Half a decade ago today, I woke up in Cyprus, after a grueling trip beginning on the western coast of Ireland, a flight from Dublin, and hours on our bus from the airport in eastern Cyprus to our hotel on the west coast of Cyprus at 2:30AM. I know, poor me. The trip was my former spouse’s eightieth birthday trip, and while neither of us knew it then, I think we both began to suspect it would be our last big trip together, and not because of his age and health.
If you have been to Cyprus you are fortunate. If you haven’t been there, it is very biblical. It is a Mediterranean island, so most of the population is on the coast, but it is quite large, and comprised of mountainous desert in the interior. Cyprus is now half-Greek and half-Turkish. The Greek Cypriots are pretty resentful of that. St. Paul made Cyprus his first missionary stop, and along with the Cypriot St. Barnabas, used it as a lay-over for some of his other evangelical travels to spread The Good News.
We chose Cyprus because we could use that as our base for our two week stay, and to go to both the Holy Lands and Egypt, which we did. I am very grateful to have had the opportunity to travel so far and wide with my former spouse. He was a good traveling companion, at his best, actually, when we were traveling, and he was as curious about the world as I am. He wasn’t especially open-minded, but he was interested.
It is good to look back on this particular adventure, and reflect on the changes I have had in my life since. I think Cyprus had a lot to do with those changes. It was where I connected with my faith in a niggling sort of way. And now, I cannot imagine a day without that faith at the very epicenter of each breath. Hmmmm.