"What I did with my summer vacation" Part I

Rather than living in one place, we chose to spend two months sans domicile fixe, wandering around by plane, train, auto, donkey, bike, surfboard, and foot to see what a little planning, some serendipity, and God's good sovereignty could come up with. It's a curious feeling, being without a permanent address. "Home" becomes a fluid concept, meaning anything from a tent in a campground, to a guest room in a bustling city, to a friend's couch in Paris, to family in Minnesota. The actual space becomes less relevant, while what is truly lasting and fixed into clearer focus; that is, relationships built with people along the way. It is chiefly thanks to friends who graciously opened their homes to us that we were able to see, smell, taste, hear, and touch so much new territory. And for that we are so grateful.

Our adventures began in Messanges, France, with two of our very best friends from Germany, Thomas and Conni. We joined them for several days and braved some unseasonably chilly and rainy weather to surf and camp along a very lovely portion of the Côte Atlantique. Thank goodness for wetsuits. Despite the conditions, Karl fell irreperably in love with the sport, I'm afraid, and I foresee many future vacations where I will be doing a lot of barefoot beach running while my husband scrambles to catch waves and suck in seawater. Doesn't sound so bad. Before we were too tempted to completely quit our careers and become professional beach bums, we found ourselves shaking the sand out of our shoes and boarding a plane to North Africa.

The first time around, Marrakech meant boarding a hot dusty train and riding it north towards our friends Thibault and Samia. Thibault is a drummer that Karl works with in Paris, and a terrific friend as well. He and Samia recently wed, and they were happy to show us around her hometown of Rabat, the capital of Morocco. Like many cities in this ever-changing country, it has a split personality. One half is the medina, or old town, where many of the butchers, bakers, fruit and veg sellers, rug makers, jewelers, and craftsmen of all sorts set up shop. The other half is the sleek and modern nouvelle ville, where self-important businessmen strut around with newspapers under their arm, people buy baguettes in French-style boulangeries, and girls decide to flaunt their newly-found freedom in (usually-forbidden) miniskirts and the highest of heels.

We couldn't visit nearby Casablanca without setting the piano player in front of a piano, and so the obvious venue was Rick's café, a classy joint that is meant to reflect the film. The piano player who warmed up the keys was named Issam (as in, "play it again, Issam..."), and he and the drummer were able to switch with Karl and Thibault for a few tunes throughout the evening. What an experience. And if I'm allowed to say so, my husband was smokin' hot.

Next, thanks to a recommendation from a new friend named Omar, we were encouraged to board a train to Meknes and stay with his aunt and uncle. We were greeted by mint tea, delicate Moroccan pastries, and the news that we could be escorted that evening by our hosts, Touria and Melek, to a traditional wedding, if we didn't mind. Would we like to come? The answer was an emphatic oui, which swept us up in a a whirlwind of activity of primping, donning kaftans, and departing (in two different cars, so as to keep men separate from women) for a showcase of Moroccan hospitality at its most spectacular. The whole experience lasts from about 9 in the evening until 6 or 7 in the morning. It includes about 7 costume changes for the bride, along with a goodly amount of pomp and paegantry to show them off. 'Round midnight, we were treated to a feast of many courses that featured, among other extravagances, an entire sheep for each table of six. And as if one orchestra wasn't enough, their were two music groups present; setting the ambience, and setting our feet and bellies to dancing at regular intervals. Unforgettably fun.

Full of memories and bleary-eyed, we board the train the next morning for Fes. An incomparable place. Enterning the medina by way of the imposing Bab Bejeloud (below), you find yourself in another world. No one winding street is the same, just as no fingerprint is the same; they are traces that witness to the city's total richness, the sum of its experiences as a space. We let ourselves get pushed around, haggled, and wheedled for a while, like a couple of pinballs in a neverending maze of a machine. Bumped and rolled between street boys who beg to be your guide for a few cents. Most of these little ones with big eyes grow into the taller ones who patrol like sharks, watching carefully for someone's open purse. I remember the dear Andalousian man with clear eyes and bad teeth. He should work for UNESCO, what with his sincere little speeches in very good English about the equality of man. "Would you like some tea?" Every store we hesitate in front of, they offer mint tea, mint tea, mint tea. The centerpiece of Moroccan generousity becomes a bargaining chip to get you to buy a drum, a kaftan, spices... After about three hours of sensory overload, we somehow extract oursevles from a Berber gentleman's workshop with many thank yous, and race for the hotel for a moment of repose and Coca on the terrasse. Subsequent days teach us how to ride this wave of commerce and colorful experience without getting sucked under too many times.

