Framing France

It is one thing to go on vacation in a place, and come home to show family and friends digital snapshots on the laptop slideshow. ILife makes it slick enough, setting your memories to music and condensing the whole experience into a neat 10 or 15-minute presentation. IRemember when IShow you my IShots.

It's been different this time somehow. We arrived with no less pictures than usual. More, perhaps. But our motivation to pull out the slideshows was somewhat muted. Sure, we've shown a video here or a photo there, but nothing like the marathon storytellings we've indulged in during every visit home in the past few years. I have been trying to figure out why this is. Does it have something to do with the fact that we're not leaving again immediately? Probably, but I also suspect something else is going on.

Paris is home. It doesn't seem like the kind of place we need to showcase anymore. We loved the beauty, never got jaded enough to ignore the way a street weaves a serpentine path, or how almost every wall you walk past is embedded with sculpture, or how those musicians who play in the metro are actually pretty good sometimes. But appreciating all of that becomes part of living there, like breathing.

Now we don't live there. That has felt like a problem that needs solving to both of us. Our discomfort comes poking out in awkward statements about "just moving back" and such. It seems quite unlikely at this point that we'd be abandoning our current course to chase yesterday's dreams. Perhaps it's just time to dwell upon some new ideas for the future, whether they involve the same country or not, and enjoy the respite in Minnesota with family and other dear ones.

Still, I'm compelled to surround myself with images of home. (Our home over there, I mean.) A generous soul on craigslist responded to my plea - "frames wanted" - and I'm on my way to framing France. I've been trying to fit our rich life into squares and rectangles of various sizes to hang in our home (over here, I mean) whenever we define that space. Despite my intense drive to do this, I'm a bit skeptical myself. I can see capturing the joys of a holiday in a scrapbook or set of frames, but a full three years of life? Still, I'm trying.


At least part of that life apparently fits into an oblong three-dimensional package of about 12 inches by 6 by 6. We came home last night to a such a knobby bundle on the kitchen counter, which had arrived while we were out. It was addressed from a bunch of friends in Paris (two cunning masterminds in particular!) and contained many memories, encouragements, bits of Paris. It was overwhelming. And wonderful. It seems as if I might be needing some more frames.

This is only one side of the complexity of grappling with our two homes. More about the other side next time. "For God is my witness, how I yearn for you all with the affection of Jesus Christ."

Collaborations

"The help which I have received from others shows that autobiography here does not exclude the notion of collaboration, and hence of the collective." - Sarah Kay

"Real life is meeting." -C.S. Lewis

In this forum, I do not often bring up my studies in medieval literature, but sometimes they intersect with life in surprising ways. Sarah Kay, in her book involving authorship and medieval autobiography, expressed her thanks to her support system by putting an emphasis on the collaborative. I think her comment is helpful for understanding what life is about in general. C.S. Lewis' chapter heading in that Hideous Strength sort of sums it up.

We're all writing an autobiography. You may never pen the words yourself, but every minute of every day is adding to a greater, overarching story that holds together in the long run as a "good read." But none of this would be possible without the other people to whom we are connected. This is why I find Kay's quote illuminating. Essentially, there is no "me" without a "we."

As a Christian, the first collaboration I have is with God. We are hardly peers (!), so the analogy does not work in quite the same way, but I do participate in His work. Plus, the God I worship is Three-in-One: a perfect union of work and love. The collective does not get much better than that.

Next, I collaborate with my husband - with all of life. That is not to say he proofs my conference papers, nor do I tell him how to play a song a certain way, but our lives overall are meant to be one great cooperation. By God's grace, we challenge one another to think differently and grow, all while being like-minded and of one, loving spirit.

There are all sorts of collaborations that spill out from there. Run a marathon, but with a friend or my dad. Write, but check in weekly with two other writers for comments and edits. Read, but get two copies and share observations with another reader. Make music, but eventually start a band. Worship God, but in the corporate setting of the church. Study, but go to class and write papers that must be reviewed by other academics.

