...and then I bought a house.

 The news is out and the deed is done. I bought a house. Ta-da!

“So, are you not going back to France, then?” is the logical next question I get a lot, a good one if you were been told by me upon my return to Kansas City that I intended to go back to that beloved country come springtime. When I respond that no, my plans to return to France have not changed, you might become very confused. Or, perhaps that already happened to you and you remain befuddled. I don’t blame you. But I am doing lots of explaining these days, to help convert the Befuddled to the Befuddled-But-Excited.

That’s what I’m here to do this evening. Let me tell you the story.

It all began several years ago. I had been learning about gardening for some time and had begun to read books like Wendell Berry’s The Unsettling of America, which revealed to me the dire state of agriculture in America. During this time, I discovered that the vast farmlands of the Midwest that had spoken to me throughout my childhood were in danger.

My grandparents on my mom’s side passed away within a year of each other, around this time. This left an inheritance to my sister and myself, our mother no longer being alive. It also left a material question: what would become of our family’s land? A portion of our great-grandparents’ original homestead had been owned, loved, by our grandpa. Would we purchase it together, and keep it in the family?

Becca and I decided this would be more complicated than it would be fruitful, and so we allowed the land to be purchased by the farmer who had been renting it for years. It was hard for me; I felt a responsibility to the land and it seemed nearly treacherous to turn it over to someone who was likely using the type of agriculture I had villainized in my mind. Yet, at the same time, the inheritance provided a rare opportunity. While many wannabe farmers’ primary obstacle is the purchase of land, I became aware that the money I was receiving would be a valuable leg-up to the eventual purchase of property.

Over time, I have set it apart, in my heart and before the Lord, to the sole purpose of caring for the earth. Practically, I have been unsure of what to do with that sum in the meantime, and hesitatingly put it in the bank, separate from my personal finances. While I was in France last year, I had some interesting conversations about money. Jonathan, for whom I was working, questioned the ethics of putting money in the hands of banks, since the morality of their choices can’t be known or fully trusted. Another friend told me about money he was going to receive after his father’s death, and challenged me without knowing it when he told me how he was already looking at it as the Lord’s, not his, to control. When I told him about my own situation, he asked me bluntly, “Well, what is your money doing?” I could not answer, but knew that at the very best it was not doing anything good.

I returned to Kansas City in the summer and found many friends who were shifting households. Many of them were looking to establish new community homes, but finding it difficult to rent homes in Midtown. One night, a scheme popped into my head of how I could buy a home here and yet be free to leave the country. I drew a diagram on a Post-It and put it somewhere. For two months, I hopped houses, at once enjoying the generosity of friends and the pleasure of living life with them, but also longing for a space of my own.

Then I moved in with Jonathan and Kate and their son Matthew. This was itself a miracle and a response to specific requests I had been making to my good Father for months. Jonathan is uniquely up-to-date on world news and economics. It wasn’t long before he was briefing me on the economic future of our country and the eventual demise of our currency. Of course, I thought of the nest egg I had sitting in the bank, a number on paper that could as easily and quickly disappear as it had become mine. Next to that thought was one of matronly protection; it was given to me and I must not allow it to be diminished or destroyed. It had a purpose to fulfill. Could the number become something concrete and yet useful? Jonathan and Kate had used the realty services of a friend to find and purchase their home; they sang his praises. After several conversations with them about the scheme I had outlined and hidden on the Post-It note, I called Rustin and told him about it. We talked about the present and future real estate market. He told me he would pray about this and we set a time to talk.

On my end, I prayed for specific traits in a home that were a must: separate living spaces for couple / singles, sun and / or extra space in the yard for extensive gardening, good bones, a well-laid-out kitchen, needing some, but not too much, work. A week and some later, Rustin and I were touring homes in Midtown. We looked at six. The first four were gross. The fifth responded to all my criteria, and felt peaceful and graceful to boot. We decided to move forward, so I invited a couple of friends whom I trust to come feel it out. They came out two days later.

That afternoon, I had a massive breakdown. Though I loved the idea of owning a home, I knew the responsibility it is, and it overwhelmed me. Could I take on a property without knowing who would live there? Would it force me to work and live with people I didn’t trust? Would it submit me to years more adaptation to the whims of those around me? Would it tie me down and prevent me from pursuing my dreams? Fear and loneliness closed around me as I wept. I called Rustin and told him that I didn’t think I could commit to anything, and asked him and his wife to pray for me.

The next day, I woke up with a scripture and a song in my head and heart. In the presence of all my questions, he said, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:19). He sang, “Draw near to me, and I will draw near to you. Pull on the strings of my heart, for I long to respond to you. All my love is for you; all my love is yours. I’ve made a place for you here, so come on! Come on!...” (Bethel Loft Sessions). Then he spoke some things that brought clarity to my freak-outs.

Peace came. I got excited. I thought how the house corresponded to specific prayers. Other “coincidences” filled me with joy and confidence. For example, a girlfriend, praying for me before my departure from Paris, told me she saw the number 4, and felt like maybe there was a choice for me during my time in Kansas City involving a 4. A taxi lives on the curb in front of the house. You want to get a ride? Call 444-4444! I had a conversation with the Lord about the address of the house. Previously, I had disliked the street it’s on, without real reason. “Why here, Father?” I asked. Immediately, I saw the number 37, part of the address and the cross street. “Psalm 37,” he whispered, firmly. Ah, yes! Psalm 37! The psalm that I have held onto for several years! The psalm that has many promises for the humble, the righteous; that encourages us to dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness; that says those who trust in the Lord will inherit the land. Of course. I won’t complain about the address any more!

A day or two later, I woke up ready to make a decision. I let Rustin know I wanted to make an offer. While none of the details following the purchase were clear, I sensed that my faith would create a reality beneath my feet as I walked in it. We went through a couple of weeks of inspections and back-and-forth. Even though there is still some risk that things behind the walls are not in great shape, it felt more and more like the best decision, as I continued to walk through the house and share about the process with friends and family.

And so I went to some banks, borrowed a car, and wrote a really big check. I received three keys in an envelope, and a house became mine. I became a Homeowner.

There are lots of amazing things about this story. I am really humbled by it—most of all that God has made me a steward of something big. It means he trusts me, and that’s so cool. The other thing that baffles me is that this story is only beginning. I have been given an incredible, young, trustworthy, capable friend as a general contractor. We’re really thrilled to be working together and dreaming over this home. Every time we meet, we finish by a series of “Thank you!” “No, thank you!” that goes around at least twice. I love that. In the months to come, we will partner in the restoration and equipping of this house. It will be made beautiful. During that time, Father will provide some people to live in and love this home, and partner in its destiny of welcoming people from outside.