Finally, Marrakech. Though this city has become disappointingly touristy for many people, we were still fascinated by the nightly gatherings of food and entertainment at the center place, Jemaa al Fna, and gobbled down soup, tea, tajines, and spectacles galore. There are too many beautiful things to recount. Daily, we were struck by God's creative hand at work in the faces and souls of these generous-spirited people.

(To be continued...)

"You'd think it was a shipwreck!"

Our usually calm apartment has been something like the opening scene of one of my favorite children's books, The Winter Bear. As three children are prepare to leave the house for a walk, they throw out demands right and left...along with some clothing items.

"Where's my boot?"
"Where's my sweater?"
"I don't need a hat."
"Oh yes, you do!"
What a to-do.
You'd think it was a shipwreck.

After their bout of packing frenzy, Karl and Abbey are off to various exotic lands. Our travels may or may not include trooping in the occasional cybercafe, but we're signing off from regular blogging for a spell. We'll return in a month or so from Southwest France, Morocco, and maybe a few other places...with plenty of stories to tell.

By the way, "various exotic lands" includes our home turf of Minnesota, where we'll be staying from August 18-September 9, so drop us a note if you'd like to hang out. We're about ready to spend some muggy Minnesota nights, days at the lake, tasty barbecues, and Twins games with our dear ones. To all of our friends that go way back, and family that are our best friends....a bientot!

Having time

For the past couple of days, I have been relishing a little tome from 1573 in the Rare Books division of my beloved library. It is about the size of a PDA, but infinitely more charming and fascinating. My technology-enamoured friends will probably challenge me on that point, probably listing in the merits of the lastest Blackberry that they are able to "communicate" easily with others. So say I of the book. Does it not present an occasion for conversation between author and reader? This is not a particularly novel idea, I know, but one that has recently been reinforced for me recently in a decidely comical way.

For have you ever had the distinct experience of a book catching you in the act of doing or thinking something very specific? It can be disconcerting to have your mind read by a book, while all the while you thought the reverse was happening. Especially when that book is over four hundred years old. Several days ago, I leafed through the delicate pages of The 21 Epistles of Ovid, "newly" translated into French and scribbled in my notebook nearby - all of the poem titles, illustrations, and page numbers. So as to go back later and investigate in more detail. I was feeling oh-so productive but also time-conscious, since the library was soon to be closing. Suddenly, my eyes fell upon the following verses from the editor Charles Fontaine, addressed to his "dear readers":

Maint bon esprit en ce voyant se fache
De perdre temps, & souvent se contente
Du titltre seul qui a l'oeil presente.

Many a good mind, in seeing this [book] is exasperated
With passing time, and often contents himself
With only the title that presents itself to the eye.

It's hard enough to translate the verses, much less the feeling of being caught bloody-handed by a complete stranger several centuries old. The fact of the matter is, human nature hasn't changed much since the 16th. Impatient skimmers will always be. Now, some situations call for riffling rather than depth, of course. But Fontaine's admonition is timeless nonetheless, and brought me up short. Laughing ruefully at myself for falling into such a typical trap, I continued on, making an effort to savor rather than rush.

There is a fairy tale that is flitting through my mind in bits and pieces...something about a damsel wanting to skip through the boring parts of her life. In reponse to her plea, she is given a spool of golden thread by her fairy godmother, who warns her not to pull the thread unless absolutely necessary. You can see where this is going. Of course she gets impatient, and pulls it almost immediately. Just a little bit, and her life advances to when she is a happy young married woman. What joy! But the novelty soon wears off, and she pulls it again, but harder. She has many beautiful children. When they start to squawk and irritate her, she grabs for her golden thread yet again. Soon, she is old, gray, and regretful that she ever laid hands on the spool, for her life will soon be over and she has little or no meaning attached to those years.

