leaving Skjolden
I’m going to tell you a sad story.
Our Norwegian tour guide’s name is Gunnar, which is the name of the son Mike and I do not have because we are too old and already have seven children. But we pick a name, anyway.
I’m going to tell you a sad story is how Gunnar’s stories all start. The one about the 150 sheep that died in a fire in that barn over there, the fire started by the door you see. They couldn’t get them out. Sure enough, there is a charred barn by the side of the road. It is also a sad story when a man wants to pass his hotel down to one of his three children, all of whom die in rapid succession. One is suicide, and I forget the second one. The last has just taken possession and goes on vacation with his wife and newborn child to Thailand. In December, 2004. They die in the same tsunami that Mike, a Marine stationed in Okinawa, responds to as part of the relief effort.
But if I am remembering the story correctly, before the third child is married to his current spouse, the one that dies in the tsunami with him, he has another child. That child starts out cleaning toilets but is Managing Director of…Something at the hotel now. The family legacy lives on, so not only a sad story.
The Norwegian fatalism is a stark contrast with a land so beautiful you can hardly breathe. It is hard to live in these mountains. Farms are for cows and sheep because the growing season is too short for vegetables. Cows and sheep are typical, but Gunnar says this like type-ical and as someone trying to learn Swedish I understand why this happens.1 Many roads are open only from April until September. And do we understand how hard it was to build these roads and bridges? The one we are passing over right now now, the one with a waterfall on either side? They don’t have very good security back then - he means safety - so one slip and it’s Heaven next!2
Gunnar says heaven next almost as much as he says I am going to tell you a sad story. Maybe it is a Norwegian saying, because I have never heard it elsewhere. It makes a strange kind of sense, here. You feel so close to heaven already. If the last sight you see as you lose your footing is one of the most beautiful waterfalls in the world, is that all bad? What a way to go.
It also strikes me as somehow optimistic in spite of the tone in which it’s uttered, said in a way that Americans would say Oh no! But if your current reality looks like this, what is the improvement?
Sjkolden, Norway, when I am first getting there.
Only heaven obviously. That’s next. And I think maybe they believe it. Not hell next, not who even knows what next. Heaven next. They build a church in Lom, part of which dates to the twelfth century. It is like an upside down Viking ship inside because they know how to build viking ships. It is guarded by dragons because they have become Christians somewhat recently and one cannot be too careful. Best to cover your bases whether you are going to heaven or Valhalla. Maybe it is both. Next.
I am going to tell you a sad story.
This one is about five young men bringing reindeer meat to Skjolden and then to Bergen where they can trade for the salt they need. Perhaps they are trading with my ancestors, the ones who live in Bergen3 But this is a sad story, and the five young men are lost in a blizzard. The youngest is fifteen. By lost I mean they die in the blizzard, not just that they get lost in it. It’s heaven next.
I am going to tell you a sad story.
The first time I take a cruise, I am on my honeymoon. I don’t write on my honeymoon; I don’t even take my laptop. I take an alive husband, too many books, not enough sandals, and a camera with which I take five million pictures. I take this picture of my husband, asleep outside of Grand Cayman, with ocean water looking like pool water, his phone and a Clive Cussler book in his lap. He loved Clive Cussler. Does my husband know that I like to take pictures of him sleeping? I have several. It is almost too idyllic to be real.
We are not home a month before we find out Mike has cancer. Heaven next. When the doctor tells him, Mike says
I guess when it’s your time, it’s your time.
But optimism is a little funny. whether it’s in Norway or in Denver at the VA. One chaplain asks Mike if he wants…religious counseling? religious instruction? I can’t remember how he phrases it. Mike tells him that he does not believe in God or in Christianity, and the chaplain says - out loud - How do you keep going, then? We are annoyed, at the time. What a thing to say.
Mike keeps going becasue he has a wife and children he desperately does not want to leave. We need him, here. We don’t want there to be next, yet. But this is a sad story.
Or is it? I can never quite decide. Have you felt a love so big it could fill oceans and galaxies? A love that survives time, space, dimension, and death? It’s hard to think of anything more beautiful than that.
As we sail away from Skjolden, I sit on my balcony for two hours. This cruise is billed as a Norwegian fjords cruise, but today is truly the money shot. This is the fjord. And every time we move, it becomes more spectacular. I keep taking pictures because I am convinced that I have just seen the most perfect view until the next arrives. Another waterfall, the perfect red barn (sheep all fine, God willing). Heaven next indeed. And next, and next, and again. May we find it - and keep finding it - where and how we will.
It even makes more sense. Type-ical like being of the most common type. Maybe we should all be saying it this way.
True story; As soon as Gunnar says heaven next for the second time, I know it is the title of my next Substack. before I even know what I am writing about.
shoutout to Ingelbret Ingelbretsdottir
You make me wonder which of us has the sad story.