I will prepare the home and prepare to leave, at the same time. I will depart from here, leaving my things and friends in it, and fly freer because I am anchored to it.

home and moving on

the home of my youth...

Today is a sad day, a day of a rite of passage. 

While I’ve been making sandwiches and cleaning tables at the Filling Station, bantering with my co-workers, my dad and step-mom are managing movers and moving trucks. They’re emptying the house my sister and I grew up in, and filling a new one that is just for them. 

For months, I’ve been preparing for this. I mentally began sifting through my belongings while still in France. Then I came home, and donated several big bags and boxes of band t-shirts and miscellaneous home décor in within several days of touching down. Then came the drawn out, finer-tuned process of choosing and organizing memorabilia from childhood, and parting with what I can. There was the rental of a U-Haul and a storage unit and the mobilization of heroic volunteers to pack them. Lastly, only a few days ago, there was that inevitable final packing of the stuff that hasn’t gone anywhere else. 

In this, there is for me a clear turning of the page, summed up by the rather dramatic “I DON’T HAVE A HOME ANYMORE!” that has echoed through these months. My parents’ home has been like an anchor to me, in all these years of singlehood and the jumping from home to home and roommate to roommate that involves. There, I could go back and put my roots down, be who I always have been while I remain who I am today. That home has remained stable while so many other factors in life have continued to swirl and change. 

Now, however, is the time for that to take on a new shape as well. Dad and Joan need a place that’s theirs, not my mom and dad’s and my sister’s and mine. They need a home adapted to who they are now. Truth be told, so do I. I wouldn’t have chosen this, being the nostalgic sort, yet I can tell it’s just the thing for this season. Time to call the past done, to take responsibility for its remnants I intend to haul behind me through life. Although it’s right, it’s not easy. I grieve losing this place and the with-ness of the past that it embodies. I will also miss the ease of navigating its rooms, its drawers, its stairs that I know by heart. More than anything, I will miss the faint presence of my mother that I experience only there. 

So, in this time when my childhood home fades from my life and I plan to go migrant this spring, I long for Home, without even really knowing what it means. A constant comfort to me is this passage from Hebrews that tells me I am not crazy, but am actually in the best of company. 

“All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance. And they admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had the opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.” Hebrews 11:13-16

click, click

a night at the Boulevard, watching the Olympics. photo by Erin Rufledt

There are times of life, I am convinced, that are conducive to different art forms. There are long, rooted sorts of seasons that are like contemplative novels, others are better suited by poppy dance songs, self-deprecating cartoons, or haikus.

Today, I decided that this is a snapshot season. Not only does my moving-every-week rhythm have the same choppy, spontaneous quality to it of a random photo album; actually, my life is just beautiful and quirky in the way that sets up the best photos like a winning volleyball spike. How many times a day do I wish I could focus, blink my eyes like a camera’s shutter, and wind up with the image before me in an album?

It’s funny that I say this nearly two months after returning from the city many people consider to be the most lovely, charming city in the world, don’t you think? The thing is, though, that I see my hometown and all its characters differently now than I ever did. Oh, Kansas City! Rich in color, texture, full of cowtown charm!

Just now, I’m wondering if my urge to snapshot these things is deeper than just the prettiness of everything. Life is all full of change, everywhere I look. My close friends are getting hitched so fast the marrieds are now outnumbering the singles. Some have moved away; I plan to. Meanwhile, my family is getting ready to sell the house my sister and I grew up in the suburbs, and the houseful of ladies I have called my own is breaking up. To prepare for this double-whammy move, I’m clearing out old clothes and ratty kitchen gear by the boxful. This process is extra-pressured because I’m also working up towards a season of transient farm work in the French countryside, starting in the spring if all goes well.

Friday afternoon, I sat outside a Crossroads storefront with two of my dearest friends. We lounged in vintage chairs and couches, feet propped up next to a cow’s skull. The sun lit us enthusiastically from low in the sky, as if preparing itself for its own TGIF night on the town. Behind us, in the store, were a dozen local farmers selling their produce; to our right rose downtown Kansas City. It was a simple moment, but it was thick with the substance of place and friendship.

Can’t I just capture some of these moments? Can I take this precious time with those I treasure and put them into tiny form, Polly-Pockets or holograms to someday reproduce this? For whatever reason: Nope. I can’t take even a paper-thin slice of this and develop it for another day. Even real photographs, on thick, matte paper can’t bring this back.

Carpe diem it is, then. Not just for the sake of “living it up.” I guess that while I am tempted to hoard these times like a million vacations photos, I suppose doing so would trivialize them in the same way. A moment lived well is dear because it doesn’t come back.

So let’s throw out the Hulu and the Netflix, set the alarm for good and early in the morning. Let’s dine together, walk together, help each other pack and move. Do that thing where you make drinks to sip during a movie, then get so wrapped up in conversation over the cooking of the popcorn that you end up plopped in the living room all evening, movie forgotten. Linger in the kitchen, seated on the countertops; talk through your toothbrush about your day’s triumphs. Because it’s the last of this.

the changing of seasons

Well, hello, July 28. I quite like anniversaries, and today is one. It’s one month since I left Paris. I crept out of a quiet apartment before dawn on June 28th, slid out of France on a train, glided out of Europe on a jet plane, and found America, resplendent in her rocking chairs, friendly service, and soft bodies ready for hugs. 

Many people, myself included, have been concerned about my transition. While for most of us, it seems completely normal and right for me to be here, I’m lucky to have good friends who care how I’m feeling and how the second giant change in a year is affecting me. 

Blanket response: “I’m glad to be here.” 

There’s something funny about these short-lived experiences abroad. When I’ve come home from stints in France, I’m often asked to compare what I think of as “my two countries”—a natural question, I guess, but one that also breeds a sort of anxiety in me. Why? I end up feeling like I have to choose one or the other. You’d think that somewhere, I hide a checklist of what I like best in each place. I don’t. 

“It’s not better; it’s just different:” the slogan thrown around by the exchange agency I went to France with at 18. It’s a phrase that gently changes your paradigm away from comparisons that can lead to anger, frustration, and bitterness—not just with your host culture, but also with your culture of origin. 

These days, I still agree with this point of view. But this time around, I don’t feel that pressure. I’ve been working to eradicate that dualistic view from my mindset. On the other hand, there’s a larger principle that is at play here. 