No man is an island, but we just might be an archipelago.

A Time to Plant, A Time to Pluck up

My, we have a lot to catch up on. Do you have time to pull up a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, depending on the time zone? I'm not sure I can fit all my thoughts into one post, but we've got to start somewhere.

A time to plant, A time to pluck up what is planted. Isn't this backwards? We experience it the other way around. Two and a half weeks ago on a gray day, I painstakingly extricated my stubborn roots from foreign soil. It is good that my destination was marked "family" in my mind and not "Minneapolis", or I am afraid I might have never come back. The weather matched my mood, gloomy. Rain droplets gathered on the small oval window that peered onto the tarmac of Charles de Gaulle airport and I tried not to act like a cliche.

At the end, I was very cheered to see the bright smiles of my mom, dad, brother. Lots of shining teeth, energetic hugs held long and sweet. The next day, I dove headlong into the bustle of my cousin's wedding. More smiles, hugs, talk about France. Surprised looks when I tell some that we're back for now. Most of them figured we'd be over there, well - forever. Part of me wonders.

Karl is still on the opposite shore, holding the other end of the tape as we measure the probabilities and improbabilities of the next season of our lives. I ask him about decisions, aspirations, but he cannot fathom those questions now. He's got to uproot before he can replant. I understand completely.

As if vaguely aware of my vulnerability as a transplant, within a week of my return, I was actually planting a garden. (Okay, as fond as I am of metaphor, I mean this literally this time.) Zucchini, lettuces, beets, basil seeds dropped into pots as a birthday present for someone I love. The humidity and heat caused them to sprout almost immediately. I crouch close to the minuscule leaflets, glowing green against the black backdrop of soil. I imagine I can see them unfolding as I watch. The sun is hot on my head and I move into the blue shade along the side of the house.

Another revelation. In terms of landscape here, green is the rule, and gray is the exception. This formula is inverted in Paris, its beauty sketched out in other ways. Now, midwestern suburbs may seem calm to most, but when you've been wandering in a four-toned print for three years, Minnetonka feels as rich and colorful as a rainforest. Then I remember that it used to be a prairie. In the morning, I take my coffee onto the front porch and gaze around me, dazed and fascinated, senses swarming with exotic creatures. The metallic clatter of dragonfly wings, swarming moths, bees swinging around the daisies like industrious acrobats. It would take a long time to catalog all of the insects that scurry past my bare feet - ants of all sizes, black shiny beets, translucent spiders.

I trot off into the neighborhoods a few miles from my parents' house and find the secret passageway to the park. I remember when my best friend from across the street showed it to me, cutting through a well-worn hole in the sumac on our dusty bikes. Purgatory Creek Park. A sandy trail runs white hot in the sun where prairie grasses give off the hot breath of sweet clover, and then it dips down into the woods for relief, deep draughts of cool air and shade. A deer nearby turns his head and looks at me, unconcerned.

Other than this, I have been reading like someone starved. The lives of Dorothy Day and Ernest Hemingway help me feel at ease with the paradox, the stark contrast of landscapes in my life. The paradox of loving the city and natural beauty both. After mainly finding her identity in her hometown of Chicago and her wild life in the Village in NY, Dorothy Day went and bought a cottage on Staten Island with her first major earnings as a writer, a full hour from Manhattan. Must have been quite the switch. Hemingway found that writing about Michigan flowed nicely when he was ensconced at a table in a clattering, brassy Parisian bistro.

I wonder if that works the other way around. Will I be able to write more about Paris now that I'm back in the Midwest? I guess we'll have to wait and see.

30 years and Countless Blessings.

As my consciousness bubbled to the surface, I heard exuberant voices ringing out a familiar theme. My messy head flopped out from under my covers to see my three flatmates boldly marching in with glowing candles and smiles and flags waving. I couldn't stop giggling at how wonderful it was to get woken up by the birthday song. It's a Danish tradition. What followed was a beautiful breakfast table laid out with more candles, flowers, croissants, pain au chocolat, nectarines, presents. Karl was the funniest and sweetest as he did his best to pray a blessing for me when he'd also only been roused from peaceful sleep five minutes previous, pre-coffee and everything. (I will be adding pictures shortly.)

