Berthed in Bergen.
Good to have two days to explore this place from which thousands of Norwegians sailed to America. Can’t imagine how bad things must’ve been or lofty the dreams to have left fjords, family and friends.
Tried to hear the recorded commentary as the bus threaded its way through Bergen earlier today. Two women seated nearby chatted loud enough for all to know their lunch plans and more. Now and then, they’d crank it up to shout at the driver, “Are we there yet? at #8?” Since they began at #3, I was tempted to yell, “Yes!”
One thing travel teaches, we can’t run away from who we are. Personality traits, fears, bents come along like excess baggage. The good news is, just a smidgeon of gratitude or humor’s there for the taking or giving for us or them.
Yesterday’s church service brought together a small gathering of the dutiful and the desperate. I was the later since it was Father’s Day and I missed the man who fathered our children, even if I was in Norway and he was half Swedish.
The retired Air Force chaplain who led the service read Psalm 136 and we repeated the refrain, “His Love endures forever.” I know I was supposed to just be thinking about God but …
After gliding through fjords on teal green waters Saturday evening, awed by tended fields, farms and houses pitched into steep mountainsides, we sang with fresh appreciation, “This Is My Father’s World.”
The chaplain reminded us, “We expect God, our Father, and earthly Dads to be there when needed. But, maybe it means more when they choose to just be there, needed or not.”
Love staked into the steeps of our lives.
Love listening while we shout, “Are we there, yet?”
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