Back in 2012, I received my first introduction to modern Pagan practice. I had reached out to a spiritual teacher a few months before this point and was doing small tasks for him as we got to know each other. As I was living closer to the coast at that point, he asked me to scout the nearby Boston harbor for a good place to have a ritual for the newest god- pole addition to his land. (Or, to be more faithful to his exact words, “a place near ships to dunk a log and sing.”)

It ended up being far easier than I had feared to find a good place and describe where it was, but when the ritual came around a week or so later, it ended up being one of those days for me. You know, one of those. Not only did I sleep through my alarm as all classic “those days” start, but I found myself lost looking for the very place I had described in an email only days before. I eventually sat down in defeat against some concrete building, holding my cell phone that had just reached the same answering machine for the third time while watching the boats go by. There was no call back until the ritual was well over (reasonably), so I only ended up loitering around the wet log with a smattering of people I didn’t really know, but it was nice enough.

Then the next high holiday rolled around and the god-pole was to be placed in the ground. I didn’t quite know what the right thing to do was at that point, so I found myself sitting by an unlit bonfire with a member of the group who didn’t feel moved to join in the dedication. While trying to make small talk, I experienced something I have since learned this group was affectionately infamous for: enthusiastic pronunciation correction.

“So, that pole is going in for… Nuh-johrd?”

“Njord.”

We chatted some more until the singing at the far end of the field wrapped up, then the festivities continued along. The N’whatever god mostly slipped from my mind amid the flood of information that is Paganism 101. Months later I was heading down to the ritual field by myself, I think to collect something that had been forgotten. I can say for sure it was during the height of summer, though, because I clearly remember clipping up my hair as far away from my sweaty neck as possible in a sadly futile act of desperation. At some point I happened to glance across the field where that pole with all the fishing nets on it had been firmly planted a few months previously, and it was like a lightning bolt shot down my body to strike me between the legs. And it was a very friendly lightning bolt. I looked away with what I feel was an appropriate amount of shock and hurriedly continued about my business. I will admit that I did glance over again a couple more times, though honestly it was probably a good five or ten more times. I eventually tried pointedly looking at other poles and thinking of other things when I looked back to Him, yet the only thing that seemed to cause this notable reaction was whether or not I was looking at that one particular carved log.

But that was crazy, and I was obviously being crazy, and I had a sizable folder of official documents about my crazy saying that I had a solid and reliable history of being crazy, so I decided with great pride in my self- awareness to simply take that as one more crazy to disregard and never let grace the light of day. And I did a really wonderful job of that … until my teacher said something off-hand and remarkably poignant three months later that caused my eyes to go wide and mild panic to set in. I talked to him about that hot summer day (probably with more disclaimers than actual content) and there were some bluntly forthright Tarot cards thrown down, all followed by many more months of confusion, anxious indecision, and a completely unreasonable amount of sailor-related motifs everywhere I turned.

Now, over five years later, I find myself sitting at my laptop organizing a number of submissions for a devotional to this deity who has become a part of my life to the point that I carry His mark permanently on my flesh. Yet what keeps coming to mind when I try to add my part is how confused and reluctant I was to pursue Him in the beginning. More than anything it was simply wondering, why? He was first explained to me as a Deity of Sailors and Fishermen. At that point I had a long-held aversion to sailing, and when a childhood friendship with a lobster went horribly wrong, that aversion firmly included fishing. So why would Njord think there could be any devotional affinity between us?

Yet the more I read and learned about Him, the more I understood. So when I was called to end my twenty-one-year streak of being a vegetarian, He and His son Frey were there, offering Their warm smiles to the child in me who still couldn’t quite let go. When therapy took a turn for some long unresolved issues, He offered to be the Good Father who held me and slowly drew the poison out of the phrase “don’t rock the boat”. And when I asked why I had always seemed to get laid far more often when I drank a lot of rum, He also kindly cleared up the reasons for that particular blessing in my life.

But even with all the ways I found myself drawn to Him and what He offered, there was a big, overarching theme of His that made things clear: He’s a peacemaker between warring sides, and the very act of having anything to do with me is a fulfillment of that role. That’s because I’m a Christian.

I’m not going to discuss here how that part of my spirituality works itself out—enough Christians have taken up space reserved for Pagan deity, often in a painfully literal way — so let’s just take it on good faith that I’m first and foremost about the big J.C. and that he was the one who got me into polytheism to begin with. So as I was finding my footing in places where Christians don’t have the best history of relations (to put it mildly), it seems reasonable that this Pagan God of truces and frith-making would be the first one I got to know.

From what I can tell, these two peacemakers have been forming the foundations for this bridge for a while now, and its construction is a primary focus of my devotional practice. In a literal representation of this (because I’m a bit of an altar enthusiast), Jesus’ altar takes up most of the space around the head of my bed, while the foot is surrounded by Njord and His family. Pictures of lighthouses held aloft by smooth metal pushpins span the slanted ceiling between Them. I sometimes lie there thinking about the things They share—a fondness for fishermen, a touch that calms the waters around Them, noteworthy lore about women and Their feet, a desire for peace strong enough to inspire the sacrifice of a king—and wonder if these bits of common ground are capable of supporting a bridge as heavy as the one between Them would be. Could They truly sit together, trading these tales, clinking a bottle of rum against a bottle of wine in the spirit of brotherhood, and have that be the foundation of a bridge that would span millennia of hate and bloodshed?

Then sometimes the self-reflection shoulders its way in and I look at those places in my life where I see no way to make peace; where there’s obviously not enough usable common ground for me to consider even trying for a rope bridge. Maybe there was not enough flat, solid space between the mounds of anger … at least anywhere that I would care to look. And yet there They are, sitting at either end of me, the seemingly unspannable distance decorated with secondhand posters and calendar cutouts tacked up in celebration of where They can both find joy. If They find those small bits of frith that form in Their wake worth the effort, then perhaps those bridges I have been avoiding aren’t completely impossible. Even if they can’t be built on either side just yet, maybe there are small things I can do to create a space where the bridge could take shape. And Njord is just the God to know how to make it happen.

Because as that famous Rumi saying doesn’t quite go: Out beyond the ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing there is a bridge. Quite a few of them, in fact. And I’m guessing that by them there will be a blue-eyed sailor with a deep laugh and a wide grin welcoming us with open arms to rejoice in His handiwork.

This piece had initially started after seeing a call for submissions for a Njord devotional. When the devotional was canceled shortly after, I decided to put one out instead. Even though heading a project in an organized fashion is not my strong suit (may blessings rain down upon all the patient contributors), it eventually pulled together and can be found here: https://www.asphodelpress.com/book.html?title=njord (All proceeds from the sales go to the Gloucester Fishermen’s Wives Association.)