After lingering, Karl and I decided to spend the rest of the morning using our French bikes one last time to meander down the Coulee Verte. This is a trail south of Paris that winds through some pretty little villages. We ended up in charming Sceaux, and discovered for ourselves an exceptionally good boulangerie with a sidewalk table. We started with quiche with salmon, dill, and sun-dried tomato, and the server looked at us quizzically when we said this was my “birthday cake.” We took that as a sign to indulge in a luscious tarte aux pommes, and 2 cups of espresso. She approved.

We had to book it back to Paris, as my friends Peter and Aubrey had invited me over to have lunch at their place and hang out with their new little daughter Rebecca. Indian takeout, a beautiful bouquet, good music, laughs, hugs, prayers. Karl joined and our dear friends pulled out an awesome bottle of champagne to celebrate. Tear-filled smiles- this was au revoir for a while. I paraded through the streets of Paris with a gorgeous bunch of red and white flowers (I will say that carrying flowers around sure makes one feel pretty), and continued on to my friend Alexandra's, who had offered to have me for tea. We indulged in the most amazing fondant au chocolat and fresh cherries, and laughed, played with Karl-Johann (her eight-month old), prayed, cried, and then I headed home.

When I arrived, it was already late-ish for dinner, but Ray and Karl were just finishing up the preparations for Japanese curry and a playlist of Johnny Cash (what else would you do in Paris, I mean really?) Tasty, on all counts. At this point, it was 9 pm. We were pretty tired, had to be up early. Still some packing to finish up. So, we went to bed, right?

Well, eventually. (You know us better than that, I hope!) I mean, it was our last night in Paris for a while. So, we got gussied up and ventured out for the late show at the Duc des Lombards, a famous jazz club we'd always talked about going to. As we sat bouncing our knees to the lively interpretations of Benny Goodman tunes, we lolled mouthfuls of Madiran over our tongues and just savoured. That's what this day was about – to enjoy and be thankful for 30 years, 10 percent of which I spent in this wondrous city with the man that I love, making dear friends that will last through this life and beyond. Merci, Dieu.

N.B. The best gift of all was my amazing husband, as you can see he was hovering around, carefully making sure all day that my birthday went well. Love you, K. Also, I wrote this post too soon, as more beautiful roses were awaiting me when I arrived back at home. Thank you, Pam!

The Spider and the Rosebush

I am sitting in the early morning haze of our garden in Gentilly. You can tell from the still, damp air that the heat will be stifling later, but my spot is still cool with shady blues. In this calm, my mind starts to flit over the past few years, and all that God has given us to serve our joy and His glory.

There is an exquisite spider web to my right, bravely slung across a vast opening between the stone wall and the hedge beneath. Every once in a while, half a head of fragrant white rose petals comes tumbling ripe from its perch in the bushes above. Every time, I wonder if the fine threads of the web will escape the incoming avalanche. So far, so good.

We came to this country nearly three years ago with all the determination of the spider that wove this little marvel. We, too, cast out threads and - perhaps somewhat to our surprise - found our haven anchored to firm foundations. Certainly, we had imagined it would be more ephemeral than this - a sort of net for catching a few delicious days as they flew by, temporary and lovely.* But then it lasted. And lasted.

Now it comes to an end, it seems. There are gigantic blossoms looming over our heads, threatening to topple and tear us away from a home we learned to weave. This is a bittersweet season, in which greater joys come to destroy our makeshift designs with their magnificence. But somehow, crushed by the beauty, I think we won't mind.

Onto the next adventure, where we will cast thin strands about in another spot in the garden. For now we rest thankful, buried in the weighty remembrance of heady roses that once floated past. This is the lifelong fling.

