(If you’d like to read the previous Iceland post, click: Piece of Cod)
One more moment to consider the Icelandic realm–on the night before our departure, Ella and I landed at a restaurant in downtown Reykjavik named Fiskfelagid (aka Fiskfélagið in the indecipherable Icelandic alphabet. In English, it’s the rather uninteresting “Icelandic Fish Company.”) Despite the mundane name, this restaurant featured the best sushi we’ve ever encountered–yes, Japanese-style sushi prepared by Nordic chefs. Keep in mind though, both Japanese and Icelanders are island peoples with access to the freshest possible catch; the fish we ate was likely pulled from the sea mere hours before.
Yet what captured our imagination that evening was not the cuisine, rather, it was our server, a young woman, perhaps twenty, who, during the time it takes to eat a meal, made the lasting impression we carry to this day. I honestly don’t remember her name, but we may call her Anna. In the course of the evening, we struck up a conversation with Anna that exceeded the bare minimum required for restaurant service; we relayed our purpose in Iceland, our 25th wedding anniversary–perhaps our personal details prompted her willingness to share a bit of her own story. Anna enthusiastically explained she lived with her parents outside of Reykjavik on the family farm, where they raised Icelandic horses. She provided excellent dinner service, but it quickly became apparent that horses were her true life’s passion.
She proceeded to explain the ins and outs of Icelandic riding, including the unusual gait and riding style of these diminutive horses. Much to our astonishment, she commenced a full theatrical demonstration, replicating a rider galloping along the black seashore, head held high, the wind whisking her horse’s mane high into the air. Envision a four-year-old bounding around the playroom on a stick horse, but with even more enthusiasm. The bemused patrons around us enjoyed the show, as we sheepishly realized we had lost control of the situation, as if we ever had it. Eventually the boundless, smiling Anna returned to our table-side: time for dessert.
If someone only ever has ten, twenty or thirty minutes of conversation with you, what is it they will remember? For this young woman, we recall her Icelandic horses, more importantly, her love for them and her willingness to display her passion and fervor with equestrian theatrics. We remember Anna for her enthusiasm about unexpected, endearing things. There was joy in her simple demeanor.
Last week Ella brought home a short anthology of C.S. Lewis’s writings, The Joyful Christian. It contains 127 excerpts from fifteen of his books, many of them touching upon the great struggles, hardships, and questions of the Christian faith. Yet out of these, Lewis draws the joyful Christian. The timing of this literary arrival is no accident, I’m sure. God has his purposes.
I do not, most of the time, perceive myself as a joyful believer. While I do hope that people see the joy I have in Christ, I confess I have fallen short of this goal many times (let this not be some artificial contrition). The joy I seek to demonstrate is not some fake, applique happiness. Rather, I yearn to reflect peace in the turmoil and trials of life, which hopefully translates to others as joy. In an unexpected moment, our Icelandic host reminded me that I too can make an impact on those whom God puts in my path–can I for a moment let simple joy shine through? Without shallowness, let me occasionally show as much enthusiasm for the Gospel as did this young woman for her horses.
