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.