I've been thinking about my own life, and wondering what my spool of golden thread is. We are only given a finite number of hours in our life, and yet I am often tempted to lay hold of an activity just to kill time. The Internet provides me with the majority of tugs on the thread. Youtube, facebook, google image search, you name it. I also fall back on crosswords, snacking purely out of boredom, and TV. It is true that we all need down time, but meaningful activity can be found in the realms of both leisure and labor. My (very human) problem is that even when I am engaged in these, I find my attentions wandering, "exasperated with passing time." Or, as T.S. Eliot wrote:

Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration

Uh, can anyone say "myspace"? Oh, that I could find that "still point in the turning world", that place of contentment more often! But this world is not friendly to those who wish to stand still. While waiting for a friend yesterday, for example, I was obliged to try to remain stationary on a busy Parisian sidewalk for about five minutes. Impossible. The result was a barrage of dirty looks and jostlings. No one will be still, nor let another be still. The excuse?

We don't "have time".

O, (Long) Happy Day

June 21. The longest day of the year. Someone in the course of your yesterday must have noticed this interesting little factoid, I'm sure, and briefly remarked on the marvelous length of a summer day. Perhaps, if you are from the upper Midwest, you even exchanged a little "yep" or two, just to seal the deal. Karl (from Minnesota) and Todd (from Ohio) are perfectly positioned - at a ninety-degree angle - for this sort of conversation.

"Yep. Sure stays light out for longer."
"Yep, sure does."
"Yep."

Well, Parisians do commemorate June 21st, but not in understated conversation about the obvious. Instead, they fill every one of those elongated hours with the most obvious pastime: music. The Fete de la Musique has been celebrated in France for the past 25 years, giving anyone with an iota of musical aspiration a chance to set up sound gear in the open air and play for Paris at large. And I do mean anyone. As we rode our bikes into the center of town to meet up with friends, we passed through layer after varied layer of sound. As soon as the metal band (rather stubbornly) faded away, we would be within earshot of a New Orleans-style brass band, which overlapped with the accordionist, who mingled rather comically with the drum jam further down the street. And so on. All night long...right down to the colorful Caribbean band fronted by the reincarnation of Carmen Miranda, who finally put down her maracas at 2:30 am, I think.

We spent a large share of the evening hanging around Genesis, which is the cultural center that belongs to our church. To everyone's surprise (including his wife's), Karl chose to sit back and enjoyed the show for the night, rather than jump in and participate. The woman playing the keys in the photo is Lorelei, who rocked the night away with her husband Ron on bass and a bunch of our other pals. It was most excellent, especially the strong dose of gospel that finished the set. Yep. We had people dancin' in the street, all amongst the roar of mopeds and police sirens that are inevitable on wilder nights in Paris. (Oh wait...that's every night.)


Well, as we took the party further afield, it became clear that the carnevalesque spirit was a bit more potent than usual. The guy at right who was practicing his parlor tricks for a delighted crowd, and (eventually) a group of disgruntled firefighters that made him put his toys away. This was at the youthful Place St.-Michel, which was littered with concert fliers and broken bottles, much to my chagrin when I had to bike home.

Yes, eventually even the best of parties lose their momentum, and there is a turning point when the majority of the crowd realizes how late it is, how much they have to go to the bathroom, how ill they feel, how hungry they are, etc. By about 2 pm, Paris was showing signs of feeling rather upset and betrayed by her pleasures, which we took as an indication to head home.

All of which makes me yearn for that happy day that will be the longest of all. That party will not end in police searches, swollen-eyed damsels, shifting shadows, and streets of broken glass. It will begin with the return of our King, who will come and make all things new. Even the bedraggled streets of Paris. Even those disheveled partygoers who have put their trust in Him. Even me.

Abbey von Gohren, your days are numbered

Please do not be alarmed at the title of this blog.

This is a well-known fact, one that I happen to be okay with. What I just happened to find out this week is that last year, I hit one heck of a milestone: 10,000 days. Yup. On October 20, 2006, I turned over the ol' ticker from 9,999 days to 10,000. Meaningless trivia? Perhaps. Or not...