 It has to do with seasons. Go figure: being back in Kansas City, I’m also back to gardening, back to the land. Staying at the house where I’d lived and gardened before moving to Paris, I get to once again enjoy the fruits of this plot of dirt. Luscious tomatoes, crisp greens, fragrant herbs are all a few footsteps out the back door and totally abundant. There’s all I could want of them. Similarly, a trip to the farmer’s market proved that oodles of peaches and more pounds of watermelon than I could carry are affordable enough to eat to my heart’s content. 

 In the middle of this process, I started reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver (READ IT). In essence, she shares about how her family chose to eat only off their own land and from farmers they knew for one year. She has beautiful and hilarious insights into, well, everything. I’m keeping notes. The thing that caught me today was this. She’s talking about the importance, and the ultimate tastiness, of eating food that’s in season, namely watermelon. I quote: 

 “But it’s actually possible to wait, celebrating each season when it comes, not fretting about its being absent at all other times because something else good is at hand.” 

So true, about watermelon, tomatoes, and the like. They’re better fresh, in season than out of season. Delightful. Sublime. They are worth waiting for to eat in their prime. 

Then I thought about life. One thing I’m proud of is that I lived those 10 months in Paris like there was no tomorrow. In relationship and in adventure, I savored that city, that country. It wasn’t always easy, but I tried to live it for all it was worth. 

Then I came home. What do these months in Kansas City look like? In a nutshell, simplicity: work, learning, teaching, and being a friend. I’m also skin-on-skin with Kansas City in a way I’ve never been, now that I’m getting around on foot or on bike in this sprawling mess of a city. My prayer is that I would love and engage with Kansas City as well as or better than I did Paris. I’m loving the re-discovery of its smells, its heady humidity, and the textures of crumbling asphalt and dry-crackling grass. With loving looks at sherbet sunsets and awkward interactions with the population around me, I’m celebrating this place and the season that has me here. Waiting those months to come home to Kansas City and the people I love here has made it sweeter to me than it has ever been before. 

Being away has freed me, somehow, to truly love. On the other hand, as I fast from France, I learn to love her more deeply as well, and her absence from me is making my heart fonder for her and her people. And so I find myself in the trial towards contentment. I love what is before me in all its splendor, knowing the next season will hold something different, but equally delicious.

Merci

 Mes amis, 

Je vous écris de Kansas City, de la maison où j’habitais avant de partir. Depuis quatre jours, je retrouve ma famille, mes amis les plus proches, le jardin qui avait été à moi, tout dans l’été chaud et fructueux du Midwest américain. 

Et je pense à vous. Quel cadeau de pouvoir partir, de devoir partager et résumer ces 10 mois (même pas) passes à Paris! Je me rends encore plus compte à quel point c’était bon, riche, nourrissant, redempteur, surprenant, et beau. Je suis remplie de gratitude envers Dieu et envers vous, parce que vous étiez ses outils guisés et tranchants pour faire des choses merveilleuses. 

Pour ceux qui étaient à ma fête d’’à bientôt,” j’avais partagé mon histoire avec la France, qui est une bonne petite histoire qui prend du temps à raconter. Ce n’est pas trop la peine de la dire ici. Pourtant, je sens que je dois insister sur les remerciements. 

Merci de m’avoir accueillie dans vos maisons, dans vos cafés préférés, et dans les endroits que vous aimez partout dans Paris. Avec vous, j’ai découvert Paris comme elle est en vérité--et donc j'ai pu l'aimer en vérité aussi. Maintenant je change les perceptions de Paris qu’ont la majorité des gens avec qui je parle. Ils me demandent si c’était dur et froid; je dis non, au contraire, c’était ouvert et chaleureux, et j’ai connu beaucoup d’amour. 

Merci d’avoir été généreux. Certains m’ont invité à manger, à boire un café. D’autres m’ont offert des petits cadeaux opportuns ou même m’ont passé une enveloppe avec du liquide dedans pour me bénir ou m’encourager. A chaque fois, je me sentais vue, apprécié, et affermie dans ma place et mon appel pour la France. Ensemble, vous avez contribué aux cadeaux choisis pour me dire au revoir. C’est fort de faire ça. 

Merci d’avoir prié pour moi et de m’avoir encouragé et défié. En faisant cela, vous vous êtes joignés à moi, m’ont donné beaucoup de sens et de valeur. 

Merci également de m’avoir donné de la place dans vos vies, de m’avoir partagé des choses profondes, des réflexions ou des questions que vous vous posez. Souvent, quand je discutais avec vous, je réalisais dans le moment que c’était un vrai privilège d’être permise dans vos vies personnelles et, parfois, de lutter ou de travailler à vos côtés. En plus, c’était tellement fun ! 

Vous êtes des trésors, et je suis si contente de faire partie de vous. 

Très sincèrement, 

Maggie 

My friends, 

I write you from Kansas City, from the house where I lived before I left. For four days, I’ve been seeing my family, my closest friends, the garden that had been mine, all in the hot, fruitful Midwestern summer. 

And I’ve been thinking of you. What a gift to leave, to have to share and summarize these (not even) 10 months spent in Paris! I realize even more how good, rich, nourishing, redemptive, surprising, and beautiful it was. I’m filler with gratitude towards God and towards you, because you were his sharp and piercing tools for doing wonderful things in me. 

For those who were at my goodbye party, I shared my story with France, which is a good little story that takes time to tell. It’s not worth it to share it here. Still, I feel like I must insist on the thank yous. 

Thank you for welcoming me in your homes, your favorite cafés, and in the places you love all over Paris. With you, I discovered Paris like she really is--and therefore love her as she really is. Now I’m changing the ideas of Paris that the majority of people I talk to have. They ask me if it was cold or hard; I say no, on the contrary, it was open and warm, and I knew lots of love there. 

Thank you for being generous. Some of you took me out to eat or for coffee. Others gave me little gifts at the right moment, or even passed my an envelope with cash inside to bless me or encourage me. Each time, I felt seen, appreciated, and affirmed in my place and my call for France. Together, you contributed to gifts chosen to say goodbye to me. It’s powerful to do that. 

 Thank you for praying for me, encouraging and challenging me. In doing so, you joined yourselves to me, and gave me lots of meaning and value. 

Thank you also to have given me a place in your lives, to have shared with me deep things, reflections or questions you’re asking yourselves. Often, when I was talking with you, I realized in the moment that it was a true privilege to be allowed into your personal lives, and, sometimes, to fight or to work at your sides. And, it was so fun! 

You are treasures, and I am so very glad to be a part of you. 

