on a quest for something meaningful

Before Lars and I embarked on our trip to Norway earlier this month, my sister Bekah asked me to give her a prayer request. After the obvious things, like safety and good communication, something abnormal popped out of my mouth.

“Pray that I would have three good conversations,” I said, without a second thought.

She prayed, I went inside and promptly forgot all about my petition.

But God didn’t.

Norway was a dream. From the moment we first laid eyes on the country, we were delighted. Our eyes were very sleep-deprived, red, and bleary at the time, but through the rounded edges of the plane window, we caught glimpses of thick, lumpy forests, vast blue fjords, and a landscape dotted with colorful houses like ornaments.

We were so caught up in all the new sights, sounds, and experiences—have you ever driven an EV before!?

A few times, the thought of the three conversations emerged, unbidden, in my mind. Would I have three conversations? Would I have more? What would become of this request? Did I trust God would provide these conversations? Was that His will? How much effort did I have to put into this quest? Every time I approached someone, I wondered—was this one of the three conversations?

I had conflicting thoughts and emotions about my objective. On the one hand, I thought I had to “make” these conversations happen. On the other, I realized that if this was a God thing, He would bring it to pass and I wouldn’t have to force it. In the end, I coasted. I didn’t know how or where to make these conversations happen or even have a meter to gauge whether or not a discourse qualified as “good.” So I left it. I didn’t really think they were going to occur.

Imagine my shock when, five days into our trip, and knee-deep in a discussion with a fellow Airbnb guest I realized this was the first conversation.

We were in Stordal, a short jaunt from the Geirangerfjord. We’d just traveled up a tremendously frightful road full of hairpin turns and a 10% incline. The drive was probably the most beautiful and the most terrifying I’ve ever experienced, with roads that narrowed to barely the width of two cars, and skilled European drivers navigating them at impossible speeds.

The Airbnb we stayed at was a sweet, quiet, country home, with an upper level we shared with another couple. This couple was from France and were open, kind, and spoke with a delightful accent. Our host, Bjørg, initially introduced us in passing, and I thought that was that. However, that evening, when I went to make coffee for Lars, I ran into the couple again in the hall and they stopped to chat.

We swapped travel stories, little snippets of our lives at home, and malheureusement, we neglected to exchange names! But, that brief conversation felt so human, so real, that I was overjoyed. Connecting with others is one of the things I love most, and to be able to do that despite a language and culture barrier is something I will never take for granted!

Taking my leave of that conversation, I recall thinking, if that is the only conversation I have, it will have been enough.

But you know God—He likes to do more than we can ask or imagine.

Our next leg of the journey brought us to a coastal town called Ålesund. It was stunning. The diversity of Norway astounded me. We were surrounded by mountains, fjords, and rivers, but when we emerged along the coastline, we were met with beaches that looked like they belonged in a tropical land! We stopped (obviously!) for a walk along the sand, the salty spray spackling our legs and the breeze carrying the sticky humidity of the sea. It was breathtaking!

When we returned to Ålesund, we walked along the streets, exploring. We were engrossed in Google Maps when we heard a familiar voice shout, “ah! Bonjour!” We looked up, stunned. Who did we know in Norway?

It was our French friends from the Airbnb! We stopped to chat on the street for a little while, knowing this might be the last time we ever saw each other.

I think this is my favorite part about vacation: not feeling the need to be locked into a certain timeframe. There’s no rush to get anywhere, so you can take your time, pause, and allow room for unexpected things to happen without any stress.

After saying our farewells and bonne chances, Lars and I carried on, planless and carefree.

Clouds began gathering for a downpour, so we searched for shelter. We stumbled across a cute coffee shop and, crib board in hand, we decided to hunker down for a while. We ended up staying for over two hours drinking hot bevvies, playing crib, and chatting with the barista, Noah. He and Lars bantered back and forth, laughing like old friends. The whole exchange felt so raw. There was no use in pretending, so we didn’t. We felt at home and it felt authentic. And, beyond all my sincere beliefs that it would occur, it was the second conversation.

It’s incredible when people feel free to be themselves, no holds barred. As humans, we are built for connection, relationships, and community, and getting to see that in action, to be a part of that—it’s one of my favorite feelings in the world! Our time with Noah was just that, and more. My heart glowed.