So teach us to number our days,
that we may present to You a heart of wisdom.

Hmm. How is mortality tied to wisdom? It took me a while to think it through. At first glance, it seems a bit morbid to be wrapped up in such thoughts. Our time on this earth is limited. Also, it is also unknown to us when it ends. Another cheery scriptural meditation of mortality tolls through my head: "man knoweth not his time." If we are cognizant of these things, what could possibly emerge besides gloom and doom?

How about joy, thankfulness, and hope?

Oddly enough, these are a remarkably short step from the previous paragraph. Let's try it out. As I sit here, I am bathed in the light of my 10,238th day and so thankful to be here. What an astoundingly beautiful life we lead. God's love, good friends, dear family, delicious food. A veritable bowl of cherries. Le temps des cerises.

But what about a day with less sunshine? Flip back a few years, for example, when my uncle passed away from cancer. Actually, quite a number from both our families and circle of friends passed or fell ill within a few years for heart-wrenching, devastating reasons. Did I still number my days? You better believe it. When my soul hit bottom, it landed on one hard but solid truth. This life is temporary, so I had better put my hope in the eternal.

There is an old saying: "she's so heavenly-minded, she's no earthly good." I've always felt instinctively that there is a logical misstep here, but have never been able to pinpoint exactly what it is. I think, however, it has something to do with numbering our days. If the poor, long-criticized girl in the proverb truly had heaven in mind, she would count each day on earth as a gift. She shouldn't get such a bad rap. Future joy is inextricably linked to our benefiting from the joys in the present.

Speaking of joys in the present, I'd like to thank the Lord for piles of delicious mushrooms fried and tossed with steak, gnocchi, and bleu cheese by a very loving husband on my birthday (i.e. my 883,612,800th second, by the way**). I'd also like to thank Him for pushing away the exhausting humidity by a day full of exciting rainstorms, complete with wind gusts, and sunbursts. And I should probably mention how grateful I am for family and friends that pray and a God who answers...with astounding alacrity as of late, it seems. All this, and He still tacks on another day. Amazing.



**Don't forget to count the leap years, for all of you out there who are already doing the math.

Life in the Libraries

One of my teachers, whom I greatly respect, told me once that she dreampt of heaven as a library. The shelves reached so high that they disappeared into the infinite. Rather than dark, shadowy stacks, everywhere was light. Being eternity, there was ample time to read whatever her heart desired.

Oh, my. Dreams really do come true, sometimes.

Lately, I have been logging long hours at any one of the 700 worn wooden desks in the reading hall of the Bibliotheque Ste.-Genevieve. As far as I'm concerned, it's perfect. It's cosy and warm in the winter (especially if you're lucky enough to get a spot by a radiator), and airy and cool in the summer. The books do not stretch to infinity, per se....but high enough to whet my appetite for eternal shelving arrangements. On any given afternoon, the place is virtually overrun by a mass of leggy, Converse-clad Parisian high-school students, all giggling and nervously studying by turns. The long-suffering librarians wheeze, sigh, or scold as the spirit moves, but Ste.-Genevieve herself is a benevolent matron who has been watching over her young brood with a more generous eye for centuries. Still, if you want a spot to read, you had better come before the lycee across the square lets out; waiting till later usually means an hour-long wait or more.

An hour, just to get in? Yup. Once you're in, then you order the books you want to read, which takes another half-hour for the librarians to fetch from the stacks. You think this is bureaucratic? Wait till I start belly-aching about the Bibliotheque-Nationale next year. I know of doctoral students who have been refused a library card there during the required, inital interview. Stiff is the competition for the right to information.

This attitude seems to relax somewhat when it comes to the public libraries. Karl has found a wealth of resources at the Mediatheque Musicale...minus the guard dogs. There are scores of notated jazz and classical tunes, recordings of every possible album an aspiring musician could hope to hear, and lots and lots of books. I can always tell when he's been to the musical library...he's usually beaming.

