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.

Giving Thanks

They don’t have Thanksgiving in France, in case you didn’t know. Not only is it an American holiday, but actually I think the very concept of thankfulness goes against the grain here.

That, and most French people have never had pumpkin pie.

So, my friend American friend Amber and I cooked up a scheme to host a small gathering of Americans and French to give thanks.

I’ll spare you the culinary details; you probably can imagine the sort of meal we put together. What really made the day special was the new flavor this place added to the American tradition.

For example, the turkey had to be bought, and hauled across the city via the Metro in a roller-caddy. The stuffing was made with country-style bread, and the pumpkin pie with a variety of mini-pumpkin called a potimarron—a name I love to say. We held the dinner at my friends’ restaurant, which is a tiny café with warm, timeless decoration of black, white, red, and wood.

At home, I’d begun to become accustomed to these little dinner-parties. My dear friend Kristen taught me to prepare with intention and prayer before moving on to the practical details, and it makes all the difference. Over time, these events have taken on a feel, a taste of their own. I can’t explain it rightly, but it’s a sweet concoction of peace, contentment, and family that transcends just the food and enters into the very atmosphere. It’s the Spirit of God at work. Last year’s New Year’s Eve was like this, and I spent it with some of my favorite people in Kansas City.

What a joy to be able to engage this particular skill here in Paris! This city needs love and its inhabitants need intimacy. Amber, myself, and our British friend Sarah who came to help out spent some time praying while the turkey roasted. We prayed that God would build a sense of family during our meal and that he would take his seat as the Papa at the table.

The dimly-lit room filled with friends, and we moved to our seats. Jono cut the turkey and I blessed the meal, and we explained the food and discussed its origins. Within a few minutes, conversation had rooted and after a while, faces were lit with enjoyment. Towards the end of the meal, we began to share, one by one, what we’re thankful for, with a good degree of vulnerability. Someone, in the middle of this, expressed that they sensed a spirit of Family; others affirmed it. We finished the official thanks-giving and began to pray.

And then it was midnight, and our guests began to scatter; dishes began to clatter.

I’m thankful to be here, and thankful to be accompanied by the mighty, close Spirit of the Living God.

Living in a Tree of Life

Life is full and rich these days, filled with children, metro, bike rides, streetscapes—and thick with the thrill of discovery and the pangs of friend-sickness.

Proverbs says that while “hope deferred makes the heart sick, a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” I continue to experience a sense of living in a tree of life: a result, maybe, of the years I have thought of this country, of this people, of these streets, of this language and yearned to return.

Life—joy, delight—wait to be found out around every corner—though they must be chosen.

Engaging with the children is a labor of love that unexpectedly yields sweet fruit: a wide grin and coo of delight from our 2-month-old, a sweet caress of my cheek by the 2-year-old, or the slipping of a nearly 5-year-old hand into mine when unneeded and unsolicited. Walking two blonde 2-year-olds to the park, each with their mini-strollers and baby dolls is nearly too cute to handle.

The streets of this city are full of treasures. An elderly Frenchwoman goes out fashionably dressed and accepts with grace when a man offers his seat to her on the bus. Specialty shops fill eyes and often noses with old books, fragrant cheeses, breads and pastries, stamps. Women are well-dressed, yet typically leave their hair and makeup quite natural; men wear often tailored coats and fine shoes. Glimpses, up from dirty storefronts and littered sidewalks, towards the horizon occasionally yield a partial view of Sacré Cœur or the Eiffel Tower. It’s funny—I never get bored but sometimes get numb to it all. Then I will have a moment of dumbfounded realization that I am here and that it’s beautiful.

If I am living in a tree of life, the thickest branch has got to be this family I’ve been welcomed into. After the fatigue of a revolving door of roommates and visitors in Kansas City, I was thrilled simply by the prospect of living with the same people for a full year. There is much, much more goodness to this than just stability, though. It’s an unbelievable privilege to live in super-close quarters with a couple that have a healthy marriage and love their children really well. Jonathan and Amélie choose to allow me into many of their discussions about their family and this church, and I know that it’s training for later in life, family or community.

All of this to say: I’m grateful; I’m healthy.

The challenge these days is the dichotomy between rejoicing in this place and being able to connect to it through friendship. The French are an amazing people and I love them very much, but it takes a good deal of time to build relationships among them as a foreigner. So the Lord continually encourages me to be strong and courageous, to be patient in what may be a very long lag time in between the deep, strong relationships of the past and the ones that surely await me here in the future.