Little Works of Grace

Well, we finally managed to tear ourselves away from dear old Paris for a few days. It all started with Karl's treasure-trove discovery of free train tickets to Brussels and Amsterdam. Free, for real? Yep. Some guy had to cancel his fabulous European trip, and didn't want to go through the headache of scalping an entire stack of non-refundable tickets. So he gave them away, first-come, first-serve-style. And we were the grateful recipients of a couple of them. God is so good. And some guy in Maine deserves some decent Belgian chocolate.

So, what's Brussels all about? For your average tourist who is just blowin' through, mainly beer, chocolate, mussels and fries. Also, their main monument, which is a statue of a little boy relieving himself in a fountain, named (to the delight of all backpacking frat boys) the Manneken Pis. Seriously, everybody makes just a little too much of this, even going so far as to dress the ugly little thing up in different costumes every week. (Really, if you don't have an Eiffel Tower or a Coliseum, just say so. We'll understand.)

Still, just around the corner from this awkward moment, we stumbled upon booksellers housed in beautiful Art Nouveau buildings, lovely artisan chocolate shops, twisty streets, antique shops, and waffle trucks. This last item was especially appreciated when we first arrived, as the cold of winter had finally descended on Northern Europe at large. These little yellow vans putter around town, happily handing you gauffres (french for warm, sticky goodness) for 1,50 E. Once coated with sugar inside and out, we wove our way through the streets to the beautiful central square (Grote Markt), where we toured the Brewer's Guild. It was okay as far as self-guided tours go, but the beer they served afterwards was (sorry to say!) underwhelming. As far as both museums and beer went, the best was yet to come.

Namely, the Museum of Musical Instruments. Thank goodness we are so nerdy about the musical arts, or we might not have embarked on this fascinating venture. It was really a state-of-the-art setup, with wireless headphones, so if you stood in front of a cornemuse, a portative organ, or a theremin, it would switch automatically to a track playing music on that particular object. We were like two kids in a candy store, running one exhibit to the other. It was tasty.

Speaking of taste, let's return to the topic of Belgian food and drink. Now, even those of you who are not beer fans might just find yourselves converted in this country. In fact, they are so into proselytizing, they put their religious people to work in this department. And they're quite happy about the job security, as you can see below. This is a place where fine ales take on the qualities of fine wines, a place where you might find yourself holding a frothy goblet and saying silly things like "I really can taste the bitter orange peel and star anise against the backdrop of the hops." This is wine country for beer-drinkers, and we lived it up. In addition, the various selections were welcome thirst-quenchers next to the piles of steamed mussels and crispy fries that we mowed down on later that evening.

The next morning, we hopped the train again and continue on to discover our newly-beloved, the city of Amsterdam. Strange, lucid, planned, buffeted by cold winds, yet welcoming and warm. We explored first on foot, until we wised up and rented bikes, which of course, is the only way to go. They have bike lanes that go everywhere, and even special traffic lights just for the two-wheelers.

Our most hilarious experience probably was getting kicked out of a coffee-shop for not smoking pot. Yup. There are some places where you've got to order something off the menu of the fragrant and flagrant variety - and I don't mean tea. The attendant was quite polite about it, but firmly informed us that this was indeed the case. He invited us to make our way across the alleyway to a bar if we just wanted a coffee. (This was even funnier in retrospect, since we had gotten ejected from a bar in Brussels for not ordering a drink right away. We just wanted to listen to the music, then order something later. Nope, no dice. So, how to be rebellious in Europe these days? Well, don't drink and don't smoke for starters.)

But wasn't I just singing the praises of the welcoming residents? Yes, indeed. While we were pedaling, wide-eyed tourists by day (taking in the Anne Frank museum, windmills, and such), by night, we tried to find places where locals seemed to be hanging out. The first night led us to a cosy spot where we shared more belgian beer and some pretty deep conversation with two Amsterdamers. The second night dropped us into the clutches of a fabulous trio playing at the one jazz club in town, headlined by a piano player whose style was incredibly reflective of one of Karl's heroes, Ahmad Jamal. This older Dutch gentleman is a true maestro, and we have visions of carting him over to Minneapolis to play the Dakota one happy day. (And we didn't get asked to leave simply because we didn't hail the bartender for an Amstel the instant we darkened the door. Amazing!)

Our final morning in Amsterdam is worth going into. We still had our bikes, and a couple more hours to kill before heading home to Paris. So, Karl proposed a windmill-sighting. (What else does one do in Holland?) So, we steamed along and across canals to the east side of town, and found this lovely contraption, which now houses a brewery. There was a little red restaurant, where we parked our little red bikes. So very gezellig. As are so many Dutch things. We took a coffee to warm up, and as we were sitting there, we suddenly realized that delightful little puffs of white were floating down in the half-sunshine. We totally flipped out. This was the first snowfall these winter-starved Minnesota kids have seen since moving across the Atlantic. It was a magical moment, and so simple. Just a brief bit of time when these miniature miracles (like little works of grace) became millions of signs, accumulating in minuscule to the glorious conclusion that our dear Lord loves us.