And the study he's been doing has been paying off. Talk about dreams coming true....his quintet just recently played at a venue in the heart of Paris, and he's got two more gigs in June. We recently launched a website to get the word out about his musical pursuits. If you have a moment to check it out, let us know what you think on the guestbook page!

http://www.freewebs.com/karlvongohren/index.htm

Chasing clouds

"Blessed in the man whose strength is in Him, whose heart is set on pilgrimage." - Psalms 84:5

In exactly one month, we will have been married three years. Judging by our first few years together, it would seem as if we are bound for pilgrimage...at least for the time being. Whether it is exploring isolated mountain ranges for a weekend, or a buzzing metropolitan city for a year or two, the way of our life reflects our belief about life on this earth...it's beautiful, but transient. Don't mind us, we're just passin' through. Yeah, we'll pitch a tent every now and then. But eventually the pillar of cloud drifts on, and so do we.

[cue drifting pillar of cloud]

Ahem.

Hmm. That's funny. Doesn't seem to be moving yet.

Yes, it looks as if we will be living in the city of Paris for another year, Lord willing. My employer extended another yearly contract to me to teach. Karl will be able to follow-through with the contacts he's made in the music world here. I have the blessing of my Ph.D. committee to continue on in my pursuits abroad. We will linger awhile longer in the community of Christian believers that has been a comfort and joy. We will even be staying under the same roof, renting from our current landlords. Boy, there's a thought. Two years in one place? Well, nearly. We will be doing a bit of wandering around this summer...perhaps more of France, some Morocco and Germany, and definitely Minnesota...before we hunker down for another year of learning and living here.

"As they pass through...the rain covers it with pools." (Psalm 84:6)

Speaking of clouds, we've recently discovered that the old adage "April showers bring May flowers" cannot be applied to la belle France. Apparently, it's more like "April flowers in the sun, but May showers are not much fun". Don't get me wrong... I love thunderstorms. But we've made bikes our primary form of city transportation...yeah. Bought the bikes a month ago, when there wasn't a wisp of cirrus in sight for weeks. So, we've spent most of our time recently either drenched or drying. Haven't seen any rainbows, but the bluer skies this morning are still a good reminder that the Lord promised not to destroy the earth by water again. We were wondering there for a while.

"Even the sparrow has found a home...even Your altars, my Lord and my God." (Psalm 84:3)

Yesterday evening, we unsuccessfully dodged a downpour or two to attend a concert at the Eglise St.-Germain-des-Pres. Our plan to picnic somewhere beforehand was looking especially bleak, until we reached the entrance of the aged church. At that point, the spring torrents finally simmered down to a light drizzle and we were able to crouch on the wet stone steps like a couple of bedraggled sparrows in Goretex. It sounds unpleasant, but we were actually in high spirits as we munched on our bit of bread, meat, and cheese. A couple of bemused members of the clergy wished us "bon appetit" as they headed inside to fulfill their priestly duties for the evening.

"How lovely is Your tabernacle, O Lord!" (Psalm 84:1)

Once they opened the heavy, carved wooden doors, we headed in to the ancient sanctuary. Wow. This church dates back to the 6th century, when the Merovingian king Childebert decided to construct a resting place for relics. It is small (by Parisian standards), and the walls are still painted in vivid reds, greens, and blues, all of which makes the place seem quite cosy. The music was very pretty...brought to us by members of the National Opera Orchestra of Paris. They even warmed up the organ for one piece. So many glorious things.

"The Lord gives grace and glory. No good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly." (Psalm 84:11)

Yes, we are given so much good. Rain and sun, cloud and fire. Movement and stillness, silence and music. Hunger and bread, thirst and drink. These all fall from the hand of our Heavenly Father, for our enjoyment and His glory. May we delight in this more and more.

----

N.B. Heavens, it's been a month since I've last posted. Is it enough to say that we were banished to computer purgatory, and we're just now emerging out the other side with a brand new hard disk? Anyone who has had computer problems, read Dante, or both, will understand completely.

It's a bird...It's a plane....It's....

Five planes, in fact. Containing nearly a dozen people we know and love, all touching down between beginning of April and early May. Sounds crazy, we said. But it just might work.