Very sincerely, 

Maggie

moutains and/of gifts

 Two separate people felt God gave them a picture for me about this year: a bunch of presents, large and small, waiting to be unwrapped. As my 27^th year came to a close, I got to unwrap one that was what we call in French gigantesque.

As a family, we drove south 8 hours into the lost, wild mountains called the Cévennes, where a friend of ours has a pair of eccentric uncles living in an 1890’s château on a rugged couple of hills. Medieval-like towers peeked out from the treetops at the top of the mountain as we drove in, and a fountain surrounded by little yellow flowers trickled tranquilly in the courtyard.

Etienne, our friend and a hell of a tour guide, accompanied me through the place right away. Room after room was elegant and yet worn, filled with the likes of threadbare chairs and faded books, enigmatic carvings and second-rate portraits.

We were there to live life for a few days with all willing friends involved in the Paris house-churches. Throughout the weekend, activities were proposed and received—walks up to the abandoned village on the next hill over, making elderflower syrup, and prophetic dance in the fireside room. Otherwise, we sat hours at breakfast together, telling stories and dunking bread into our now-lukewarm hot chocolate. Some slept all morning. We prepared meals for hours and consumed them with good conversation.

As for me, I felt more in my place than I’ve felt almost anywhere. At home, I relished in the morning sun streaming into my tower bedroom. There was a ramshackle library above that looked out on the mountains around, and it felt like my favorite little scene from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, adapted to my life. Outside, a world of wonders beckoned from early in the morning. I enjoyed sweet moments that I can’t help but describe:

One afternoon, I grabbed a tome of early 18^th-century fairy tales (illustrated by Gustave Doré, and the engravings were much nicer than the stories) into a hillside meadow. Under the southern sun, with a cool breeze, I enjoyed a mediocre story until I became sleepy, and then I took a nap amid wild thyme and clover. Waking, I spotted cherries on some trees further down, and found they were ripe. I picked a few that had already been touched by the birds, and cleaned and savored them.

Another day, I took a walk into the hills behind in the late afternoon. It was cool and solemn in the shade of the woods. Uninhabited houses and empty stone buildings contributed to this sense of eeriness. Then I reached the sunny side of the hill, and caught the illuminated landscapes on the hills across the way, complete with the distant barking of dogs and bleating of goats. The smell of cedars and acacia and goat dung melded together and it was like I was walking among goat cheese and honey.

The morning before we left, the eve of my birthday, it was raining steadily. Still, I had resolved to go out and pick heads of elderflowers to take back and prepare in a syrup. So, naturally, I tucked the pant legs of my pajama pants into my Chuck Taylors and went out anyway, since it wasn’t cold. No one else was out, to my knowledge; if they were, they got a very funny show. I ran and laughed and stomped in spongy, drenched grass as I sought out the ripest flowers, and I got thoroughly soaked. The grounds were beautiful in the rain and thunder, especially because it’s a dry region and rain is truly a Godsend.

It was here, too, that I think I fell another floor (or two) deeper in love with France. The natural earthiness of the place combined with the relational goodness among us all, under the presence of a very-present God. It was powerful and simple—a stunning, unexpected birthday present.

For more photos of this week, go here and click "diaporama" at the top right.

harvesting the wild

Once again, we’re on vacation. This time, as in October, we’ve trekked to the Lausanne, Switzerland metropolis to visit Jonathan’s parents, after stopping for the weekend in hilly Burgundy with a couple of friends.

The golden moment of that weekend was a morning I spent with the two older kids. We headed down a country road behind the house, overlooking wide, sprawling hills of grass and bright yellow canola, just now fully flowering. The wind was sharp and lively, but the sun was benevolent, and so we set out on a hunt—for what I didn’t know, but there is always something to find in spring in the countryside.

Before long, we had discovered that the dandelions were up and beginning to bloom, and that the lilac was spreading its fragrance all around. While the children rushed down the road on bike and scooter, I stopped frequently to greet old friends: the stinging nettle, dandelion, blackberries, clover, and wild onions. Soon, with a little playacting and genuine interest, I wooed the kids as well to the hedgerow and began to remark and explain the various plants. They picked specimens of many things and plopped them in a white plastic bucket we found by the toolshed.

All the way down to the bottom of the hill, it felt like paradise. I was firmly in the middle of my calling. My own marveling, sensing, moving, teaching, were all in action and serving to enthrall the three of us. We plopped down along a row of blooming trees full of birdsong to make dandelion chains, and the siblings were still delighted. So what if, not long after, as lunchtime approached, they began to fall apart, and by the time we reached the top of the hill again, I had a tearful two-year-old on my hip? It was worth it.

Here in Switzerland, I’ve had similar moments alone in the woods (my “work” this week consists of taking a two-hour walk each morning with no-longer-tiny Siloa slung on me in the scarf). Again, I’m strangely invigorated by the presence of wild plants. I remember how I fell in love with foraging in my back yard in Kansas City last year, making smoothies with young dandelion greens and salads with violets and their greens.

There’s something so thrilling to me about the richness and diversity of nature. I can hardly believe that some of the most nutritious plants on earth just happen all by themselves, in abundance seemingly impossible to deplete. Yet, it seems so right.

Let’s take the stinging nettle, for example. While it’s a plant you sometimes pay with pain to consume, it’s utterly worth it, being rich in vitamins A, C, and K, iron, calcium, and protein. Plus, it’s been clinically proven to help out with problems of arthritis, PMS, and urinary tract infections, along with many other illnesses.* And it tastes and cooks up like slightly more aromatic spinach.

So, we’re harvesting tons of free greens this week, and cooking them up in a couple different kinds of soup. The essentials in harvesting nettles are to either use sturdy gloves or scissors and some craftiness of gesture, and to use the youngest, tenderest leaves—a good strategy is to decapitate the top four to six leaves, if you have lots of them at your disposition. Should you find yourself in the woods, tool-less, you can try this technique with your bare hands.

To rid the nettles of their sting, you can certainly boil them for a few minutes in water (conserve the water and drink it with some honey for a healthful tisane; don’t you dare waste that goodness!). Or, if you’re going raw, you can supposedly soak them overnight in water; it also might work to totally blitz them with a food processor or juicer.

Some ways you can cook with this lively weed: soup, pesto, scrambled eggs, green smoothies, and juice. A little internet search will show you how to do any of these if you feel lost.

So, my friends, I commission us all to get out to the edges of our yards, fields, and forests, and make friends with the wild. Try a free sample. Embrace the nettle… er… maybe not literally.

*For more than you ever wanted to know about nettles, visit this site.

o happy spring!