---

* "A schedule...is a net for catching days."Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Thirty-Three Bridges

A week ago today, laced up my running shoes, dreaming of crossing all of Paris' 33 bridges in one outing. I'd been thinking about doing this for a while, but it suddenly took on more meaning about a month ago.

This year, a very good friend of ours was diagnosed with brain cancer. She has a loving husband, a good church, and a whole lot of courage. Yet I couldn't help shuddering when I thought about the costs involved for her treatment.

I honestly don't remember when my wacky thought about the bridges converged with our friend's health situation, but that's probably because the credit for the idea goes to God. One minute, I was thinking about performing this feat for fun, and the next minute, it had taken on an eternal quality. I think life is like this. God inspires us to do something, and then He creatively conjoins these desires to the real-life needs of people so we can serve them. In all of this, we make much of Him!

I watched open-mouthed as he moved the generosity of people in our church here in Paris (many of them know this friend), until I had over 1000 euros in pledged donations, should I successfully finish all 33 bridges. With the wind at my back (half the time anyway!), I charted a course that zigzagged through this beautiful city, from east to west. Rain was forecast, yet I enjoyed sunshine and a pretty haze that beautified the scenery even more.

The beginning of the course was in fact the most difficult, because it was downright ugly. Pont National runs through rusty industrial zones and train yards, and the first sign I saw was "Interdit aux Pietons" (Forbidden to Pedestrians). Not a very promising beginning. But everything just got better from there.

My 2 1/2 hour journey took me through the very heart of Paris - the city I love, the city that we've made ours. It was like running through a photo album of our last three years here. The towers at left are the library where I spent most of last year studying. The bridge at right leads directly to Bercy Stadium, one of Paris' main musical venues where Karl will play on the 31st of this month with a gospel choir. As I ran, I was simply saying: "thank you, thank you, thank you." Over and over again.

In the centre-ville, the bridges get quite short between the two islands, Ile-de-la-Cite and Ile-St.-Louis. When I ran past the Cathedrale Notre-Dame (about the halfway point in my calculations, I slowed my pace. Not because I was tired (really!) but I just wanted to savor each moment. It was happening too fast. So much like our stay here - gone so fast. (Oh Lord, teach me to be content with what I have!)

My original calculation for the whole run was 11 miles, but a few detours due to construction and industrial areas (dang train yards) brought the grand total to 15 miles. My legs were pretty wiped out by the end (my knees have gotten used to comfy dirt paths of my usual running trail south of Paris), but it was worth every step.

I found out later that day that I had inadvertently planned my course for May 10, which happened to be not only Mother's Day, but also the birthday of the friend for whom I was running, and the traditional day for Race for the Cure. These were details that I could not have planned. It is such a delight to be running on the path the Lord has laid out before us.

Bishops and Bubbly

I love visitors. They come with wide-open eyes and inspire us with fresh motivation to explore. When our buddy Mike F. showed up in his zippy rental car a few days ago, he asked if we had any side trips we'd like to do. You bet. So, after Karl taught Mike how to wear all black and tie a scarf like a proper Frenchman, we motored off to the fine city of Reims.

To say the name right, hold your nose and say "rans" as in "ransacked." Which apparently, it was - several times. Yet, thanks to the ongoing restorations, the town is a veritable timeline of European history. It is marked by Roman ruins (here you see me too deep in thought next to the walls from a former granary, and archways from a temple to Mars below), churches from the very beginning of Christianity in France such as a 12th century abbey built into a 9th century Romanesque church, the centerpiece of the town Notre-Dame de Reims from the 13-14th centuries, and modern architecture from the rebuilding after the World Wars.