There is a kitschy old tune that can be often hear lilting down the cavernous passages of the Metro, carried by some lone accordionist's melody... "I love Paris in the springtime, I love Paris in fall...I love Paris every moment...". Despite this time-honored truth, everyone we know decided that the month of April sounded best. And yes, they have reason, as we say in French. It is a fragrant, bustling season, in which the city is abundantly encumbered with early blossoms and early tourists; hanging from aged trees and aged monuments, respectively. (We don't see too many tourists hanging from trees. Thankfully, Franco-American relations are still much too intact for that sort of thing.)

So, "why oh why do I love Paris? Because my love is near." That is to say, Paris is a beautiful place, but Paris with your dear ones is almost too lovely for words. I'll give it my best shot.

The first arrivals were Ethan and Kim. They brought with them endless amounts of sun. Literally and figuratively. It hasn't rained here since the 2nd of April. We all found this quite ironic, since they apparently had come from very brown and frozen Minnesota landscape. In Paris, the magnolias were just beginning to offer their flamboyant selves to happy passers-by, and the trees were already full of leafy green. We dined, wined, strolled, slept and then did it all over again.

Somewhere in the haze of these lazy, crazy days of early summer, another group of people joined the party. My mom and dad, Seth, and Kaija arrived...but their luggage did not. Fortunately, AirFrance is fairly accommodating, and offered the fam daily shopping sprees until their own duds showed up. Score! So, we helped them navigate their jet lagged selves through the insane maze of Parisian department stores. The sales had landed some days before, leaving strewn clothing and ragged nerves in its wake, but we emerged victorious with bags on our arms and dinner on our minds.

Dinners and picnics. This was perhaps the best part of the visits. When you've been away from your loved ones for as long as we had, it is no small thing to share bread, wine, a simple dish or two, and heavy helpings of laughter. Somewhere along the line there, Pam and Jerry joined the table. They were (and still are) on a fabulous European Tour including Scotland, England, France, Germany, and Holland. What adventurous souls they are!

One day, we all ventured out to the end of metro line 1 to the dusty Chateau de Vincennes. (I think this was Kaija's sightseeing choice, and we are all forever grateful to her.) When we arrived, I was a bit uncertain about the outcome, as the staff seemed initially a bit huffy that we dare march in and ask for a tour in English. Thankfully, there was Dominique. He had to "re-arrange his schedule" of course, to "fit us in", but after these formalities he threw himself - heart and soul - into his task. He was bound and determined to make sure we didn't leave without a decent education on dukes and regents, horse chestnuts and clovers, gothic chapels and military ramparts, and everything you could imagine pertaining to a French castle in the Middle Ages. The afternoon finished off with a picnic in the grass. This seemed appropriate, since it is the very grass that I was tempted to nap in during my long training days for the marathon.

Yes, between one picnic and another, dad and I squeezed a little 42-kilometer run in there. I have already soliloquized aplenty about this in a previous entry, but here's a nice shot "for the record." (Thinking back to that moment, I'm surprised we had the chutzpah to smile still. Maybe we're just squinting. I remember concentrating very hard on being able to stand up. Things have loosened up since. Thank goodness. )

Since our home has been opened to visitors, we have grown quite accustomed to train sendoffs. It feels sort-of romantic and old-fashioned. You buy a chocolate and a croissant, watch the world come and go, and suddenly it's your turn. Or, in this case, Pam and Jerry's turn, off to Frankfurt for more adventures. And the futon cannot stay empty for long, which is super 'cause otherwise it would just there, relatively useless. After a whistle-stop visit from my Auntie Ruthi, on her way to Spain, she too climbed into a train, in her cute pink beret and eyes plenty wide-open to catch everything that went by. Leaving the couch unoccupied...

Till tomorrow, of course.

Heavens, I'd better go wash some sheets!


**Photos courtesy of Kaija Hansen, since I was too lazy to carry around a camera. Thanks, hon!**

The Camaraderie of the Long Road

When I first started training for the marathon a couple of months ago, it was pretty much (please forgive the expression) a walk in the park. The scenery was beautiful, the tunes in my mp3 player were kickin', and I trotted the little paths of Bois de Vincennes quite contentedly from week to week. (Except for a few pesky wrong turns, of course.)

