As with most of my vacations, once I hit the ground in Iceland I was ready to go, go, go, with perfectly planned schedule in hand. One credit-card snafu at the campervan rental company later and we were already off schedule.
I perked up quickly after my husband drove us through many two-lane roundabouts in Reykjavík. The city buildings disappeared and tundra-like landscapes dotted with sheep—lots of sheep—came into view. And those cute Icelandic horses, too!
At our first stop, also unplanned, at a scenic pullout, my husband pulled down the backseat bed and napped, claiming fatigue after our early morning flight from Chicago.
Me, I was ready to explore, but since we were in the middle of nowhere on the only major road in the country, I sat on the grassy hill and stared at the crashing waves. The September wind nipped at my face and echoed in my ears. I whispered a prayer of thanks for this adventure and this moment of quiet, reflecting on God’s blessings in my life.
But enough with the quiet. I was ready to have an adventure and hit every spot in my carefully planned (and slightly altered) itinerary. I opened the van door as quietly as possible. My husband was out cold in the backseat bed. I grabbed my camera and slid the door shut with a quiet thunk. I paced the hillside and took pictures of the view while I waited, sometimes staring at the van, willing my husband to wake up—and eventually he did.
For days, we explored museums about Iceland’s history alongside the other shoulder-season tourists. We meandered through villages. We watched waterfalls tumble over cliffs and glaciers calve icebergs. These were all amazing sights, but the highlight of the trip didn’t happen during the day among throngs of other people.
Every night I set an alarm on my phone for one in the morning, and every night I peeked out the window, hoping for a glimpse of the northern lights. One night, it happened. I shook my husband awake and my excited whisper filled the van. “There are green squiggles in the sky. I think it’s the northern lights.” (Sometimes I make the most brilliant comments.)
Indeed, it was the northern lights, my husband confirmed.
We bundled up, because September nights in Iceland bring a chill to the air. I set up my camera for long-exposure photos and glanced at the star-filled sky. A glorious display, for sure. But my mind stayed more focused on my photography than on the show in front of me or my husband beside me.
Change the shutter speed. Change the ISO. Wait for the click of the camera. Check the quality of the photo. Readjust settings. Repeat.
In this story, I feel like Martha in Luke 10. I worried about staying on schedule, seeing every sight, and capturing every moment on camera. I was worried about everything except the right things.
Yes, Iceland is beautiful and it’s nice to have pictures. But the most important part of any vacation is spending time with my husband (and yes, he still teases me about calling the northern lights squiggles).
“Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”
—Luke 10:41–42
