Good mornings of endless light

My last morning in Reykavik before beginning the roundabout trek towards the Eastfjiords, I received an email from a woman whose blog I enjoy reading. She offered five ways to make an ordinary trip into a pilgrimage. 

I've personally done a lot of teaching and preaching and even writing in my own blog about our quotidian lives as pilgrimage. I read this wise woman's words, and one thought she had was about taking time to select a theme, a word or phrase (like transformation or self-discovery or creativity), for your trip before you left. Oh well. Too late. I was already into my third day of this amazing journey to Iceland. And, truth be told, I was tired;  I wanted a vacation. 

But her counsel has gently nagged at my soul as I've traveled. What word is a centering point for this amazing journey of kilometers driven and thousands of steps walked over landscapes that no words or photographs can truly share?

The phrase that keeps bubbling is the opening words of our St. Mary's prayer:  Good morning,God (which then continues this is your day; I am your child; please show me your way). 

Good morning, God. 

Perhaps those words keep bubbling up because that prayer is part of my personal daily spiritual liturgy. Perhaps it's because I haven't seen dark since I left the United States. Though the forecast reports that sunset is at 10.30 PM, and that the sunrises at 3.45 AM, it's never completely dark. That also means that there are never sunrises or sunsets, and dawn and dusk are my favorite times of the day. I'm not complaining about a day and night full of natural light; I'm simply thoughtful and aware of the value of darkness in my life. 

As I continue this trip of endless good mornings, how will God reply when I greet God over and over and over during the day?

Praying in tongues

It's not difficult to wake up early when I go to sleep at 8 (unlagging from the three jet rides of the past day), and the sun rises at 4.30 AM. This is a good thing because the first activity of the morning after breakfast was to walk a mile or so, bundled up in the 34 degree chill, to Hallgrímskirkja, the Lutheran parish church, though I'd say that we'd call it a cathedral in the U. S.  

We gathered with thirty or so other folks in the magnificent space, intimately sitting in the apse around the altar, every word spoken and sung and prayed in Icelandic.  The other worshippers were quietly welcoming, handing us books and pointing to pages in the hymnal (Sálmur). 

The rhythm of the liturgy was familiar, and worship was deep and meaningful despite not knowing or understanding the language. I was struck by how much easier it was to sing difficult Icelandic words, especially when they were paired with familiar hymn tunes. 

Especially meaningful was The Peace. Although each person intentionally went and connected with every other worshipper, it was deeply reverent. Taking both of my hands in his or hers, each person looked me in the eye and quietly said whatever the Icelandic version of  "the peace of the Lord be with you." I was truly greeted and welcomed in the name of God. It is something I want to share with my own parish community.  Rather than an interruption in the worship, it was a moment of mutual blessing. 

After worship, my friend and I were invited for coffee and tea. In a lovely room simply set, we had coffee, homemade bread, butter, jam, and cheese. We sat at long tables and chatted with our neighbors. Most Icelanders speak English, a humbling experience for me who stumbles over the simplest words. 

As I left for the day, the church was now crowded with people with cameras photographing the beautiful space.  Groups were waiting in line, after paying a fee, to go to the tower. I could scarcely leave the church because of the queue of tourists waiting to get in. 

The contrast between the joyful, quiet prayer I had experienced, and the bustling, chatting crowds made me ever so thankful that I had arrived an hour earlier to say good morning to God. 

Landed!

Last night I watched the sun set in the United States near, and yet so far, from my daughter in New York City. 

This morning I was awakened around 4 AM by the sun rising somewhere near Greenland. 

Tonight I'll go to bed well before the sun sets some time after 10 PM in Reykjavik. 

Good evening, God; good morning, God;  and good evening, yet again, God.  It is your night. It is your day.  It is your everything. 

You are showing me your way. 

And it is beautiful. 

And it is delicious. 

And it is enough. 

Being a person of great privilege

I am a person of great privilege. Amidst the chaos in my life post--flood, I have been surrounded by great care, love, and generosity. I have choices and options. 

As I prepare to begin my long trek to Iceland, I am acutely aware of how easy my life is. This long-planned trip to Iceland comes at the moment I most need rest, peace, and beauty. This vacation was largely gifted to me by long-time friends. 

As the flood waters rose in my home a few weeks ago, my traveling friend and I worked on our Iceland plans. In fact, in the minutes before we kayaked out, my friend looked down on my flooded living room from our safe place on the upstairs landing, and said, "Oh. There are the Iceland books."  They weren't saved. 

Now, thanks to the generosity of friends, I sit in my first class seat, first class!!!, enjoying my first cup of coffee of the day, served to me as others boarded. I have a book to read gifted by another friend. I have a phone that does all kinds of magic including providing a means for me to listen to music as I travel. I am content. I have enough. I feel the peace that has been so generously prayed for me these past weeks. 

As a person of great privilege, how will I serve others with the generosity I have received?  How can I offer first class service to those who feel like they are in the middle seat of the back row with the person in front of them reclining her seat as far as it will go?

 

From today's  Daily Office reading from 1 John:

Little children, let us love not in word or speech, but in truth and action. 

Pilgrimage to High Church

For years I have taught about the spiritual practice of pilgrimage. In my own personal faith story, the theological concept of being on pilgrimage had become a quotidian exercise with a sense of being sent daily on a journey by God with hope, possibility, promise, and joy.   I thought of my life as a kind of lectio divina with biblical companions like Abraham, Sarah and Jesus and his male and female disciples.   Pilgrimage was sweet with the gentlest pull beyond my comfort level.  I was stretched, but not too much.

Until two weeks ago when I ended up in a kayak at two in the morning with my best friend, accompanied by my senior warden in the next kayak over,
being pulled along my street that was now a river,
by a high school student who had come out in the middle of the night to find folks who needed rescuing from the results of a torrential Houston rain.

Until one week ago, when much of the stuff of my life was either rotting in my front yard for all of the world to see,
or in storage,
or kindly taken by loving members of St. Mary's to clean and tend and restore,
and my beloved home would be uninhabitable for many months.

Last night, as we began the third week after the Houston flood,
once again sleepless in the middle of the night,
in the daughter's room of a dear friend,
surrounded by her stuffed animals and high school memorabilia, my temporary island home,
I came across a book I had read years before about pilgrimage.

As I reread the wise words,  I realized that my romantic view of pilgrimage had hit the reality of the true cost of walking into the unknown with only Jesus beside me.  Being on pilgrimage meant going to a place that I would never ever have chosen to go.  Yet, that is where the path is leading.

I know that while God did not cause the flood, that God did not destroy my home and car, that God is indeed sending me on a pilgrimage that I do not want to be on. I know that there is hope. I know there is possibility and promise. But as I begin the third week of this unsought pilgrimage, the joy, if it is anywhere, is drowning in grief.

Christine Valters-Paintner writes, "[pilgrims] must leave behind everything that is familiar.....and carry forth only what is needed."

I have been forced by Houston flood waters to leave behind much that is beloved.  With God,  I will find my home with a new awareness of what home means.

Today I leave my two week temporary home with my kind and generous friends.  Tonight I will sleep in my next temporary home, a lovely house left vacant by other dear friends while they live for four years in Germany, they being on their own pilgrimage.

The name of the street that will be my address for the next several months is Halkirk.  Halkirk means "high church," with the sense of church (a place where people gather to be with God) being on a high hill, a place of safety and a ever-present visual reminder of God who is with us.

I will listen for God's call and invitation.