However. The innocent afternoon jogs gradually stretched into longer stints. And the cute little distractions began to wane in effectiveness. Yes, believe it or not, Daft Punk's driving techno beats do lose their potency...after a few hundred repetitions. And trees and flowers are awfully nice, but if all you want to do is lie down and take a nap on the green, green grass, you may as well be running past asphalt and cement blocks.

So what keeps a body going? I depend mainly on the grace of God at all levels. Then there is sheer willpower, of course. (More on that later.) But another thing I noticed as I coaxed my haggard self along those seemingly endless training miles was the camaraderie of the long road. What do I mean by that? Well, amongst runners in general, there is a certain built-in feeling of togetherness. A strange paradox, since it can be one of the most solitary of sports. Usually, a quick nod and smile is all you have time for as you pass one another, and yet this simple gesture can be immensely encouraging. If you have the fortune of crossing paths with the same familiar face a couple of times, you come meeting up with that same poor soul who, like you, was running two hours ago, is still running, and will continue to run. You both flash a grin, broad with simultaneous satisfaction and sheepishness. "Look what we've both done! Wait - what are we doing?" It takes but one humorous moment, but sometimes it is all you need. Imagine 35,000 potentially similar exchanges on April 15th.

Pretty overwhelming.

Particularly when quite a number of those exchanges take place between you and your own dad. We happily trotted along together as the sun shone bright (perhaps more like beat down on our heads at a humid 85 degrees farenheit... yeesh.) Despite the heat, we were both in fine form, and the miles and kilometers slipped by almost unnoticed. The first 16 miles we ran together, during which he also equipped me for the final push: "remember, the final 6 are all in your head. Your body will be finished."

Uh-huh.

Mile 20.5, and all of a sudden my entire lower body goes numb. I mean, I can kinda still feel my feet. But otherwise, the muscles that had been moving steadily for about 4 hours were kaput. "All in your head, Abbey. All in your head...." Dad's advice repeated in my head, even though I no longer had him next to me. The event had been a solitary affair for a while, but the camaraderie of the long road was still having its undeniable effect. Greatly heartened by this, the sight of my husband at mile 22 with a shoulder squeeze and an energy bar, and also perhaps the pixie cup of Bordeaux I sloshed down at mile 23, I made it. I crossed the finish line running with a hazy Arc de Triomphe in the distance - 4:46:04 hours after I left. Dad pulled in about 6 minutes later.

And then, everything was victory. And I finally laid down in the green, green grass.

(Thank you, Lord.)

The Bad and the Beautiful

It never ceases to amaze me how life twists and turns so dramatically. In the course of a brief span of time, our dearest hopes can be dashed, our greatest desires restored, and our most acute fears realized. One day in our life can take on the quality of a Rodin statue in a sunlit garden - unnaturally contorted and realistic all at the very same time. The light and dark both running through.

Having this view of the universe certainly complicates dinner conversation. "So, how was your day?" "Oh, fine" is too nonchalant. "Bad" - too pessimistic. "Perfect" - a bit unrealistic. The answer that my husband got tonight was "extremely trying." Which, of course, brought more words, a few tears, and struggle with injustices in this imperfect world. And yet did not even these trials bring me closer to the Author of my days? For,

"He has made everything beautiful in its time.
Also He has put eternity in their hearts,
except that no one can find out the work
that God does from beginning to end." (Ecc. 3:11)

I may still not understand why He wrote certain things in today's script. Mostly, I second-guess my own reactions and responses in situations - was it the right thing? But in any case, He is asking me to wait for the outcome from His hand. My idea of His justice and goodness may one day weave through my life in their beautiful time. Right now, it is more beautiful that I trust in Him.

Meanwhile, rest and respite comes in a variety of serendipitous ways. Rich evenings with friends who accept us with no pretense or falsity. Students who trust me and confide in me about deep things. Impromtu pique-niques together with cheese, bread, and a bottle of rose that is somehow the same color at the setting sky. And that always-safe haven that is married love.

At the risk of sounding simplistic, I think that nearly every day calls for saying "will you forgive me" a few times (to both man and God), letting go of the crappy parts of the day, and savouring the good parts with a thankful heart. Over a crust of bread and a glass of wine, bien sur.

