Â鶹Éç

Good morning. 

In 2008 the academic and novelist, Sarah Moss, got a job in Iceland. During her year there, she spent many hours talking to people and collecting their stories.          

A fellow Brit – who’d become an Icelandic citizen – told her about working on farms when he arrived in the 1960s.  One was in the Borgafjordur area, north west of Reykjavik.  He’d expected to be living a remote, isolated life but, although the farms were miles apart, they were visible because of the lack of trees and vegetation.  When darkness fell early in the Icelandic winter, and all the lights of the farms in the valley were switched on – he didn’t feel alone at all.  Others were near.

When he got up on a frosty morning, he could hear in the massive stillness  – two miles away - somebody slamming the door of their farmhouse.  The old farmer he worked for told him that he used to go down to the river which separated his district from the next one; there he’d stand and shout across to the farmer on the other side, exchanging news.  These Icelandic rivers are fast and loud, and they had to bellow above the noise of the water.

They’re such arresting images: shouting greetings and news across a broiling river in the vast Icelandic landscape; seeing the twinkling lights of your neighbour in the darkness, miles away.    Knowing others are near, even if  - for the time being - just out of reach. 

Loving God, if we’re separated from those we love this morning, keep us close in heart and minds, we pray.  Amen.