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Jim McCrory

Good Morning Germany! I Like Your Word Fernweh

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 24 Oct 2024, 09:33


You open your hand,

    and satisfy the desire of every living thing



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I was only a boy when my music teacher introduced me to the hauntingly beautiful music of Edvard Grieg. It was the kind of music that reaches deep into your soul and stirs something ancient and unnameable. Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite, especially Morning and In the Hall of the Mountain King, carried me far away, beyond the confines of the classroom, into a place where mountains stretched endlessly toward the heavens and fjords cut through the earth like jagged wounds of breath-taking beauty. That day, I was struck by a peculiar feeling—a homesickness for Scandinavia, as if I had lived there in some other time. I felt, with an intensity that has stayed with me all my life, that I was born in the wrong country.

The Germans have a word for this: Fernweh. It translates as a kind of homesickness but can have a twist. Instead of pining for a place you've been, it describes a longing for somewhere you've never visited. It's the pull of an unfamiliar land that somehow feels more like home than the ground beneath your feet.

As a boy, I couldn’t have understood Fernweh in such terms, but I felt it keenly. It was as if Grieg’s music unlocked a door within me, leading to a distant, mist-shrouded land I had yet to see but already loved. The ache that came with it was as real as homesickness, a longing so profound that it almost felt like loss. To this day, when I hear Grieg’s compositions, that sensation returns—a yearning for mountains I’ve never climbed, forests I’ve never wandered, and the crisp, cold air of Scandinavia that I’ve never breathed but know in my bones.

This feeling isn’t unique, though it is deeply personal. Whilst reading at the dentist yesterday, I read about the story of Pablo the Penguin from Disney’s The Three Caballeros fascinated me. Pablo, living in the icy expanse of Antarctica, dreams of warmth. He builds a little boat and sails toward the tropics, yearning for sunshine and palm trees. But once he reaches the warm seas of his dreams, something unexpected happens. He feels homesick. He misses the icy winds of Antarctica, the very place he had been so desperate to leave behind.

Pablo’s story resonates with me because it captures the paradox of longing. We yearn for something different, something distant and elusive, and yet, when we reach that place, there’s a chance we might long for the familiarity of where we began. I’ve often wondered if I would feel the same if I lived in Scandinavia. Would my heart still yearn for those fjords and snowy landscapes, or would I find myself pining for the rugged coasts and rolling hills of Scotland?

Like Pablo, I’ve come to understand that homesickness, whether for a place we know or one we imagine, is part of the human experience. It speaks to a deeper truth about us: we are creatures of longing. We seek out beauty, peace, and belonging, sometimes in distant lands or in the melodies of foreign composers. But this longing is often as much about the journey as it is about the destination.

For me, Scandinavia is a place where my soul feels it belongs, even though my body has only been there a few times. The mountains and fjords I dreamed of as a child feel as real to me as my own home. I wonder if this is because there is a part of us, perhaps, that has roots in many places. Some of those roots are nurtured by the landscapes we live in, while others are stirred by the music we hear, the stories we tell, or the dreams we dream. Additionally, my surname is Celtic where a rich history of Scandinavian connection once waved over these landscapes. Who knows if this rich connection is still impeded in our psyche.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Fernweh truly is: the recognition that we belong not just to one place, but to many. It is the ache of knowing there are pieces of ourselves scattered across the world, waiting for us to find them, in countries we’ve never visited, in melodies we’ve never heard, and in the hearts of people we’ve yet to meet.

Pablo may have longed for the warmth of the tropics, only to miss the cold of Antarctica, but perhaps that’s the nature of longing itself. It moves us forward, reminding us of the places that call to our souls, while always leaving room for the pull of home—wherever that might be.

My friends and I got to talking about God's future plans. Will faithful humans go to heaven or earth? Could the future Paradise that Jesus spoke of be somewhere that has not been revealed to us yet.? I am not sure. But one thing is sure: we will not be homesick.

You open your hand,

    and satisfy the desire of every living thing.

Psalm 145:16 WEB


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Jim McCrory

Their is Something about Norway That Captured My Heart

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Image by https://unsplash.com/@gunnarridder


In the early spring of 1999, I found myself walking the streets of Stavanger, a Norwegian city that had captured my imagination long before I ever arrived. For me, this was more than just a trip; it was the realization of a dream that had begun years earlier in a classroom in Scotland. Back then, I was a boy, unaware of the world beyond my small town, until one day, my music teacher introduced me to something extraordinary.

It was the Peer Gynt Suite that first sparked my fascination. As the music swirled around me, I was transported to a place of towering mountains and deep fjords, where the figure of Peer Gynt seemed to come alive. The melody was full of life and adventure, stirring something deep within me. Soon, I was at the library, eager to learn more. That’s when I discovered Edvard Grieg, whose music, rich with Norwegian folklore, spoke to me like nothing else. "In the Hall of the Mountain King" was especially captivating—the crescendo, the trolls, the excitement—it all felt like stepping into another world.

From then on, Norway became a land of dreams for me. I imagined its rugged beauty, ancient legends, and the people who lived among the fjords. Like Peer, I felt a restless yearning, a desire to explore and find meaning. Norway called to me, and I promised myself I would go there one day. I had no idea that this dream would come true in 1999.

Living in Stavanger fulfilled everything I had hoped for. The city, nestled between mountains and the North Sea, felt both modern and timeless. As I wandered its cobbled streets each day, I felt a deep connection to the land and its stories. It wasn’t just the striking landscapes—the fjords reaching endlessly or the bright summer skies—it was the sense of myth and history that seemed to permeate the very air. There was a quiet magic about it, a hum that reminded me of Grieg’s music and the spirit of Peer Gynt.

The natural beauty around Stavanger felt almost enchanted. The mountains rose like ancient fortresses, and during my solitary walks, I often thought of the trolls and the childhood tales that had once captivated me. Here, they didn’t feel distant at all. I would sit for hours by the fjords, listening to the wind echoing through the valleys, almost expecting to hear Grieg’s melodies accompanying the scene. Norway had a way of making the line between reality and myth blur.

But it wasn’t just the landscapes that made the year so special—it was the people. Norwegians had a deep sense of connection to their history and land. Their simplicity and quiet strength resonated with me. There was a humility about them, a quality that reminded me of the Christian values I held dear. Despite their reserved nature, there was a shared understanding of life’s deeper truths, and I felt a kinship with them.

Now, as I sit and reflect on that peaceful year, I find myself transported back to those moments, but not just as the man I am today. It’s as though I see myself in three stages: the wide-eyed boy, first discovering the magic of Peer Gynt; the man living his dream in 1999, exploring Norway’s landscapes; and the person I am now, reliving it all through memories. These moments are bittersweet, a mixture of joy and nostalgia, knowing that time has passed but the memories remain vivid.

If you happen to find yourself in Stavanger, perhaps wandering through its Old Town tonight, give a nod for old times' sake. Somewhere in those streets, I’m still walking, forever connected to the boy, the man, and the memories of all that Norway once gave me.


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