Happily, Paris has transformed into a balmy spring paradise, or close enough. Well-tuned eyes will find not only arms and legs newly liberated from weighty winter wool clothes, but puffy white and pink blooms busting joyfully out of branches and busy bees about their work.

Suddenly, since temperatures have risen and color has returned to us all, my near-daily morning trips to the little park behind the apartment with Ionaelle have become much more enjoyable than the obligation they had been these last months.

Part of this is simply that it’s my nearest source of “nature” beyond the rosemary plant clinging to life on our cramped balcony. If I focus, really focus, on the fuzz of the sage plant, or the ochre-yellow sycamore-bud casings, it’s possible to forget that cement and asphalt and metal are on every side. I remember that the Lord is such a quirky, creative maker, and that there’s goodness in everything, and this simple reminder is like blood in my veins.

The city itself is not without goodness, though, in spite of its innate grayness; we must take into consideration that it is rich with the divine comedies that are our human lives and the intricacies of their intertwinings. In fact, I honor this city as a place where people-watching is a valued activity, and quite well-practiced. It might be Paris’ strongest suit.

At the park, thankfully, I don’t have to sit back and passively watch all the time like most grown-up Parisians spend their time doing. Kids have a marvelous way of pulling adults into their worlds, but also of breaking down walls between those who care for them.

For months, Ionaelle and I have been hanging out at the park behind the house with a four-year-old stud named Hugo, and he’s just my favorite. I love how he brags about his bike and leaks personal information about his home life. I love how he exasperates his Indian nanny by wanting to stay longer, always longer. I love the way he speaks to us in funny, somewhat lispy, British-French-Kid English, the way he wants to play “catch-catch,” and counts super loud—sometimes while banging on something metal. Most of all, I love the tender hunger for love and approval that pulls beneath the surface.

One particularly springy morning last week, Hugo broke the law by picking the heads off of some daffodils. When his nanny scolded him, he told her they were for me (“la dame,” the lady, he called me). I have to admit that it warmed my heart even though it was probably just to get himself out of trouble. After all, it’s not every day a lady receives flowers from a handsome Frenchman.

A couple of days ago, we had another sweet, only-with-kids moment. Lilia, our friends’ daughter that we watch on Tuesdays, was with Ionaelle and I. She’s got a particularly innocent, almost fairy-tale quality to her. That day, as soon as we entered the park, Lilia ran to a group of three pre-teen girls from the rough local school that were hanging out on a bench. In her little magenta coat, she just stood there and watched them with delight. Each of them began to interact with her, and then with me as I walked over to join them. The same thing happened with two other groups of tough older students; I was amazed to see how they responded—baffled but flattered, I think—to her silent but close observation. It felt like her free curiosity opened a door that I was able to walk through and offer the gentle grace of Jesus that I carry in me, as well.

Oh, bless springtime! Bless it because it melts the ice. Bless it because it warms what was frozen and wakes what was dead. Bless it because it quickens activity; bless it because it awakens love. And bless the little children, because the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these.

a real gem

One beautiful thing about living in a big city is that there are people everywhere, all the time. "How is this beautiful?" you might ask. While being surrounded by others all the time has its challenges, at least one never has to get bored. People are inherently interesting. None are alike. Yet, I would argue, some are more intriguing than others.

This fellow caught my fancy recently as I accompanied Eliakim to school one morning. Clearly he had carefully considered his wardrobe: pink and red elements were combined creatively, down to a red American handkerchief serving as a pocket square. At the same time, he had this feeling to him of one who is missing some marbles, or perhaps has some too many.

Naturally, I pulled out my phone and pretended to dabble on it, while in reality snapping his picture. When we got off the bus, I glanced down at the paper he was writing on, spotting wild squiggles or something of the kind, and I wondered what kind of genius he might be.

Therefore, I'm sharing him with you as if it were the sharing of a goodie, a treasure. Because that's what people are.

my six favorite Parisians

Tonight we are fêteing my six-month mark of being back in France; it was the 15th of September that I arrived in this sunny, seventh-floor apartment and was greeted by a sweet Amélie-hug and shy children. Funny enough, we’re not breaking out the French specialties: Jonathan’s whipping up a Swiss fondue, and I couldn’t help but make a lemon meringue pie for such a springly day.
For the second set of sixes, I want to introduce my six most influential Parisians from the last six months.


UN: Jonathan Chapuis, man of the house. This guy’s a firecracker, a go-getter. My earliest real snapshot of Jonathan was upon my arrival at the airport. When I came out of customs, I found him in the waiting crowd, with Ionaelle on his shoulders. Peacefully, we made our way through the transit system, back to the apartment. In contrast, my second major impression of Jonathan was when he showed me the way to take Eliakim to school by bike, weaving through traffic and somewhat ignoring lights! I love about Jonathan that he’s a good dad, he loves his wife well, he works really hard but trusts God with his finances, and he thinks and works through issues regarding the Church.

DEUX: Amélie Chapuis, lady of the castle, mother of the children, and bombshell. This chick takes amazing care of her children—and by that I mean that she is available to them, physically and emotionally. One of my favorite things is to see her enter into the imaginary with the kids, especially if puppets are involved! All kinds of funny jokes and animal noises come out of her mouth. But what’s great is that Amélie is also a warrior, not afraid to confront forces natural or spiritual, and often does this in inspiring teamwork with her husband. All of these things she does with flair; I don’t know anyone that dresses like Amélie!

TROIS: Amber Korneliussen. Along with number four (below), this woman has saved my relational life here. I love the integrity, wisdom, and utter faithfulness that this woman displays in her commitment to her work with YWAM Paris; it’s been such a pleasure to come alongside this friend to many and share the ins and outs of being single, young, American ladies in Paris. There’s a sense of joy about Amber that’s like a deep spring, and you can see it when she smiles at kids on the Metro or takes in the absurdity of the touristy Christmas market.

QUATRE: Sarah Allen, British prayer warrior. This gal, with me in the ranks of au-pairdom, has really stunned me with her commitment to the family she works for, although her situation with them has been far from easy. Where most people would have quit and not looked back, Sarah has gotten serious about praying for them and serving them from an inner position of love and faith. I have benefited not only from her ability to sympathize with the complexities of au pair life, but also from her true encouragement and belief in me. In trio with these two ladies, there is a sweet togetherness but also a powerful co-laboring of the French terrain and a deep encouragement to take hold of our dreams here.