We were nearing the end of our trip at this point, and I felt doubtful that I would experience the third conversation. Still, I felt content. The two conversations we’d had seemed too good to be true. We’d known and been known, and isn’t that the whole point?

The last two days passed by in a blur of driving, rain, driving rain, and audiobooks. The only people we saw were busy convenience store attendants, and our interactions consisted of admitting we didn’t speak Norwegian, banalities about the weather and one’s health, and chirpy farewells, “Thanks, have a nice day!”

As we repacked our suitcases in the hotel room on our final night, both tired and ready to spend some time at home, my mind surged with gratitude. I was here, in Norway, with my best friend. We’d just explored a totally new country and it went well despite our novice travel planning skills. We’d had two really good conversations. We’d seen and experienced things that expanded our knowledge of the world, ourselves, and each other.

Thanks, God!

Our flight necessitated an early start, so we rose in the morning, once again bleary-eyed, and broke our fast at the hotel. We hurriedly shoveled bites of hash brown, bacon, and oranges into our mouths, checking the time at regular intervals—I so wasn’t ready to be a slave to the clock again!

The first plane to Amsterdam was running late, meaning our transfer time had slowly dwindled to almost nothing by the time we landed. The final conversation was the last thing on my mind as we disembarked, sprinted to passport control, and ran to our next gate, where passengers were already boarding.

Heaving a sigh of relief when we finally boarded the plane, I stuffed my bag under the seat in front of me and flopped down. For a change, Lars took the window seat and I sat in the middle, imagining who my neighbor would be.

The lady who eventually emerged was dainty, almost birdlike in her mannerisms. She sported a short, chestnut bob, and delicate features, and introduced herself as Béatrice. She appeared timeless; not young, not old, but wise.

The thought of the three conversations leapt to mind, and I smiled—here was the third conversation, on the very last flight, my very last opportunity. I hadn’t had to orchestrate any of the conversations, they had simply arrived when I least expected. I was glad, because this way, people didn’t feel like projects, I was merely seizing opportunities as they came and connecting with new friends along the way.

Then I stopped smiling because Béatrice had implanted her earbuds and was already selecting a movie to watch. Was I really to get this close, so close I could almost taste it, and then have it wrenched away?

This flight was long. Nine hours of sitting is a LOT. Lars and I played crib, read, and watched a movie together to pass the time. Béatrice watched a movie, napped, and worked on her phone. Finally, only an hour of flight time remained.

Béatrice was inputting dates, times, and places into her phone, which aroused my curiosity. She was also typing in French. Our first exchange had been in English, but I decided to try.

«Qu’est-ce que vous faites?» I asked what she was doing. Immediately, she beamed. In beautiful French, she told me she taught Harpsichord at Juilliard and the Conservatoire in Paris and was on her way to a music festival in Lethbridge. She was preparing her schedule for concerts and teaching in the fall on her phone.

The door was open and it was not closing. She showed me countless pictures of her travels, family, and work. We shared bits of our lives with each other, smiling, laughing, and recounting stories. We talked until the plane landed, and then some more. We exchanged email addresses. I was floating.

I had wanted something meaningful. I had wanted connection and community, even for the brief time we were away in Norway. And I had gotten much more than I had asked or imagined.

I think the craziest part of this experience for me is knowing that God cares about my little hopes and dreams. He definitely brought the conversations about in His timing and way, but there was no doubt that it mattered to Him. My silly quest for something meaningful wasn’t something I had to conjure up or fabricate for myself—God brought it about, in ways I couldn’t have fathomed.

Sometimes, as a writer, I imbue meaning where maybe there isn’t any (or does that mean it does have meaning?). But this experience felt beyond just me. I believe that is because it wasn’t just about me. It involved connections, community, and real, live, unpredictable people.

It was beautiful. Norway was beautiful. And I am so grateful for this experience. It reminded me to leave margin for God in my plans, because His are far beyond my wildest imaginings. Most of all, it reminded me that God loves people. He loves connections. And He loves when we pause for long enough to notice and care for the people around us. And that, I think, is more meaningful than we will ever know.