Having lived seventy-two years, pivoting has become a way of life. Divorce; back surgery; floods, tornadoes, and hurricanes; dying and death; pandemic; raising children; serving as a priest; and, oh yes, the adventures of travel— the unexpected and unplanned is the way of life.

A week ago I was in Portland, Oregon, enjoying a wonderful, joyful day with my grandboys. I was given the gift of an anything can happen day with them while their parents went to a concert. A largely unplanned Sunday, with church in the peace of Lan Su Chinese Garden.

And then the more unplanned. The surveyor helping with the division of my mom’s land in Chambersville could meet with my brothers and me at the end of the week.

Instead of flying back to Houston, as planned, I flew to Dallas to spend a long weekend at the farm. I got to spend the 4th with family. Unplanned. And delightful.

I flew home on Sunday to our unplanned hurricane.

Still. Even if I don’t have battery powered fans to keep me cool, I found these two hand fans left from a march a few years ago:

Still. Even if I didn’t have an ice chest or generator, I found good coffee, ice, conversation, air conditioning, and a free outlet at a well-named local place:

As I sat and looked around this rare place nearish my home with electricity, among the assorted, random group gathered, I pondered the common bond we shared of the unplanned life. No one seemed particularly full of glee (except for a toddler who had found a table number that made the perfect toy); but in our common bond, we shared what we had (an empty chair, an unused outlet), we were kind, we smiled, and we were safe. We had access to food, to drink, and clean restrooms. We could sit a spell. I read my Bible and prayed. Others set up their office at a table and had meetings. I had enough financial resources to buy delicious food and not be concerned about spending the money.

It may not have been the answer to prayer I’d wanted (pleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGod restore our electricity), but it may have been the yes to my prayer for peace.

All those trips to Iceland, and I can barely speak the language. I am not proud of that. The one word I do know and use is “takk” which means “thank you.” Not a poor word to know.

So. Takk for puffins—those birds that are a testimony to God’s creativity. And Takk! that my best friend and I were able to drive the long, bumpy road, to a cliff overlooking the ocean, and not be blown into the sea by the high wind, where I got to see the one puffin that came close enough to pose for us who couldn’t do the hike to the top of the cliff to see the whole flock.

Takk! for insurance and savings and friends who help and encourage when storms hit Houston, once again.

Takk for welcoming worship on a Sunday morning—with music and sermon and greetings that help me to be the Church outside the church window in my week ahead.

Takk for schools that invest in the arts, and for teachers who give so much of themselves to inspire a generation of youth, who learn to create and collaborate with others through music.

Takk that I have the time and financial resources and the welcome on arrival to travel the many miles to hear my grandson play his alto saxophone.

Takk for travel and home.

Takk for Iceland and Houston and Oregon—and a God who would create such unique places for the joy and delight of it.

Takk for people who love me and for the people I love.

In this Ordinary Time, a season of Takk.

Today is the last day of Easter—the Day of Pentecost.

When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place …..All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. (Acts 2)

On this Day of Pentecost I am traveling home from Iceland. I’ve been especially mindful today of the people from all over the world that I’ve met. My ears more often than not heard words I could not understand.

On a particularly difficult road my friend and I traveled on the way to a remote area of the Westfjords, we listened to a conversation between David Brooks and Kate Bowler about how to really know another person. They talked about how to see (and listen to people) as beloved children of God.

I’ve celebrated this day of Pentecost by trying to put what I heard them say into practice. Being away from home surrounded by people from all over the world, I’ve tried to slow myself down and ask questions and listen. Not assuming I know people’s story and allowing them time to tell me has been beyond rich.

I’ve discovered that the travel industry is a good entry into the work force. Almost all of the service portion of the industry are immigrants. Most are still learning English.

My friend sometimes needs a little assistance when we have to walk long distances. Our very kind helper in Chicago, Amine, was from Morocco. He began learning English less than a year ago, and said if we talked more slowly he could understand us better.

Speak slowly. Pause to listen.

On the Day of Pentecost, each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. (Acts 2)

Is this one way we can all understand? Is this a gift of tongues today?

Speak more slowly. Pause to listen.

Look into people’s eyes. When appropriate, a smile is a language we all understand.

Tuesday is my day to lead morning prayers for Episcopal Worship to Anchor Your Day, the online prayer ministry that began during Hurricane Harvey seven years ago. It continues. Surprise! Or. Not surprised.

Being six hours ahead in time and with limited WiFi, I prayed the prayers alone at breakfast at 8 Iceland time.

As God would have it, I happened into a church with a little WiFi right around 8 Houston time. Surprise! With only minutes before my ferry to the Westfjords would depart, I quickly prayed with the Facebook community. A few joined, and it was lovely.

The ferry ride itself was unexpected. It’s a five hour drive from Snæfellsnes to the Westfjords (which would have meant ten hours for us), and we decided to use a ferry for part of the trip—it wouldn’t actually make the trip shorter timewise, but it was a ferry! A very good surprise.

Once on the two and half hour ferry ride, WiFi, again. Surprise! So I offered prayers online again.

As I write this, I’ve read about the terrible weather back home. A not unexpected surprise. I’m sitting in my prayer chair in Patreksfjörður waiting for a snow storm to pass. Yet another surprise.

When we began the online prayer ministry after Harvey, one of the prayers we prayed was the one attributed to St. Francis. On this day of uncertainty for my friends back home, we pray:

Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is hatred, let us sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.

Grant that we may not so much seek to
be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. 

Amen.