"Go, eat your bread with joy,

And drink your wine with a merry heart;

For God has already accepted your works." (Ecc. 9:7)

If these walls could speak

If you spend enough time roaming a city, you are bound to stumble over a stone or two from centuries past. Some walls and streets are more generous with their stories than others. The school where I teach, for example, is in the oldest quartier of Paris. On a daily basis, I wander in and out of a district that is literally bursting at the seams with tales of yore.

It is called the Marais, which means swamp. This always conjures up vivid images for me of a full-fledged, modern Paris emerging from a primordial soup of civilization - some kind of Atlantis in reverse. (Chalk it up to my overactive imagination.) The truth of the matter is, centuries of God-fearing peoples have painstakingly constructed layer upon layer of stone, wood, and iron to turn a slimy, mosquito-infested bog into a functional habitation and great cultural center.

If I take a certain passage to go home from work, it spills out next to this ragged bit of stone wall on the left. Closer inspection reveals a "Histoire de Paris" plaque; these are bookmarks that the French have lovingly placed around the city to remind themselves of their past. In this case, Philippe-Auguste built this fortified wall from 1190-1220, to protect the city from marauding invaders. If you look at a map from 1210, the original boundaries outline medieval life on a much smaller scale, compared to the present-day city.

I remember the distinct thrill I felt the day I matched this wall with another wall on the Left Bank, which I had been walking past every time I went to the library. They are, in fact, two parts of the same whole. That's like finding 2 pieces that fit from a 1000-piece puzzle after you've been staring at it for a good long while. But on a slightly larger scale.

Some remnants are not as obvious. I don't know how many times I walked past this wall before I noticed the traces of previous buildings. If you look closely (ah, so important!), there are outlines of windows that are blocked up and roof tops that lead into thin air. In this case, historical maps will probably not be able fill in the gaps, but imagination should always be at the ready. How many a young man wooed a lady at that window? How many little ones played on the stoop of the threshold?

Historical fantasies (if I may use such a term) are often filled out by the appearance of a sculpture or two. The guy below appears to be transporting goods and animals about, and the detail in his boots, jacket, and hairstyle are captivating. Before you know it, my medieval walled city is abuzz with gossiping women, pretty damsels, singing birds, mule carts, craftsman, swooning youths, and other figures. It reminds me of the wide-eyed bustle of Victor Hugo's 15th century Paris:

"It was a vast place, irregular and badly paved, like all the squares of Paris at that date. Fires, around which swarmed strange groups, blazed here and there. Every one was going, coming, and shouting. Shrill laughter was to be heard, the wailing of children, the voices of women. The hands and heads of this throng, black against the luminous background, outlined against it a thousand eccentric gestures. At times, upon the ground, where trembled the light of the fires, mingled with large, indefinite shadows, one could behold a dog passing, which resembled a man, a man who resembled a dog. The limits of races and species seemed effaced in this city, as in a pandemonium..." (Hunchback of Notre-Dame, 1831)

These days, by contrast, the atmosphere of this particular neighborhood is rather solemn, even staid. Rows of unassuming residences line up above a series of minimalist art galleries, pricey clothing stores, and (rather) snooty cafes. It does have a certain, well-contained beauty. However, I am always overcome with an urge here to try to reconnect with the city's wilder and woolier past, and pull it into the present somehow. So, whether it is 19th-century Hugo conjuring up his magically realistic Paris of circa 1485, or just another street-wandering tourist from America with her nose in a guidebook, I guess we all seem to have the need to rebuild.

That's got me thinkin'. If mere earthly foundations can reach such heights by way of our limited human imaginations, how much more amazing will the new heavens and the new earth be? I mean, most of the time, we groan and move laboriously along the face of this globe, trying so hard to make sense of past, present, and future. But it is a immense comfort to know that someday our little efforts will culminate in a Great Rebuilding. We will finally see how the stories, stones, maps, lot lines, frontiers, and people groups intertwine in one great and glorious history. And that will just be the beginning.

"And your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt;
you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
you shall be called the repairer of the breach,
the restorer of streets to dwell in" (Isaiah 58).