The cathedral in and of itself is a microcosm of history, a spectacular mixture of styles and eras. For example, I was delighted to find the Christian imaginary of 20th century Jewish painter Marc Chagall, realized in luminous stained glass, and housed in this Gothic cathedral. This church and city also has the distinction of being the spot where French kings were crowned and anointed for centuries. (Mike and Karl re-anact Clovis' crowning as the first Christian king of France in the 5th century.) These were times when they believed that kings were given a divine right to rule, authority passed directly to them by God. A bit hard for our postmodern, democracy-centered minds to grasp. But that's how it was. Just like we say a pastor is "called" to the ministry, a king was "called" to rule, and that came with a certain number of rights and privileges.

Besides bishops, there's the bubbly. This is the Champagne region, and there's a vendor of that most revered sparkling wine on nearly every corner.As legend would have it, Dom Peringnon popped open a forgotten bottle of stored wine, took a swig, and proclaimed: "I'm drinking stars!" Up until a couple of days ago, I didn't really understand what the fuss was all about. What? That glorified selzer water that they serve at celebrations? Well, all I can say is that if you think you don't like champagne, wait until you go to the actual region in France, taste it, and then tell me how you feel.

I totally fell for it. We had been wandering around the city all afternoon, soaking in intermittent sun rays and all that ecclesiastical history, when we decided it was time for a snack. Ducking quickly into a fine-looking neighborhood butcher, we watched as a friendly woman lovingly arranged chiffonade-thin slices of cured ham from the region. A trip to the boulangerie for fresh baguette and the store for fresh fruit rounded out the picnic. Now, all we needed was the much-touted champagne. Apparently, there was a cellar just around the corner...

The small, family-run operation of Martel was done with tours for the day, but they were happy to suggest a bottle of Charles du Roy Premier Cru Brut to accompany our tasty victuals, and soon we were triumphantly heading back to the gardens around the Benedictine Abbey of St. Remi to indulge our appetites for late-afternoon golden sun and the products of the terroir.

Yum.

5 Wise Runners and 5 Foolish Runners

Then the kingdom of God should be compared to ten runners who strapped on their water bottles and went out to run a marathon. Five of them were foolish, five of them wise. For when the foolish took their water bottles, they just took a little water, and not really any type of sodium replacement. But the wise mixed up their Gatorade well in advance and remembered to bring it, along with some energy gel packs for good measure. As the race continued, and the shadows grew longer, they all plodded along at about the same pace. But mid-afternoon, there was a cry from the sidelines: "Go runners! There's only 6 miles to go!" At that point, all of those runners reached for refreshment, to get a boost of energy before the final stretch. However, the foolish, having no water left, panted to the wise: "Give us some of your energy pack - we're dyin' here!" But the wise replied: "Perhaps there will not be enough for us and for you; rather, run to the grocery store just off the course, and see if they'll sell you a juice or something." While they went to buy, the wise finished the race. By the time the foolish made it back, the sag wagons had already through, and the trash collectors were sweeping up the last of the paper cups. The foolish begged the officials to let them finish, showing them their race numbers, and assuring them that they were legitimate. But it was of no avail. The officials simply replied that they had been disqualified, as no runner is permitted off the race course during the event. Besides, the finish line was closed.

---

It has been my experience that not carrying enough fuel for a race or training run can have drastic consequences on the outcome. You can have a very high level of conditioning, but if you don't feed your body properly, all of that hard work building up your muscles and cardiovascular is not much help. In the one marathon that I have done so far - Paris 2007 - my body was finished at mile 20. No more oil in the lamp. I finished, but only under duress.

I have always been a minimalist when it comes to extra stuff for running. It is the simplicity of the sport that I appreciate - strap on your shoes and go. I also hate to be dependent on anything, so I've never trained on anything but water, and the occasional banana and dried fruit. But I thought I might try some of these new-fangled products they've got out there. So today, I threw a lemon-flavoured fizzy tablet in my water that would supposedly work wonders, and stuffed a mysterious silver pouch of "energy"labeled "Apple Flavour" in my sack. This would be interesting.

Whoa.

Two hours later, I whizzed into my finish spot, ready for more. Miles, that is. It was the fastest time I've ever recorded for that distance, and I still felt like a million bucks. It seems as if my conditioning had outpaced my fueling. Once I got that part in place, we were banging on all five cylinders. I felt so...energetic. (Duh.)