CINQ: Brendan Stater-West, future winemaker and current co-laborer in things of the earth. For two months, we’ve been hunkered into a dim corner of a coffee shop on the Seine, getting riled up and dorky over things like vermicomposting. Thanks in part to Brendan’s manly powers of initiation, faith, and support, we’ve successfully launched three wormy composts in apartments around the city and a vegetable garden at the bottom of his and his wife’s building. I am incredibly grateful for the good gift this guy is to me, not just because he’s someone who loves land, but because he’s a good man and a good friend.

SIX: Father, Son, Holy Spirit, my closest friend and deep heart companion. The one who knows me in Kansas City and in France, at birth and at 27 ½. So much of being here, these last months, has been private, internal, and I am infinitely thankful that he has been with me. Through my new friends here and through my experiences, he has taught me many, many things, and therefore I have discovered him in many new ways. Paris is a good place to be loved on by the Lord.

a series of celebratory sixes

This week marks six months since I arrived in Paris, clad in color and full of anticipation about the year to come. It’s been a bit turbulent at times, but full of life and goodness—certainly worth celebrating.

So, I propose a series of celebratory sixes.

First, six things I love about France. Honor with me this glorious Lady.

UN. France is, indeed, a lovely lady. This is a varied country, and nuanced. She’s smaller than Texas but with an astounding array of landscapes and accents, cheeses and wines, social classes and skin colors. The French have a heritage of creating and appreciating beauty that manifests itself all over the place. It’s evident in the artistic endeavors of its past, from Delacroix to Debussy, and in the impeccably dressed women on foot, bikes, scooters, and buses across Paris.

DEUX. In traditional French values, quality is important. This, in fact, lends to her sense of loveliness. French cuisine focuses on quality ingredients prepared simply, while the fashion, similarly, is simple items draped on a shapely but natural form. Women, you might notice, are unlikely to alter the texture of their hair or layer on makeup. On the other hand, they are likely to spend a good sum on a fine piece of clothing, which they will wear multiple times per week.

TROIS. Le français est une langue magnifique, profonde. Elle a toute une histoire et presque une âme. Je veux la parler tous mes jours. (French is a magnificent, deep language. It has a whole history to itself, and nearly a soul. I want to speak it all my days.)

QUATRE. The French are forthright. They don’t mince words and aren’t afraid to say what they think, whether it be about your poor capacity to speak their language, or about the poor capacity of their president to run a country. And they’ll say it up front, to your face. This is an intimidating quality, I’ll admit, but I’ll also admit that I’ve come to appreciate it deeply. It’s humorous sometimes, and also helpful, at times. Who doesn’t need a little humbling?

CINQ. Artisan baguettes, regional cheeses, natural wines, and a fresh, crusty croissant, pain au chocolat, or chausson aux pommes: these are allowed to have their own category.

SIX. It’s the little things: tiny specialty shops full of toys, doodads, stamps, and windows full of chocolate animals, taxidermied critters and rat poison, or century-old sewing machines. Traditional children’s songs with haunting melodies and boisterous accordion tunes floating through the Metro. Polished floral displays in chic neighborhoods and bizarre graffiti along train tracks. The unbelievably enticing scent of baguettes baking in the afternoon, or the hot waft of Metro smell rushing out of the sidewalk’s grates. Much to love, in tiny bites.

More sixes to come.

Vacation, all I ever wanted

Vacations are a truly wonderful thing. I don’t think I got that, growing up, though we traveled each summer as a family. Perhaps the real value of vacation hits you when you’ve been working really hard.

At the end of December, I began to realize I was soon going to need one of these fine things; it was not even an option. So I checked in with my friends Bec* and Pinky, who had given me an open invitation to visit them in Northern Ireland.

Fast-forward two months (kids cook bike kids fold the laundry kids scrub the bathtub kids have a good cry kids). Then, the children left Paris. Sigh. Here’s a vaca recap:

Intending to visit Musée d’Orsay, I biked down to the heart of Paris, only find it to closed. So, I spent a sunny, clear afternoon wandering streets and ogling monuments. Then Amber texted me and wasn’t too awfully far away, so I grabbed a bike and pedaled along the Seine in late-afternoon sun. I might have laughed aloud at how beautiful it was. Then I got to have a beer with this lovely friend.

The next day, I skipped my initial plan to go to a museum, put Billie Holiday on the stereo, and made a giant batch of minestrone and a pot of chicken broth. And also spied on an intriguing old-man neighbor who smokes a pipe, and took a long nap.

After lunch with the YWAM team that Wednesday, I spent, no joke, nearly seven hours straight on Skype. It was deep, exhausting, and glorious.

Thursday, it was time to go to N. Ireland. On the plane, I nearly cried as the Irish flight crew casually joked and chatted with the passengers. The French spell of standoffishness was broken, and I felt my heart relax into Anglo-Saxon comfort.

Bec and Pinky welcomed me for five days in their cozy little home in the countryside outside Belfast. I was greeted with welcome presents on my bed, including slippers Bec had knit, for which Pinky had cut wood buttons—and I continued to be taken care of in manifold ways.

We spent a beautiful, radiant day on the Northern Coast, savoring the odd rock formations and crashing waves of Giant’s Causeway and the sandy dunes of White Rocks Beach. Then we ate out and took away massive desserts, enjoyed in the wood-heated living room while watching a movie.

Bec took me shopping and on walks, and oh! We had such wonderful conversations. She’s such a lovely companion, asking quality questions (one of my love languages) and adding interesting commentary or observations. It was rich to catch up on one another’s key people and events and thought processes from the last year and a half. For me this was a much-needed chance to verbally process the last five and a half months here in Paris: such a gift.

Some other things I love about Bec and Pinky are that they live simply and beautifully in a mobile home next to the Pinkerton family farm, they garden, they intentionally cook and eat well, and make hospitality a priority. While my relations in Paris have felt so “unlike” me in these kinds of lifestyle choices, the Pinkertons felt like family, cut of the same fabric. Being a part of that home for a few days blew fresh air on my identity and desires in these key areas of land, food, and hospitality.

This was a marvelous thing to leave with—as were the other goodies Bec packed in a sack for my day’s picnic. A series of buses took me south to the small coastal village of Rostrevor, where I had booked a five-day stay at a YWAM base which exists in part for the purposes of spiritual retreat and rest. It’s well-equipped for the task: a giant house, with many rooms, comfy chairs, and bookshelves full of books. Across the street is the beach, which looks across the bay at a patchwork Irish hillside; behind the house and across the street is a lovely park, and behind that is a mountain forest traced with trails and lush falling streams.

I was there to be alone with Jesus, to rest, to process the last couple of months, and to work things out and begin to make decisions about next year. So I spent several hours a day reading, several out walking (coast, villages, mountain), and several praying and processing.

