Larry's Scandinavian Discovery
Two birds, a stone, atonement and salvation
Larry took a few moments to look at his favorite stone—an emerald gemstone his grandmother had given to him before she passed away. He had attached it to his high-powered digital camera in order to look at it from time to time and give his eyes a break from his work—sometimes his eyes got tired of looking at the electronic images of birds that he made for a living. It was his first trip to Norway, and he still had to travel through Sweden, Finland, and Denmark to complete his journey. He had wanted to go farther north in Norway and even perhaps visit Iceland and The Faroe Islands, but on this particular trip, he simply didn’t have the time.
He spotted a bird on the ground about ten meters away. He needed to capture that image for his assignment, but for some reason he couldn’t take his eyes off the emerald stone. The bird flew away.
A few minutes later, he spotted a rare bird enjoying its time perched on a branch of a barren pear tree. Once again, he found himself unable to stop looking at the emerald stone, and the bird flew away.
He decided he needed a break. He put his camera away and started walking along a clear path through the trees. Soon enough, it lead to a clearing with a frozen pond, and some boys were playing ice hockey on it. He watched them play from afar for what seemed to be only a few minutes, but when he looked at his watch, he saw that half of an hour had passed.
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Three years later, Larry was back in school—this time as a science teacher. After spending a few years as a photographer, he had in Norway arrived at the conclusion that a picture does not, in fact, say a thousand words. He felt that he was doing a disservice to people by spreading images of birds. How could the beauty and grace truly be recreated with mere pixels or film? It was impossible, and even the attempt somehow felt wrong to him.
In the winter he coached ice hockey. He wished he could have held the practices outdoors on a pond like that one in Norway, but he was grateful to have indoor facilities nonetheless. A couple weeks before winter vacation, he held his grandmother’s emerald, which was now separated from that expensive camera. The reflection of the light from the table lamp onto the emerald sparked an idea, and at that moment he decided to sell his camera.
Two weeks later, he was flying on an airplane farther north than he had ever been. He had studied the best places to view the aurora borealis. He did not bring any cameras of any kind. When he saw the green, the red, the pink, the violet and the white lights of the aurora borealis for the first time, he began to talk to God:
“Dear God, as I gaze in awe upon the splendor of your creation, I ask you for your forgiveness. I ask you to spare me from the punishment of Hellfire. I ask you to guide me and keep me firmly upon the path of uprightness, to keep me away from the evils of this world and keep me away from evil inclinations within myself. Dear God, please forgive me for my sins.
Dear God, let the same light that guided the prophets and guides the people who are steadfast and true guide me also, and let the light of faith illuminate my heart and inform my every decision. When I do die, I humbly ask you to let it be an easy death after a long life full of good deeds. Help me purify my intentions and seek knowledge and wisdom. I ask you to accept from me the good deeds that I have done and bring me closer to you. Amen.”
Within a year, God guided Larry to Islam. He now prays five times a day, every day, and his heart glows with more light than the aurora borealis.
About the Creator
Clemin Thyme
WELCOME
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fiction (The Belfast Bull, Larry's Scandinavian Discovery, Imagine Imagining Dragons)
essays (Williams' Wheelbarrow, None Braver than a Lifesaver)
haikus (Revelation, relaxation, time)
poem (the things wind carried)
Keep reading
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“One Day, I Realized Nobody Was Coming to Save Me—So I Saved Myself”
For the longest time, I believed my life was simply paused. Not broken. Not finished. Just waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the right person. Waiting for something—anything—to arrive and change everything. I didn’t know exactly what I was waiting for, but I was sure it would come. People always said things like “It’ll get better” or “Your time will come”, and I clung to those words like promises written in invisible ink. I believed that if I endured long enough, life would eventually reward my patience. So I waited. I waited quietly, because I didn’t want to be a burden. I waited politely, because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I waited silently, because I didn’t even know how to explain what was wrong. From the outside, my life looked acceptable. I functioned. I showed up. I smiled when it was expected of me. I laughed at jokes that didn’t reach my heart. I answered “I’m fine” so often that it started to feel like muscle memory. But inside, something was eroding. Every day felt heavier than the last, like I was carrying a weight that kept growing while no one was looking. I woke up tired, went to bed tired, and spent the hours in between pretending I wasn’t. There was a quiet exhaustion that sleep couldn’t touch—a tiredness that came from constantly hoping for relief that never arrived. I thought suffering had to be loud to be real. I thought pain needed witnesses to matter. Mine had neither. There was no dramatic breaking point, no single moment when everything fell apart. Instead, it unraveled slowly. Almost gently. Like a thread pulled so gradually you don’t notice the fabric weakening until it’s too late. I kept telling myself, Just hold on a little longer. Surely someone would notice. Surely someone would step in. Surely life wouldn’t let me keep feeling this way forever. But life did. And then one day—an ordinary day that didn’t announce its importance—I realized something that changed everything. Nobody was coming. That realization didn’t arrive