I am at the Vagar airport awaiting my flight to Iceland. My flight to Houston leaves in the morning.

Good bye, sheep, that traveled on and beside the roads.

Good bye, waterfalls being blown by the wind.

Good bye, wonderful COVID protocols, easy testing, and a country so safe that I didn’t wear a mask for 10 whole days.

Good bye tunnels underneath the sea and through mountains that made travel so easy.

Good bye tunnels that included art installations to zoom through.

As the sisters of Our Lady of Grace taught me to say when I bid farewell, “Until I walk on your paths again, know how much I love you, Faroe Islands.”

I woke up missing church. Last Sunday in Torshavn, I tried to figure out how to go to church, but my attempts to decipher webpages in Faroese was too much for me.

The main denomination in the Faroe Islands is in the Lutheran tradition. Most towns and even hamlets have a lovely (and frequently photographed) church. However, I have always found them locked.

Last night I started researching again. Somehow I happened on to a page about the new integration minister who was leading English language worship in the Faroese churches. However, there was no information I could find on the Fólkakirkjan website, at least in English, about when and where. I emailed her with my query. Alas. No response.

I wasn’t feeling a church welcome here. I thought how wonderful it would have been for someone to invite me to church.

I decided that we could find a place out on the road today and stop and worship there. A pause at my new favorite bakery, and we were off for another day of Faroese beauty.

Until we weren’t.

My friend and I had stopped at a scenic overlook and were having a wonderful beginning to our Sunday. When we got back in the car to drive away, the steering wheel had locked and the key wouldn’t turn. No matter how hard we tried, nothing would budge.

On a mountain top in the gray, windy cold with no phone service and no one near, we waited for a car to drive by.

The first person we flagged down, looked at his watch and said he had to be somewhere in five minutes. He told us he would be driving back that way in an hour if we still needed help. The story I made up in my head was that he was on his way to church. Or even a pastor.

The next man who came by had to stop, reluctantly, because we were sort of blocking the road with our waving arms. He never spoke and hurried away.

I made up the story that he would drive to the next town and send help.

But he didn’t.

And then, oh yes, I remembered to ask God to come to my assistance.

Soon later, another truck drove by and while we tried to flag him down, he sped on by—but then he paused, and backed up.

He was late to work and didn’t understand much English. I pantomimed what was wrong with our car, and he hopped out of his truck and jumped in our car. One tug, and he unlocked the steering wheel and the key turned. As we thanked him with amazement, he smiled and said, “A strong man!”

I felt a little like I had lived the parable of the helpful Samaritan, except it was the parable of the Atlantic Airways baggage handler.

Later we did stop for noontime prayers, and it was lovely. As the day passed, I still felt unsettled by the car incident and the desire to worship in community on this Sunday.

As we were driving back towards the city, I spotted a church. With an open door!!! It was the first open church door I’d seen in the Faroes this visit.

We circled back and parked in the parking lot. The gate was open, and we walked in the door. A woman came from the sacristy and I asked her if we could stop and pray. We had a quiet conversation, and she let us know that we had just missed Sunday worship. She told us we were welcome to pray as long as we wanted.

And so we did.

As we left, I thanked the woman for staying so we could worship and told her how much it meant to find an open church. We both became a bit teary, and she brought her mom from the sacristy to meet us. Her mom had been serving in the church for over sixty years. I told her that I was a priest, and we called her ministry, altar guild.

We had found community on this Sunday. In our prayers by the road, with the helpful baggage handler who helped by the road, and by the women who served on the altar guild who left the door of the church open in welcome.

Police. Check.

Fire Department. Check.

Hospital Emergency Room. And check.

In an earlier blog about my travels in the Faroe Islands, I wrote about getting to experience the services of the police and fire department. In another blog I wrote about wanting to go deeper into the culture of the places I visit.

Thanks to a misstep today on what we had already named “an anything can happen day,” my friend and I spent a good part of the day in the emergency room of the National Hospital of the Faroe Islands.

The day had started so very well. We had cappuccinos and morning buns with rhubarb jam and cheese in a new cafe, followed by a lovely stroll through a bookstore that is centuries old. We visited the post office to buy interesting stamps for letters home.

The day had turned gray and cold, and on our way to another island, we were looking for a place to buy a bowl of soup. And then my friend took a tumble.

We took a detour to the National Hospital instead.

It’s a bit difficult to navigate a medical system where all of the signage and instructions are in another language. However, we found our way, and the medical personnel who cared for my friend could not have been kinder.

We also learned how to have a prescription filled in the Faroes (yet one more check), and how to have it filled with instructions in English (and another check).

Before we left the ER, we did think to ask our doctors for advice for the best place to go for soup.

They were right.

And my friend? A few stitches, a tetanus shot, and several bandages later, we’re taking an early night. And plans for more adventures tomorrow.

This blog is posted with the full approval code of the unnamed patient.

On the drive today, my friend and I were talking about where we want to travel next. We’ve been traveling together for nearly thirty years and have many favorite places.

We are aware that we are oldering. We do gentle walks instead of hikes. Beauty is important to us. We now require a layer of ease that was not necessary when we began to travel together.

We talked today about not enjoying places with crowds. We do not require the novel that was essential years ago.

I still love traveling to foreign places. I am curious about how people live their day by day in cultures different from mine.

I think part of this yearn to travel is because I’ve only lived in one state my entire life. For me, there is a wondering about lives different from mine.

Maybe it’s because I don’t speak Faroese that I feel a gentleness here. The conversations I have are that—conversations. We both agree to speak English as our common language. Then it’s a voice. A listen. A response. I’m not off darting and lunging on distractions, particularly those which involve the news.

COVID tests are free and easily available. Results are back within hours. For the first time in months, I am able to walk freely without a mask because of their excellent COVID strategy.

The beautifully maintained roads, no matter the size of village they lead to, have yet to go past a less than stunning view.

Even the gas stations have espresso machines, and pristine bathrooms. The soft serve ice cream is a bonus.

There is a sensitivity to “our fragile earth, our island home.” The wind turbines providing some of our power are sculptures. The water from the tap is cold and tasty.

And did I mention the sheep?