The longer bus ride this morning was a relatively welcome opportunity to rest (and for Jessica to catch up on blogging and culling photos). We drove through wind and rain, sunshine and clouds, finally taking an afternoon stop in Kalmar at a castle on the Baltic Sea. Our allotted tour time was squeezed by a late morning departure and goals to make a scheduled supper time, and we were hurried off the bus with the instruction to be prompt.

Perhaps it’s jet lag; perhaps it’s being in a strange new place. But likely it’s the hurried state of mind and full tilt speed I’ve been struggling to maintain for the past 18 months. I grew anxious and flustered, pushed along by the crowds jostling to be first in line or to find the best Instagram photo op. And I was swept up, picking up walking speed to get to my unknown destination before anyone else could. I unsuccessfully fought the desire to see and do and experience all the things. More is better, and most is best – right?

By the time we finally found our way onto the ramparts for a view of the sea, we had just 5 minutes to sit and enjoy the view. Then we were herded back onto the bus for a two hour journey to our home for the night.

I collapsed into my bus seat, exhausted. I didn’t plan to find a Jonah to Joppa moment as I stared out the window at trees and ferns slipping by silently, matching tears that traced my cheeks. I didn’t expect that all the things I’d been running ahead of — if not away from — would catch me on this bus bumping across the countryside of southern Sweden. And as I listened to my music playlist on shuffle, I knew a divine hand was playing DJ and speaking directly to my heart as I listened. My Jonah moment had arrived: I realized the storm has reached my ship, and it is time to jump into the sea.
I fully trust that God will prepare a fish – but still I clutch the railing as the deck pitches wildly, the dark sea of unknowns roiling and thrashing into whitecaps.

This trip has been a glorious diversion from reality, but in a few days it is time to jump ship.

Please, please cripple me, so I can’t keep running away from You. (“Cripple Me”, Elenowen)

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We arrived in Växjö 30 minutes before dinner, and I struggled to find appetite or energy. I joined Julie for a walk to the supermarket after our meal, and just as all of my former international market visits, this one was not without adventure.

Julie was on the hunt for paprika-flavored Pringles (they are worth hunting), and I wanted to find knäckebröd to bring home. We found the tasty crisp bread aisle and heard an angel chorus as our eyes grew wide at dozens of options of bread and toppings. Our Swedish hearts swelled with pride, and our American brains were paralyzed by the multitude of options.

We finally grabbed a package somewhat at random and made our way to the checkout.

Now on the way into the supermarket, we had passed through a waist-high set of sliding glass doors. A similar set of doors stood just past the cashier’s line, and we walked up them expectantly. Nothing happened. Panic rose to my cheeks as I feared I’d be exposed as a non-local, as if my glazed eyes at the sight of knäckebröd and my dumb stare in response to, “Vill du ha kvittot?” hadn’t already done the deed.

Interminable seconds passed as my eyes darted about frantically, fixing on a small glass plate marked utpasseringskod scanneringen. I fished out my receipt and held its barcode to the glass wishfully, whispering an open-sesame plea as the doors slid open and I leapt through. We escaped with our lives (and knäckebröd), but left some dignity behind.

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It was a big day. I drew the curtains and fell into bed by 8 o’clock, with visions of castles and groceries dancing in my sea-swimming head.