Okay, back to the kingdom of God; I find a similar dynamic in my spiritual walk with the Lord. It may be that I've got a certain level of conditioning - I've been taught how to pray, parts of the Bible are familiar, I surround myself with other people who encourage me. But I often forget that it is the fresh, regular intake of prayer and His Word that will carry me to the end. Maybe this is what the wise and foolish virgins...er, I mean runner....was all about. We know that they all started well. But which ones finished well? Those who were prepared.

How to be prepared for the end of the race? Let's find our daily strength in the One who ran ahead and waits for us at the finish line.

"I have seldom looked on the end-end of a church with more complete sympathy." (Robert Louis Stevenson, An Inland Voyage)

This were Stevenson's words in 1878, penned while gazing upon the sprawling cathedral with ragged edges in Noyon, France. It's not imminently clear if he meant that it was somewhat pathetic because of the ruins, or if he found great beauty there, but both are entirely possible.

When we embarked on a train to visit this town with our friends David and Karin two days ago, we found many occasions to have our "sympathies" stirred. The most obvious was our initial reason for the trip: this was the birthplace of John Calvin (ne Jean Cauvin), whose 500th birthday many protestants are celebrating this year. There is a museum devoted to Calvin and the 16th century reforms in a fine reconstruction of his house, a mere two streets over from the aforemationed catehdral.

His was an unlikely beginning for a rebel against the Catholic system. Noyon was an ecclesiastical and political nerve center, with the crownings of Charlemagne and Hugh Capet taking place here in the Middle Ages (the fountain at right has a plaque that celebrates these grand events). In Calvin's time, there were ten churches total, so many that the town was known as "la bien sonnee" (the ringing city). From an early age, Calvin's father worked at the main cathedral, Notre-Dame. His parents intended little Johnny for the priesthood, his mother also being a devout follower of St. Anne. Of course, all of this careful religious training would fall apart when the young man was in his twenties studying law in Paris, and began to read Luther.

The museum is dedicated to not only Calvin himself, but also the history of the Protestant Reformation in France. Of course, this ideology was quickly labeled as heretical, and all known profess-ors were chased out of town or burned at the stake. Personally, I was very touched by the portable pulpit, which was one of many used by preachers in secret locations in the forest over the course of the 16-18th centuries. We learned that one particularly grueling era during these centuries was called the "desert", since they were essentially in exile because of their beliefs.

Meanwhile, the silent, imposing giant at the center of Noyon still stood brooding.

"As it flanges out in three wide terraces and settles down broadly on the earth, it looks like the poop of some great old battle-ship. Hollow-backed buttresses carry vases, which figure for the stern lanterns. There is a roll in the ground, and the towers just appear above the pitch of the roof, as though the good ship were bowing lazily over an Atlantic swell." (Stevenson, An Inland Voyage)

My sympathies for this church were at first aroused when I saw the pockmarks and rubble from two world wars. "Old battleship" indeed. But as I gave it more thought, I saw a much greater sadness. That is, this gargantuan Gothic creation - for all of its wonderful, soaring buttresses and plays of light - is also a monument to the spiritual blindness of man's religious systems when the glory of God is trifled with and the free gift of salvation is offered as a marketable item.

Perhaps I'm getting a little too preachy, but I am mulling over these things mainly for my own benefit, since we are are all susceptible to making little of God rather than much. France has never really undergone the transformation that comes when God's glory is put first, since Calvin was more or less transplanted to Switzerland. Though it is true that non-Catholics in France are now allowed to worship in freedom, it is often with careful governmental surveillance.

The 16th-century library attached to the cathedral is still intact in its original form. It is rumored that the works of Calvin were placed under a section called "heretics." By some miracle, this church library survived the onslaught of German troops - twice - and four centuries of wear and tear. They only open the place to the public twice of year because of its fragility. Or perhaps they're afraid that people will discover the "heretics," blowing the dust off of some of the weightier tomes...