It was a little odd to suddenly find myself more or less alone. But I never got bored; I felt alive and inspired there, energized by incredible scenery and long nights of sleep. There was lots to think about and pray through, and if it got rough, all I had to do was look up, out, or around and see the wild Irish mountains.

I unexpectedly fell in love with Ireland—though admittedly it was a perfect storm of a much-needed vacation, prime real estate, gentle weather, and early-spring flowers (I’m a sucker for daffodils). At the same time, though, I just had to come to terms with the fact that I was going to leave a part of my heart in Fairy Glen, along a path between green-mossed pools of flowing water and sweet-smelling groves of ancient trees. What’s incredible, though, is that it was like the Lord used this tailor-made scenery to woo me, to soften and refresh my heart, and douse me with the goodness of his Presence. In those five days, Love woke up in me, again, but different and special and stronger than ever.

And then, I caught another series of buses on a perfect, early-spring Irish day spotted with puffy clouds, and I came back to France. I feel changed, imprinted with something divine and delicious that’s a whole lot deeper than just having visited friends and seen some lovely countryside. There’s not much set for what’s ahead, but I feel full of life and courage in a new way, ready to take on the road ahead.


*Bec and I became fast friends in the summer of 2010, when she stayed at the Boulevard for a month. We talked, cooked, and hosted, and found we have many common interests. Since then, we’ve kept up by snail mail and Skype.

Eat, pray, bike

Today was a Wednesday to beat all Wednesdays…at least all recent ones.

I began with a bike trip down to the Seine, and met my friend Brendan at one of Paris’ few quality coffee shops. Brendan is a budding buddy who loves wine and land, an American who loves France married to a French girl who loves America. We meet, sometimes with our chef friend Jono, to listen to the Lord and discuss and scheme in the realm of food, wine, and agriculture.

After praying and plotting and Brendan, there was yet much to be done. I hopped on the Metro, got off at the tip-top of Belleville, and walked past Chinese grocers and Arab épiceries to Kiwizine. There’s a new DTS (discipleship training school) on, and they need help, so I’ll be spending a couple hours each Wednesday making lunch for the group of 30 that make up the school and the YWAM-Paris team. Today, may I recommend the recipes I used? Both were delicious and complementary on such a wintry day. We added country French bread and goat cheese on the side for a little extra substance.

BUTTERNUT SQUASH AND APPLE SOUP
[makes 8-9 cups]

6 slices bacon, cut crosswise into 1/2-inch pieces
2 celery ribs, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
3/4 pound boiling potatoes
2 medium Granny Smith apples
1 1/2 pounds butternut squash, peeled, seeded, and cut into 1/2-inch pieces (3 1/2 to 4 cups)
2 cups reduced-sodium chicken stock or broth
2 to 2 1/2 cups water

• Cook bacon in a 6-quart heavy pot over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until crisp, then transfer with a slotted spoon to paper towels to drain, reserving 2 tablespoons fat in pot. (Add vegetable oil if your bacon is very lean and doesn't yield enough fat.)
• Cook celery, carrot, and onion in fat in pot over low heat, covered, stirring occasionally, until softened but not browned, 10 to 12 minutes. Add cinnamon and cook, uncovered, stirring, 1 minute.
• While vegetables are cooking, peel potatoes and coarsely chop. Peel and core apples and coarsely chop.
• Stir squash, potato, chopped apple, stock, 2 cups water, 1 teaspoon salt and 1/2 teaspoon pepper into onion mixture, then simmer, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until vegetables are very tender, 15 to 20 minutes.
• Puree soup (Add additional 1/2 cup water to thin, if necessary.)
• Serve soup topped with sour cream and bacon.

OATMEAL CAKE
[serves 12]

2 1/2 cups boiling water
2 cups oats
1 cup butter (use ½ applesauce to lighten it)
4 eggs
3 cups flour (you can sub half of this for another flour; I used spelt)
2 teaspoon baking soda
2 cups brown sugar
zest and juice of ½ orange
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg

• Pour boiling water over oats and let stand 20 minutes.
• Cream butter, sugar and brown sugar until fluffy. Blend in orange zest and juice, eggs and oats mixture. Mix well.
• Combine flour, soda, salt, cinnamon and nutmeg. Add to creamed mixture. Mix well.
• Pour mixture into a baking pan.
• Bake at 350 degrees for 50 to 55 minutes or until knife inserted in center comes out clean.

Having executed (and enjoyed) a satisfying lunch with the help of two enjoyable young fellows, I took off in search of a public bike to take me home. This turned into a bit of a search, but it ended well: soon I was pedaling past Anvers and Pigalle and zooming down the hill to a brief rest in our still apartment.

Not for long! Sarah was waiting for me down the road, so off I went, for a beer and a square of chocolate in a quite French bar with a bright red storefront and suns and moons tiled on the floor.

Once we’d debriefed our last couple of weeks and dreamed a good bit about our upcoming vacations, Sarah and I set off for a tea shop down the street. The shop owner welcomed us with steaming cups of oolong and opened tin after tin of tempting rooibos blends to tickle our noses. Our visit was quick, but we both felt oddly comforted and soothed by the delightful smells of the teas.

As men, women, and children returned home in the light rain, Sarah and I mounted six flights of stairs to our friends’ apartment, where Sarah prepared a dinner of Picard frozen coucous with vegetables, and we enjoyed a good chunk of time together in the presence of the Lord.

Then, bike. Home. Blog. Bed.

dépouillé

I have a friend here who loves words. He talks about the French language as if it were a woman he’s loved for years. This isn’t uncommon among the French; they have a rich history of nurturing and protecting their beautiful language, such that, over the course of centuries, the French language has taken on a persona, a character.

When I hear my friend talk about French, I forget my own stammerings and mis-speakings. I remember how much I love it, too. At home, I would get hungry to speak French, in the same way as I might crave a certain food with a pleasing taste and texture. It scrapes and fills the mouth, activates lips and cheeks, and vibrates the nose and throat. English is like white bread; French is like a mouthful of red wine. It nourishes and pleases in a different way than English.

One of the unique blessings and challenges of bilingualism is this moment when you realize that you know a word in one language that absolutely doesn’t translate into the other. Sometimes, it’s because it would take lots of words to compensate for just one. At other times, the whole concept is just alien: brain and mouth fumble and run in circles around the thing trying to put a finger on what seems like a simple idea. It’s very bizarre.

There’s a word in French that has become like a friend to me lately: it’s like a presence that knows and validates my experience, gives it meaning and pushes me forward.

