One Small Tender Moment

A Soul Vitamin

Kjosfossen Waterfall, a stop on the Flåm Railway. Like standing in the middle of thunder.

Some years ago, in June of 2014, I was on Norway’s celebrated Flåm Railway heading from Aurlandsfjord (sea level) up to Myrdal (2900 feet elevation). It’s a stunning journey with incredible vistas of mountains and waterfalls, winding through vertiginous passes and numerous tunnels. Besides the pure delight of riding on a train, which I love, the interior decor of blonde wood and red upholstered bench seating added to the old-world charm.

That day, I was with my Norwegian “sister,” Sidsel, who I’ve known since I was 8. She was an AFS student then, the same age as my older sister, and she stayed with us for a year when we lived in Knoxville, Tennessee. After that year, she took up residence in our hearts and never left. In 2014, I visited Sidsel, and she showed me around her beautiful country.

As I mentioned, there was plenty of beauty to take in, but — I hope you don’t find this odd — the thing I remember most stands out in utter clarity. On the train we sat facing an elderly couple, probably in their late 80s, maybe older, both on the shorter side, a little stout, and dressed in a manner I can only describe as old-fashioned — did she have a kerchief covering her white hair? In my mind, they were almost like people who’d wandered out of a fairy tale, hopped on board, said let’s see where it takes us.

They were quiet and spoke little and did not really make eye contact with anyone else, but for reasons unknown to me they drew my attention.

At one point in the two-hour journey, the woman got out a paper sack and pulled two wrapped sandwiches from it, handing one to her husband, who took the packet, said something to her in a low voice, and they quietly ate, looking at the floor, out the window, chewing thoughtfully. It was as if they were on the train all by themselves.

Then came a moment when she glanced at him, and with staggering tenderness reached over with a napkin, and, as if he was a small child, dabbed at the corners of his mouth, the pure look of love on her face smacking me so sideways that I began to weep.

And then whatever it was passed. They finished their sandwiches in silence. I wiped my eyes and collected myself, feeling embarrassed at being so overcome with no explanation. Of course, my mother had just died months before, leaving me orphaned at 63, my father having died five years earlier. They’d been married for 67 years.

But somehow that moment with two strangers transcended my grief about my own parents. It was like a veil being pulled back to give me a momentary glimpse of something gleaming and holy. Her simple gesture, but with a lifetime of storied love behind it.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the power of that and other small, tender moments — I bet you’ve experienced them, too. This one is still blessing me in some way, even 11 years later. I guess that’s just part of the deep, rolling mystery of grace.

I’m paying more attention these days, trying to slow down, wanting to make sure I don’t miss such gifts when they come my way. From time to time, I’ll share them here with you. I hope you’ll store up some to share, too.

The burdens we bear can weigh us down, the hard, dark things that greet us everyday in the news cycles are so corrosive, so depleting. Yet, these little trails of brightness are nourishing to me. Like vitamins for my soul. Maybe for you as well. And maybe, taken on a regular basis, we’ll discover we’re being strengthened, even a little bit renewed.

P.S. I want to say the most enormous thanks to all of you lovely subscribers — nearly 1,100 of you! I’m happy to continue keeping my content free, and also equally happy when readers feel moved to support my work financially and help me keep the lights on. May boatloads of megablessings flow lavishly over every one of you. Y’all mean the world to me.

No, I did not wear these in Norway, but, oh, how I wanted to.