Today is church.  My friend and I walked the half mile uphill in the cold and rain to worship. It was glorious. 

As I entered the nave, the choir was practicing.  As beautiful music surrounded me, I lit candles with prayer intentions for friends, family, and neighbors. 



The liturgy was in Icelandic; however, the usher gave us a warm welcome and handed me a guide to worship in English. 

Grateful for the printed guide, I thought of Molly and Jennifer back at home.  I was appreciative for the difference it makes to have a person sitting right beside who is familiar with the service to guide us through. The paper, though very well-intentioned, is not as helpful as a neighbor.  

Worship, no matter what the language, is still centered with God,  and I knew pretty much what was going on and could chime in English at appropriate moments.  The sermon was preached with enthusiasm, but except for hearing Mary and Martha mentioned,  I hadn’t a clue. 

After worship, we walked around the corner for cappacinos and a light lunch at our favorite local coffee spot, Reykjavik Roasters. 

It was a good morning. 

Yesterday I stopped. Stopping allowed some time for feelings to rise about flooding–my own and the many, many more from places near and far.  The smaller sadness of my heart being broadened and deepened by the greater sadness of my neighbors flooded throughout our world. 

Recently I’ve thought of the words of a friend who flooded for the first time from Harvey.  My friend said that he had always loved the sound of waking to rain–but that quotidian joy had been destroyed by the new association of that sound and the feeling of stepping off his bottom steps into the waters of a flooded home. That’s what disasters and tragedies can do–take something we love and pair it with something painful. 

I experienced that on my trip. I love waterfalls, but on this trip to Iceland the sound of rushing waters has become connected with seeing the destruction of flood waters in my home. 

When my friend wanted to go visit nearby waterfalls yesterday, I decided to stay in our lovely hotel and knit and tend to some flood matters in Houston. 

Later that afternoon when the sun had come out, I asked my friend if she wanted to return to the waterfalls and take me with her. Of course she did–she’s that kind of friend. 

As we approached the stunning beauty of the falls,  I could feel my heart and soul fill with sadness at the same time my eyes were filled with the extravagant view of waterfall after waterfall after waterfall. Pain and strength and healing all at once. 

As we drove back to our hotel, we spotted a lovely church just off the road. It was in the midst of an installation by a local artist whose sculptures are worked in the local rock. 

Inside this exquisite church, the altar, baptismal font, and lectern were all his creation. 

Over the altar were two sculptures–one of a crucified Jesus and the other of a resurrected Christ. 

This is where I stand. Between the suffering of Jesus and the light and joy of the resurrection.  It is the place I am, and it is holy. 

Filled with the beauty of our very brief in miles road trip we returned to our hotel to dress for dinner. 

As we waited and waited and then waited some more for dessert to be served, good conversation with laughter was enjoyed. Turns out, the chef really did have to bake my cake!  Halfway though enjoying it’s luciousness, we saw two photographers running through the lobby and outside the front door. Hurrying from our  table, leaving our food behind, we went outside to see the green swirl and dance of the Northern lights. 

If the cake hadn’t needed time to bake, we’d have missed the lights. 

The suffering Jesus. The resurrected Christ. 

And the place in between.

Back at home, Friday is my Sabbath. 

A Sabbath is different from a day off. It’s even different from a vacation day. 

It’s a day to stop. To cease. To allow God to fill in the spaces and allow the world go on without me.  It may be the most challenging spiritual discipline. 

In the midst of a glorious vacation, today I will try to center in a place of Sabbath. 

It is fall in Iceland. One of my most favorite seasons. Vegetation tends to huddle close to earth in this rugged clime, even the few trees. The fall color this creates a foundation for the soaring landscape and sky. 

I began this day, after breakfast, sitting in a lounge area, with a symphony of voices of folk from all over the world chatting as they ate and visit.  With the voices of God’s people surrounding me, I prayed Morning Devotions to be posted later by Rev. Alan. 

I’ve loved beginning the day this way. 

Now what will happen today as I Sabbath and God does the rest?

Carefully planned vacations can become even better when recalculations happen. 

My friend Betsy has something her family calls an anything can happen day.  It’s a way to travel without any set plan and respond to opportunities rather than planning an itinerary. 

Yesterday was an anything can happen day. 

We arrived at the small local grocery store right after it opened to look for something for breakfast. The gracious staff at the market opened up the closed for the season dining room so we could sit and eat our skyr and what the Scots call digestive biscuits (i.e. cookies).  One of the employees carefully made us the best cappuccino and latte we’d had in Iceland, served in lovely cups and saucers.  She then made our  takeaway order, and refused to take payment.  The kindness of strangers 

In Iceland, hotels offer amazing and abundant breakfast buffets.  This simple breakfast with what was available was as wonderful as any of those served at heavily laden tables. 

Looking at maps, my friend and I created our own Ring Road to circle the Westfjords in cold, rainy, and windy weather. It was a perfect day for experiencing Iceland’s stunning and rugged beauty.   We came upon a local handcraft cooperative where I found some handknit slippers to replace mine damaged beyond repair in the flood. We had a picnic overlooking a moss covered lava vista. 

Driving anything can happen gravel roads in the rain can turn a white car brown.  Since the car was too dirty to even see out, we stopped at the car wash near our night’s resting place. Car washes in Iceland are free, and consist of a brush attached to the end of a hose. While we waited our turn for the one brush hose, a fellow traveler from Maine found another hose and proceeded to rinse our car while we waited.   The kindness of strangers. 

Much has been said about the extraordinary response of stranger to stranger since the flooding in Houston.  I know that I experienced it time again from both friends and strangers that became neighbors, in the Jesus sense. 

I continue to experience this in Iceland. I think of one of my favorite hymns: 

As Christ breaks bread and bids us share, 
each proud division ends. 
The love that made us makes us one, 
and strangers now are friends,