Friends, meet DÉPOUILLÉ (anglicized: day-pooie-YAY).

dépouiller /depuje/
I. transitive verb
1. (dépecer) to skin [animal];
2. (dénuder) to lay [sth] bare [champ, région];
3. (déposséder) to rob [voyageur];
hum to fleece (familier) [contribuable];
~ qn de ses biens to strip sb of his/her possessions;
4. to open [courrier];
to count [scrutin];
to go through [documents].
II. se dépouiller vpr
1. (se démunir) [personne] se ~ de to shed [vêtements];
to divest oneself of [biens];
fig to cast off [morgue];
2. Zool (muer) [serpent] to slough;
3. (se dénuder) [arbre] to shed its leaves;
[style] to become spare.

This word has been converted into a sort of French religious term that describes the process of taking up one’s cross, that kind of thing. But I like it because it’s so tactile. Wow, what kinds of discomfort, big and small, are implicit in terms like skinning, laying bare, robbing, stripping off someone’s clothes, shedding a skin! My skin crawls to think of it.

There’s also this element of nakedness: when a sort of exterior is eliminated, something else emerges. It might be one’s inner organs, in the case of a pelted rabbit, or bare branches. It could be one’s pale tummy or private parts. What is revealed is raw, tender, vulnerable—even unsightly.

I’m not going to launch into a description of every thing I feel has been stripped away (by my own choosing or not). Suffice it to say, I feel this word echoing in me every day as I feel the deep ache of missing. Over and over, it names the ball of grief in my gut, the frustration of my closet, and the subtle cultural faux pas I commit. In moments of difficulty, my heart utters “dépouillé” like a cuss word that at once diminishes and gives weight to a stubbed toe.

At the bottom of the sensation of being dépouillée, there’s something delicious and real. It’s like the branches of a sycamore in winter: stark and stately, honorable. They’re bare and yet their form is lovely.

A little poem from a children’s book I brought expresses this well:

The stripped and shapely
Maple grieves
The loss of her
Departed leaves…

And yet the world,
Nevertheless,
Displays a certain
Loveliness—

The beauty of
The bone. Tall God
Must see our souls
This way, and nod.

“November,” from A Child’s Calendar, John Updike, 1965

abundance, of a kind

Lillian, in all her silly, joyful glory

What a week.

Ups and downs, downs and ups…

Not so much on bicycle, though that, too.

It’s been a week packed with deep grief and moments of newness and joy.

Really, it all hinged on Wednesday. I had found out Tuesday that my dear friend Lillian, an older woman who has been a support and encourager to me for the last ten years, was dying from the cancer she’s been battling since I’ve known her. In our Paris apartment, I spent time praying alone and with Jonathan and Amélie on Wednesday for her and her family, even as we soothed a 5-year-old in the nasty throes of an ear infection. Don’t I know too well this battle for health, for the Kingdom come in our bodies as it is in heaven? And yet hardly feel victorious.

And then, because one must also live, I walked through a drizzly Montmartre with warm baguettes in hand up to celebrate my friend Clem (my original connection to Paris). He’s heading to Jordan for 6 months, and a good dozen of us gathered around a fire, cheese, wine, and dirty jokes in a centuries-old apartment to send him out. How I’ve missed these relaxed environments, rich with love and the chiding of friendly jokes!

Once the group dispersed, I headed out onto the cobbled passage leading to the street, looking forward to a walk through the cool, damp streets. But the night was not over; our friend Antoine was preparing to head out to a club on his scooter, and invited me to come along. Although it promised to be a late night, I couldn’t resist the promise of a night scooter-ride through the city. At a club on the east side of town, I met a rapper of African origin that a friend of ours knows, and for a long time, the two guys talked about language, music, and parenthood—the rapper had become a father the night before. The rapper left, the bar emptied out, and eventually we took off too, and scooted through what had become light rain, Paris at 1:30 AM.

The next evening, as I stretched after a jog, I found out that just about the time I traversed on scooter the night before, Lillian passed away in Los Angeles, surrounded by her family. By the time I went to bed, my very body felt laden with sorrow, and my eyes were half swollen closed.

There’s no sense to it all, no conclusion to draw. All I can think is that it’s life abundant—abundant in joy, abundant in sorrow.

a Christmas story

Spending the Christmas season away from home was hard. Thanksgiving and Christmas are my favorite times with my family; to have them coincide with the dreaded 2- and 3-month marks of being gone felt like a deadly cocktail of homesickness.

Luckily I landed in my French home-away-from-home for Christmas. We stayed with Amélie’s family in Normandy. Though I spent several days with only the grandparents and four children, 10 adults plus the kids later gathered in the old barn-turned-house. It was a massive change for me, I realized, to be in the middle of a big family. The days surrounding Christmas were bustling with children, cooking, eating, discussing by the fire, and walks around the village. At night we lingered at the table and retired to the playroom to watch a movie, or went our own ways.

A new tradition for me was the creation of a homemade Christmas pageant. I had suggested a skit to the children while alone with them last week, in a moment of desperation. To my surprise, Eliakim, the eldest, responded enthusiastically. Inspired by Christmas pageants of my youth, I began to sing “the Friendly Beasts” to them and create simple costumes in my head. Granted, what actually happened was that one of the four kids abandoned the project, all three forgot what they were supposed to do, and I really should have used a CD instead of singing awkwardly a cappella. But oh man, were the kids cute, with their oversized sweaters, sock tails, and paper ears!

In spite of the soft landing in a hospitable environment, Christmastime was achy. I missed the festivity of Christmas music and cookies and decorations at home, missed my family traditions, and struggled with a long visit in someone else’s family. Eventually I broke down. The day after Christmas, when the remaining 2 children arrived, we had our official Christmas celebration: the pageant, gifts for the children, sweet wine and foie gras for the adults, and a hearty meal all together. In between the pageant and the toasting, I was holding baby Siloa when her little diaper erupted in bright-yellow poop. The poop, known to be difficult to wash out of even cotton onesies, proceeded to seep into my silk, dry-clean-only, polka-dot skirt, one of the few items of clothing I have here that I really love.

I calmly went upstairs to change the diaper, but it wasn’t long until tears came, and once they came they didn’t stop—not in my room as I changed into something else and called on the presence of God, not in the laundry room with stain removers, and not even during the family toasts, as I looked through them to each family member and wished them health.

The good news is, the tears did eventually cease. The Christmas meal was superb French country cooking, topped off with my first-ever bûche de Noel. And by that night, my skirt was not ruined but clean, hung on the drying rack in the playroom.