with clarity or relief. It arrived like grief. Heavy. Sharp. Unforgiving. I remember sitting alone, staring at nothing in particular, and feeling the truth settle into my bones. There would be no rescue. No sudden turning point delivered by someone else’s effort. No moment where everything magically aligned and lifted me out of my own life. It wasn’t that people didn’t care. It was that everyone was busy surviving their own storms. I had been waiting for someone to save me from a life that only I was living. And for a while, that realization shattered me. I felt abandoned by the world, betrayed by hope itself. I questioned every prayer I had whispered into the dark, every moment I had chosen patience over action. I wondered if I had misunderstood life completely—if the promises I believed in were never meant for people like me. I mourned the version of myself who thought endurance alone was enough. There is a special kind of loneliness that comes from realizing your pain is invisible. That no matter how heavy it feels to you, the world keeps moving at the same pace. Bills still need to be paid. Responsibilities still demand attention. Smiles are still expected. So I kept going. But something inside me had cracked open. Once you see the truth, you can’t unsee it. And the truth was this: waiting had become my hiding place. Hope, without action, had become an excuse to stay small. I had been standing still, convincing myself that stillness was strength. It wasn’t. Saving myself didn’t begin with confidence. It began with fear. Fear of staying the same. Fear of waking up ten years later in the same emotional place. Fear of realizing that I had wasted my own life waiting for permission to live it. I didn’t suddenly become brave. I became tired of being helpless. The first steps were almost embarrassing in their simplicity. There was nothing poetic about them. No montage-worthy transformation. Just small decisions that felt enormous at the time. Getting out of bed even when my body begged me not to. Choosing one task, then another, then another. Letting myself admit—quietly—that I was not okay. Some days, saving myself meant setting boundaries that made other people uncomfortable. I learned how often my exhaustion came from overextending myself to earn love, approval, or relevance. Saying no felt selfish at first. It felt wrong. But it also felt like oxygen. Other days, saving myself meant sitting alone with my feelings instead of numbing them. No distractions. No pretending. Just honesty. That was harder than any physical effort I had ever made. Facing your own thoughts can feel like standing in front of a mirror that refuses to lie. I began to understand something no one had taught me: healing is not linear, and it is rarely beautiful. It’s messy. Inconsistent. Frustrating. Some days feel like progress, others feel like failure. But both are part of the same road. There were days I missed the comfort of waiting. Waiting meant responsibility belonged to someone else. Taking control meant accepting that my life—every imperfect part of it—was in my hands. That was terrifying. But it was also freeing. As I slowly rebuilt myself, I noticed something else. Not everyone wanted to walk with me into this new version of myself. Some people preferred the me who needed saving. The me who was easier to control, easier to dismiss, easier to define. Outgrowing people hurts. Outgrowing places hurts. Outgrowing old versions of yourself hurts most of all. But staying the same hurts longer. I lost connections I thought were permanent. I stepped away from spaces that no longer fit who I was becoming. Loneliness returned—but this time, it was different. This loneliness felt honest. It didn’t come from abandonment; it came from alignment. I learned that being alone while growing is far healthier than being surrounded while shrinking. Strength, I discovered, isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t demand recognition. Strength shows up quietly, day after day, in the choices you make when no one is watching. It shows up when you keep going even though the results are slow. When you forgive yourself for falling back into old habits. When you choose patience with yourself instead of punishment. There were setbacks—many of them. I stumbled. I doubted myself. I wondered if I was doing everything wrong. But this time, I didn’t collapse and wait for someone else to fix the damage. I picked myself up. Again and again. And something unexpected happened as I kept choosing myself: the world didn’t suddenly become easier, but I became stronger. Problems that once felt unbearable became manageable. Pain that once consumed me became something I could sit with without losing myself. I stopped asking, Why is this happening to me? I started asking, What can I do with what’s happening? That question changed everything. Today, my life is not perfect. I still have days when old fears resurface. I still feel tired sometimes. I still wish things were easier. But I no longer wait for rescue. I trust myself now. I trust that even if things fall apart, I will be there to put them back together. I trust that my worth doesn’t depend on who shows up for me. I trust that I am capable of building a life that feels like my own. And maybe the most important thing I’ve learned is this: realizing nobody is coming to save you is not a sentence. It’s an invitation. An invitation to stop shrinking. An invitation to take responsibility for your healing. An invitation to become the person you’ve been waiting for. If you’re reading this and you feel stuck—if you feel invisible, exhausted, or quietly breaking—I want you to know this: you are not weak for waiting. You were doing the best you could with what you knew. But you don’t have to wait anymore. Sometimes, saving yourself doesn’t mean changing everything. It means choosing yourself once—then choosing yourself again tomorrow. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that the moment nobody came was the moment your life truly began.Start writing...
By Ihtisham Ulhaq6 days ago in Motivation
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