I hope they do.

Less than two months.

If you had just under two months in Paris, what would you do?

1. Go a final time to the Fleche d'Or, our favorite train-station-turned-rock-club in the 19^th arrondissment, before it closes at the end of the month.

2. Run all of the bridges in Paris (there are 33 with pedestrian access) in one day.

3. See the exhibition of William Blake's work at the Petit Palais. *

4. Perform music in the streets. *

5. Buy a summer-weight scarf. And a fine hat.

6. Grab one more bowl of Vietnamese noodle soup, Pho, at our favorite noodle joint in our old Chinatown neighborhood.

7. Buy the new, exquisite edition of a medieval classic, hot off the press with a preface by my prof at the Sorbonne. *

8. Visit the Musee de Cluny (Middle Ages museum) one last time, and get photos of the medieval gardens.

9. Peruse the stacks at the oldest public library in Paris, the Bibliotheque Mazarine.

10. Go to one uppity jazz club, New Morning or Duc des Lombards

11. Another bike trip in the countryside.

12. Sip espresso and write stories in cafes like it's going out of style. *

13. Eat enough French bread, wine, and cheese to hold me for a while. *

14. Get brave enough to try on “skinny jeans.”

15. Picnic on the Pont-des-Arts.

16. Go to Scotland for family, islands, biking, and, well, scotch.

17. Italy.

18. Make the rounds to thank our cheese guy Michel, our fruit and veg sellers, the coffee-roasting couple, and numerous other everyday friends.

19. Eat macarons from Laduree, which to my own shame I have never done.

20. Say au revoir, which means goodbye, but literally says “till the seeing again.”

* recently experienced, but subject to subsequent repetition.

Running in Both Directions

Now on the first day of the week Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early, while it was still dark, and saw that the stone had been taken away from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them: “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him”.

On that morning of all mornings, the sun had not yet peeked over the horizontal line that the Lord of all had fixed since anyone could remember. The people of God who had staked their claim on the Teacher from Nazareth were huddled in dark patches of shadow all across Jerusalem behind locked doors that they opened only to familiar voices. Exhausted, grieved in spirit, the Sabbath had been a much-needed rest. But now, no one knew for sure what would happen. The religious and political leaders were likely to strike His followers next. Jesus' words about rising on the third day seemed like a distant dream, the kind where you try to remember the details, but they hover just beyond your grasp.

In this uncertain atmosphere, I am not sure if I would have had the courage, curiosity and conviction of Mary, Peter, and John. Run headlong to the tomb? What if it were a trap? What better strategy to capture His supporters than to lure them with the disappearance of the body? I can just hear myself, reasoning with worldly gravity: “Well, you know that Joseph of Arimathea, on the Council? He paid for the tomb, but how do we know he isn't just posing as a disciple to take us all in? He might be just another Judas.” How mistrust and fear must have run rampant amongst the dismayed believers in these difficult hours, blinding their minds with unbelief.

Mary Magdalene had been momentarily blinded by her grief. She managed to have a short conversation with two angels and a “gardener”before she even realized that something supernatural was going on. Yet, full of courage and curiosity, she persevered in her pursuit of the Lord she loved, even if that meant walking into a threatening situation. Her persistence was rewarded by a dear reunion with her Friend and Savior in the garden, when He opened her eyes personally to recognize Him. She came running back with a firm witness: “I have seen the Lord.”

So Peter went out with the other disciple, and they were going toward the tomb. Both of them were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first....then the other disciple, who had reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the Scripture, that he must rise from the dead.

When Mary returned with the first report, perhaps that nearly-forgotten dream flickered on the edges of their memories. Had He really said He would rise again? This conviction gave them courage to run towards something that appeared not only hopeless, but dangerous. One of my favorite paintings in the Musee d'Orsay depicts these two running disciples, their faces a complex mixture of fear, hope, and urgency. I can only imagine what conflicting feelings were pounding in their hearts as they approached the tomb of the Teacher they loved. In return, they received the happy news, and at least one of the two “believed.”

