Proverbs 27:19 (ESV)—As in water face reflects face, so the heart of man reflects the man.
Gravel and dirt create swirls of black on a blue-and-white canvas on the icebergs floating in Jökulsárlón glacier lagoon. The blue of the iceberg comes from older layers of snow compressed into crystals. When light penetrates the iceberg, the crystals scatter the blue light.
Like the iceberg, I have swirls of black on the canvas of my life—a mix of the good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly. To me, the most important are the marks from the fruit of the spirit. These outward marks provide a picture of my heart to other people and to God. More important, when my attitudes and actions point toward God, I myself grow closer to him. I want to become like a crystal that absorbs God’s love and scatters his light.
Philippians 1:23–24 (NIV)—I am torn between the two: I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far; but it is more necessary for you that I remain in the body.
In Iceland, the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates rise above the surface of the earth in Þingvellir National Park. I walked the boardwalk between the two continents, head swiveling back and forth while I adjusted camera settings, pointed, and clicked. I wanted to live in the moment and capture the memories, because when else would I have the opportunity to stand between the continents? Probably never, because Iceland is the only place on the earth where the tectonic plates sit above sea level.
There is another place we, as Christians, stand: between heaven and earth. We have the ultimate example of standing between heaven and earth in the Apostle Paul, who strove to live between his ministry on earth and his reward in heaven. He found joy and encouragement in the spreading of the Gospel and in his fellow believers. He filled others with joy and encouragement through his letters. His life pointed to Christ, despite the metaphorical earthquakes of imprisonment and possible death.
Paul’s letter to the Philippians shows that our chance to stand between heaven and earth has no bounds. We are to mimic Christ in all situations. We are to live with our lives pointed to heaven.
Jeremiah 8:4–6 (NIV)—“Say to them, ‘This is what the Lord says: “‘When people fall down, do they not get up? When someone turns away, do they not return? Why then have these people turned away? Why does Jerusalem always turn away? They cling to deceit; they refuse to return. I have listened attentively, but they do not say what is right. None of them repent of their wickedness, saying, “What have I done?” Each pursues their own course like a horse charging into battle.
Before traveling to Iceland, my husband and I watched a comical cartoon video about driving in Iceland. One of the most memorable parts was a car running into a sheep and the sheep toppling over the car. Another part of the video detailed the blind crests and curves, showing one car crashing into the back of another. The important message came through: use care when driving and know the rules of the road.
Charging headfirst into Iceland without this knowledge speaks of disaster waiting to happen, and I can reliably inform you that sheep do roam freely around every bend in Iceland and tourists do stop their vehicles in the middle of the road to catch of glimpse of the sheep and the scenery.
I can imagine Jeremiah 8 as a cautionary video montage of dead bodies lying in the sun, statues of gods falling on top of people, the leaves of fig trees withering, a mass of people clutching their stomachs from hunger, and the voice-over repeatedly saying, “Repent! Ask, ‘What have I done?’”
Yet the people of Judah ignored God, instead stopping in the middle of the road to gaze at their foreign idols, among their other sins. They did not truly know God’s law and did not ask him to explain.
As God’s people, we can ask God how we ran into a sheep in the middle of the road. God wants us to ask, “What have I done?” and to repent. For when we ask, when we study God’s word, when we meditate on it, we receive answers and can stand up again and return to walking God’s path.
Jeremiah 29:14 (ESV)—I will be found by you, declares the Lord, and I will restore your fortunes and gather you from all the nations and all the places where I have driven you, declares the Lord, and I will bring you back to the place from which I sent you into exile.
Thousands of years ago, a cone-shaped volcano, Kerið, erupted, emptying its reserve of magma. The volcano’s cone then collapsed into the empty space, forming today’s Kerið crater. Sometime after the collapse, the chamber filled with water, and not muddy, brown water, but aquamarine water, colored by the minerals in the rocks. This tourist attraction has an embankment with streaks of red from iron deposits, and moss grows along the slope.
At times, we may feel as if our own life has erupted and emptied its magma chamber. We feel depleted and empty, alone and sorrowful, dreadful and tired. The weight becomes too much to bear, and the collapse shakes us even more. The emptiness presses in, filling our souls with muddy, brown water. Trusting in God in this moment feels like lifting a large boulder. Impossible.
But it’s not impossible. God wants us to seek him and find him. Then, amid the chaos of life, God offers us restoration, an aquamarine light at the end of the tunnel, a beautiful painting in tones of red, a glimpse of life among the rocky soil. He offers us a hope and a future; he offers to bring us back from our exile.
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.”
