not so happy incident.

And there are all of the other people around the world, whose lives are upended by situations outside their control. Ukraine. Gaza. Sudan. Fire and floods. Stories in the headlines and even more as we listen to people we meet that become our prayer list.

Like Myla. She was our server in the airport lounge (privilege), and was beaming with hospitality and a gracious smile. She immigrated from Ukraine a year ago and shared with us about her life. She talked about how important kindness was. Kindness is.

No words. But isn’t that prayer?

If the mess with our flight had not occurred, I’d have missed this precious conversation with this even more precious woman.

The reset of time became a spiritual rest.

But isn’t that prayer?

My best friend and I took our first trip to Iceland in 2016, right after my home was flooded during the Tax Day flood. Our second trip was scheduled, and the timing was only weeks after my home flooded again during Harvey.

Our third trip was a brief visit on our way to the Faroe Islands. I called the trip “Not Iceland.” The fourth trip was another visit for a few days on the way to and from the Faroes. The fifth trip was uneventful except, oh yes, that’s the trip where I got Covid and had to isolate in Iceland.

This trip we plan to explore two new, to us, parts of Iceland—the Snæfellsnes peninsula (which we had to skip on an earlier trip that was shortened due to flooding and plane delays) and the Westfjords, the most isolated part of Iceland.

This sixth trip is following the death of my mother. I should not be surprised of the timing. Iceland seems to be the place where God sends me to heal. To rest my spirit.

It’s been a jagged month since my mother died. I’ve been surprised how deep my grief has been. I’ve given myself time for self care—moving very slowly and sleeping a lot. While I was still searching for my retirement rhythm, I have now added the grief shuffle.

Once I got to the airport, I realized some important (to me) things were left behind.

I’m curious how God will fill the space opened by those lost and forgotten items.

It’s the third Sunday in Eastertide. I am in Chicago, and I am quietly questing.

Late last summer, my very best friend and I began planning the kind of trips I could better take once retired. One of our favorite pieces of music is Mendelssohn’s Elijah so we went searching for a destination to hear it.

Which is how I ended up in Chicago in the middle of the three weeks between my mother’s death and burial.

We are staying in a lovely downtown hotel where everything we need is in walking distance.

The symphony.

The Chicago Institute of Art.

Coffee.

Ice cream.

Church.

It’s been a quiet break in the midst of the mourner’s path. Shared conversation with a most trusted friend, beauty everywhere, soul-filling music, and a bit of respite.

Before I fly home to prepare for my mother’s burial next Saturday.

Quietly questing for peace.

On Easter Monday, my mother was resurrected. Finally, she has that peace that surpasses all of our imaginations and understandings.

Meanwhile, my heart is broken wide. I know that God’s peace is near— but for me, for now, it’s a spiritual concept, not a feeling.

After our long days and nights of the vigil of withedness as Mother moved from this life to the next, after sorting through a few matters, I came home for a few days to rest.

I’m not crying much yet—probably, as the big sister, the priest expert, and will executor, my head is too full. I can feel those tears stuffed in my chest. I know they will break through.

On my plane ride home from Dallas, the first tears broke through. I had made a playlist of music that had been a comfort, and hands over my face, turned towards the window, finally, I wept.

At church on Sunday, going to receive Eucharist, with the cloud of witnesses in heaven and on earth , the tears broke through again. The kindness of the leadership made it safe to simply be.

I’m on a quick flight back to Dallas again. My brothers and I will meet with the lawyers, will make final plans for my mother’s burial, and pick up Mother’s cremains.

Steps towards opening my heart to peace.