Sometimes I am like Mary. At first, I am unable to see Him because of the blur of tears. The difficulties of life and my longing to be with Him makes my spirit groan. But He enables me, even at the lowest points of grief, to move towards Him. He somehow makes room in my doubting heart for courage, curiosity, and even conviction. It is such a joy to run back to my friends time and time again, saying: “I have seen the Lord.”

Other times, I am like Peter and John. I vaguely remember His promises, but they're buried deep. Still, with the tiniest spark of life, He inspires me to run, resurrecting my hope in Him as I go. He rolls the heavy stone away from my heart. Every morning becomes a potential Resurrection Sunday, when I can peer into an empty tomb and believe anew.

The Way Home

I stumble in the semi-darkness over the ski clothes strewn around the living room after yesterday's adventures. Feeling around, I can detect the rubber soles of my running shoes under the mess. Bingo. Now I'm laced up, and ready to go. My sleeping husband, gently snoring, has to leave in a couple of hours. I make a mental note to be back in time to kiss him goodbye.

The air outside is colored and warmed by slanting sun rays, it smells like spring. This is a strange contrast to the fresh blanket - no, thick downy comforter - of snow piled in banks and on the trunks of trees. I sure hope the trails are navigable with my mesh sneakers.

It was our last morning in Germany after a week of playing in the snow. We had a 9-hour car trip ahead of us, and I figured I should stretch the legs a little bit. Ha. That would be an understatement.

The first climb was steep, and I took it slow. From the top of the hill behind our resort, I could just see the snow-covered peaks of the Austrian Alps beyond, the valley below was cloaked in early-morning fog. After this, lots of joyful, crazy little switchbacks back down, through farms and fields and forest. The turn-around point I had decided on beforehand was "Hinterhalden", and I muttered this magical-sounding word under my breath every mile or so, like some incantation that would spirit me away to that promised place. (By the way, I looked it up in a dictionary later on, and was much disappointed to discover that it meant "behind the rubbish heap". So much for my German fairy tale.)

Suddenly, I'll pulled up short by a glance down at my watch. It's been 45 minutes already? My hunt for Hinterhalden was, so far, futile. I nervously trotted a little faster, and then a little faster, hoping for a sign. Finally it came, along with a very helpful map. (I love Germany. Did I mention that already?) I had run clear past my objective, apparently, and was in the next village. Definitely time to do a 180. The valley was bubbling with a very exuberant creek, as happy as I was about the combination of recent snowfall and warmer temperatures. A heron and a hawk looked at me as I jogged past, but didn't seem too worried. All was well, until...

Until it came time to go up again. Now, I knew exactly where I was (well, not the coordinates or anything, like my Dad can with his fancy Garmin) and where I needed to be, but the question was, how? There seem to be no marked paths climbing the valley, and it was too late to go back the way I came. I began to despair of seeing Karl before his departure. He was leaving in the first car to motor back to Paris early, and I wanted so badly to say goodbye. Alas.

At this moment, low in various respects, it somehow finally occurred to me to ask the Lord for help. Why it always takes me so long to ask an omnipotent God to give me a hand is beyond me, part of the human condition, I guess. I shot up a prayer, and within a couple of minutes, my eyes fastened upon a blessed arrow labeled "Malas - 10 min" which pointed a snaky trail up the hill. Glory be. The climb left me wet, laughing, exhausted, and deposited me directly in front of our hotel. I love curbside service.

I have seen this principle at work so many times in life - just when I think there is no possible way to get over the mountain, He opens up a new way. (With some of us, He has to show us quite literally.) Just like the old spiritual says:

So high, you can't get over,
So low, you can't get under it,
So wide, you can't go 'round it,
You must go in at the door.

He is with us in every stride and swoosh.

P.S. I did catch Karl before he left, for those of you still in suspense.