Blog: Oh, the good old ti­mes!

I sud­den­ly re­mem­be­red a small, see­ming­ly unim­por­tant in­ci­dent from my yo­uth. I was about twen­ty and al­re­a­dy awa­re of my in­na­te im­pa­tient rest­les­s­ness, which I con­ti­nue to feel oc­ca­si­o­nal­ly. “Where should we go?” I of­ten as­ked then and still do to­day.

Blog: Is Sun­day not a day of rest any more?

I wake up on a Sun­day mor­ning to sounds from the neigh­bo­ring yards. On one yard the hou­se ow­ner is cut­ting fi­re­wood with a cir­cu­lar saw, on anot­her I can hear a lawn­mo­wer and a trim­mer. This ma­kes me won­der how dif­fe­rent­ly pe­op­le feel about spen­ding Sun­da­ys. Many of them post­po­ne so many week­ly cho­res till Sun­day that they need the whole day to do them.

Blog: Why do trees live lon­ger than pe­op­le?

I was plan­ting vi­o­lets and cree­pers in bo­xes on a sun­ny day of the ear­ly sum­mer, when a dis­mal thought oc­cur­red to me: Af­ter this spring, I may not be ab­le to do spring­ti­me plan­ting more than about twen­ty ti­mes in my li­fe­ti­me. I tried to find con­so­la­ti­on in the fact that I do not even love plan­ting par­ti­cu­lar­ly. But that was small com­fort that did not brigh­ten up my dep­res­sed mind! This small in­ci­dent sug­ges­ted two things that I would like to write about: gar­de­ning and the short­ness of hu­man life.

Blog: Fear not

These are fa­mi­li­ar and safe. They were spo­ken by an an­gel of the Lord to the shep­herds on the field. ”Fear not, for be­hold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the pe­op­le.  For un­to you is born this day in the city of Da­vid a Sa­vi­or, who is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2:10–11.) This por­ti­on of the gos­pel ac­cor­ding to Luke ma­kes us pau­se at the most im­por­tant mat­ter eve­ry Christ­mas.

Blog: A lit­t­le pie­ce of Christ­mas

We are in the depths of No­vem­ber and ap­p­ro­ac­hing the dar­kest time of ye­ar. No­vem­ber is of­ten rat­her grey and if the sun does hap­pen to ap­pe­ar, one must drop what they are doing and run out­si­de if at all pos­sib­le, and catch a few fast es­ca­ping rays. Ma­y­be that is the re­a­son why Fin­ns seem to al­most ne­ver sleep in the sum­mer; there is a need to take in as much light as pos­sib­le as the ot­her half of the ye­ar is so much dar­ker. It is not an unu­su­al sight to see so­me­o­ne ro­wing a boat at 3 am, in the stil­l­ness of the sum­mer night. The sky is pain­ted in pas­tels and the birds are sin­ging a noc­tur­nal con­cert. It is one of the things that make the Nor­dic count­ries so spe­ci­al, the very dis­tinct se­a­sons each with their own raw be­au­ty.

Blog: Our lit­t­le girl

I am sit­ting in the li­ving-room of a hou­se that is not ours, a hou­se where we are on­ly sta­ying tem­po­ra­ri­ly. I will try to ver­ba­li­ze even a small part of what we have ex­pe­rien­ced over the past few weeks. Our baby was born and is still ali­ve. It is a mi­rac­le! This lit­t­le one has ex­pe­rien­ced more hards­hips du­ring the first weeks of her life than most of us ex­pe­rien­ce du­ring our li­fe­ti­me. It has been a time of up­he­a­val for our whole fa­mi­ly.

Blog: Lon­ging for free­dom

The one who came in first was hol­ding a small bird in his hands. The bird was brui­sed and stiff with cold, see­ming­ly li­fe­less, but its he­art was be­a­ting un­der its dull-co­lo­red fe­at­hers.

Blog: Let us talk about faith

I am pon­de­ring and tur­ning sen­ten­ces around in my mind. I al­re­a­dy have a pile of pa­pers co­ve­red in wri­ting. But I am still won­de­ring if I should write about this to­pic, alt­hough my friend en­cou­ra­ged me to do so?

Blog: What is it like to grow old?

I have been a child, an ado­les­cent and a mid­d­le-aged lady, and I re­ti­red many ye­ars ago. So what? Each re­a­der of this blog has been a child and is now at some ol­der age. Gro­wing old and real old age are so­met­hing qui­te dif­fe­rent.

Blog: The thief with a saw

This is a story from the time when pe­op­le did not have mo­bi­le pho­nes. Nor were there any street lights or neigh­bors near the hou­se where all this hap­pe­ned.