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.

Bread and Ideas

It’s a cool, cloudy Wednesday here in the City of Love. Wednesdays are normally all or part off for me, depending on whether or not I work the weekend.

I took advantage of the free afternoon today to head over to Belleville, a neighborhood full of foreigners on a hill on the eastern edge of Paris. It was high time for a visit with my new friend Jono, who with his wife and volunteers, runs a café called Kiwizine.

I dare you to look at the photos of the food they serve at this tiny café! Who makes food this beautiful? I love even more the heart behind the food, which is essentially a desire to connect with the French through the way they experience food.

How did I never before grasp that France is a good place for me for this very reason? Of course, the whole world looks to France as a pinnacle fine dining. I think I’ve often kind of poo-pooed French cuisine, finding it too buttery, too dog-foody, too simple even.

What I’ve missed is that behind the façade of haute cuisine, there’s this beautiful value, of the goodness of the food and the place it comes from. Traditional dishes contain cream, butter, and eggs because the farmers in the region raise cows and chickens, for example. Wine experts can tell you what region a bottle comes from and whether the crop was good the year it was produced. Do we ever really stop to taste the goodness of our ingredients? Is a vegetable, prepared simply, good enough?

Two particular food experiences have marked this train of thought for me. One has been cooking with the family here. Amélie’s mom and dad send us lots of garden vegetables from their potager in Normandy, and we cook them in the simplest ways. Every day the cocotte-minute, or pressure-cooker, is in use. I initially balked a bit, generally preferring to sauté, but have come to embrace the practicality of this contraption, with produces boiled beets or potatoes in less than half the time. After using the cocotte, I only have to purée the food or not, add salt and butter, and pass it off to the children. No fancy techniques or complicated flavors. And hot damn, if puréed beets with a dab of butter aren’t delicious!

The other experience that has marked me was a trip down to the Canal Saint Martin last week. I discovered a fine, lovely, 1900-era boulangerie called du Pain et des Idées (of Bread and Ideas). Like few bread-and-pastry shops left in France today, they make their goods by hand with simple, quality ingredients, in the traditional manner. I walked in to find piles of croissants and other flaky treats in large ceramic bowls, and unusually friendly service. Even better, I walked out with a toasty paper sack containing a special, simple fall treat. On a bench by the canal, I unwrapped the fresh-from-the-oven chausson aux pommes, what Anglophones will call an apple turnover. The caramelized juices from the apples inside stuck to the wrapping paper, the filling was steamy in the cool air, and the pastry crust flaky and buttery. It was a piece of autumnal heaven.

In both of these cases, the ingredients speak for themselves. The flavors of three, four, five things, put together in a certain manner, sing a beautiful song. They connect us back to their Maker, their cultivator, and their preparer. We delight, we find goodness, and this takes us nearly to a place of worship.

Open Arms

Tomorrow, it will be one week from when I walked off a plane, stepped out of French customs and into a sweet French family in Paris.

The last few days have been full full full. Imagine: three children, three adults, communicating in two languages in a two-bedroom apartment in one big city.

There’s a lot to learn, when you suddenly drop into someone else’s lifestyle.

I’m not complaining. Far from it. Nope. I’m dumbfounded. This is reeeaaal good.

We are on the northern edge of Paris’s northernmost neighborhood, Montmartre, in a sunny, 7th-floor apartment. The living room windows look out on lots of other apartments, geraniums, nudity, big screens and all. They also permit a Midwesterner to see the skyscape, which is comforting.

This “we” includes myself, the newcomer, then Jonathan, Amélie, superparents, and their three kids. E is 4 ½, I is 2, and S is just about a month old. They’re a dynamic, loving family; the kids are happy, strong, and adventurous. Maman and Papa are gentle, joyful, encouraging, and challenge their children to do accomplish things on their own whenever possible.

Jonathan and Amélie have taken such good care of me. We’ve had discussions (once over a rather large pot of Swiss fondue) about our hopes and expectations for our relationships together this year. Jonathan has helped me set up various accounts at the bank, cell phone company, and Paris public bike system, and oriented me to the various bike and bus treks I’ll need to know to get E from school a couple of times a week. Amélie has been showing me everything I need to know about the neighborhood, like parks and grocery stores. Even better, this formally-trained child psychologist is teaching me about each of the children, their phase of development, and different techniques to healthily communicate with children.

In the middle of all of this, I’m rediscovering France. It feels like being with an old friend. I know her well, it seems—not just the romantic things that charm people the world over, but also the weird, less appealing sides that frustrate. Several times a day, I find something I haven’t experienced since I was last here, and find myself smirking, confounding the inevitable passerby. Something about being here is comfortable and right.

Amazingly, I’m finding that I’m not the person I was the last time I was here (four years ago), and certainly not the one that lived in Marseille at 18. For the last few years, as I’ve waited for God to bring an opportunity for me to come back here, I’ve had dreams where I’m in France, with various classmates from my time in Marseille. Unlike my interactions then, the exchanges in my dreams are easy, free, full of laughter. Last night I was chatting with a young woman in our house-church, and I was joking with her. Suddenly I remembered the dreams, and I realized they’re at last coming true. I was free and comfortable and myself.

The Lord has indeed liberated me these last years. Now I am unencumbered, able to reach out and embrace this experience, this people, this land, with open arms.