Just when we think we can't take any more beauty, He surprises us with His grace. Just when we think we can't take any more pain, He's likely to do the same. This entire trip was a gift from Him who holds all things, from start to finish. And what can you say in the face of that, but...

dank u.

"Bonne continuation!"

This encouraging French phrase literally means (as one might guess) "good continuation". Which doesn't mean a whole lot in English. It's something like "keep up the good work," but with a slightly more admiring tone. Absolutely a balm to a tired soul. Another unbelievably cheering thing to hear on a difficult day is "bon courage". Now, there seems to be a slight difference between the two. If you are propping up your fellow neighbor with a "courage," this is usually reserved for especially trying situations. Such as, we had plenty of practice shouting it up the climbing wall last Sunday, while we took turns clutching footholds barely wide enough for an ant to have a tea party on. Those two words are enough to get you up to the next (equally tiny) handhold. "Bonne continuation" is also meant to give you a boost, but it tends to appear in less dramatic, possibly mundane affairs.

It doesn't seem to me that we have the habit of saying these sorts of phrases in English very often, but they seem to be everyday fodder in this country. For example, you start to chat with the bouquiniste (bookseller) selling his wares along the Seine, and pretty soon you find yourself launching into your life story because these guys are just so darn curious about how a young American finds their way to a career in Renaissance French Literature. Forty-five minutes later, they're clapping you on the back with a hearty "bonne continuation!" Suddenly, you feel quite certain that you could defend a doctoral thesis any day, even if the committee was made up of a host of dragons.

Or you're running in the park, and another jogger pulls up alongside and starts to chat. They pepper you with questions, until they discover that you're American and want to know why you're in France. After your run (which you've prolonged, because of the complex and fascinating conversation you found yourself in about America's foreign policy), you part ways, your new running partner exhorting you with a good-natured "bonne continuation!" You could run a marathon on that sort of encouragement. (Hmm. There's an thought.)

Then there's always the sheer tenacity and hard work it takes to carve out a musical life in a new city. So, you go to a music store to ferret out helpful resources, in paper or people form. Soon, you are comparing notes with another musician on places to gig out, a conversation which could easily be capped off with a cool, laid-back: "euh...bonne continuation." Practice the next day rolls around, and there's a new spring in your step.

It's the kind of thing that we're ready to hear at this point. We've been here for three months, and things are settling into a sort of routine. Paris is forever spontaneous and dear, but our lives here are not meant to just be an extended vacation. (Believe it or not.) We are discovering that our days here are meant to be shaped around purpose. Many of these remain to be defined, but we take comfort in the truth that "we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand so that we would walk in them." (Ephesians 2:10).

It's the kind of thing that I am always needing to hear. (So insightful of my fellow Parisians to notice.) I don't know about you, but I'm the sort of person that gets really wound up about something new, but I tend to peter out on the follow-through part. Like, I'll do a regimen of sit-ups religiously for exactly four weeks, and then somehow completely forget about them. Ok, maybe sit-ups are forgettable. But it's still frustrating. Imagine what a "bonne continuation" from time to time would do for my abdominal muscles!

Not to mention my spiritual muscles. In fact, one could argue that this is why regular and robust meetings between fellow Christians must take place. So, whether you are in need of a heavy dose of courage or simply a renewed fervor to keep going strong in your lives, we offer you all a most wholehearted:

Bon courage et bonne continuation!

Will it Go Round in Circles

If "it" is an Abbey, it probably will. Most of you will already be familiar with my infamous penchant for getting lost. I maintain that this is because I rely heavily on the sun and stars for orientation, neither of which are often at our disposal in the dead of winter. (Okay, okay - I can hear you all snorting and snickering. ) But take last Saturday. All stoked and suited up for a 6-mile training run in a park just east of Paris, I opened the curtains to...

flat, grey sky.

"Don't worry. Everything will be okay. I studied the names of the pathways. Most of them..." With this shaky understanding, I hopped on the metro in my flashy running shorts - a surefire way to draw disconcerted looks from fellow Parisians- and found my way to the southeastern edge of the city, Bois de Vincennes. First of all, it felt SO GOOD to be back on the trails. (Some of you don't know this, but I injured my left knee and had to take a couple months off to rest and strengthen it. The break made me realize how obsessive...I mean...how passionate I am about this sport.)

Back to the path. And what a path! Vincennes is something like a monstrous conglomeration of the Minneapolis Chain of Lakes, The State Fairgrounds, several nature parks, Como Zoo, and why don't you throw in Canterbury Park and a velodrome while you're at it. In retrospect, the majority of the park is fairly calm and woodsy, but I really had to wonder during the first stretch, during which I cruised past a circus with a beautiful Great Dane as big as Cerberus, a guy peeing behind a truck (not so unusual, that one), a boisterous family yelling at each other, a police station with shady-looking characters hanging about, and a hippodrome, complete with plasma screens to watch as I plodded by. Strange goings-on, but since I kept seeing other runners, I decided to follow through with my plan.

Until it came to the turnaround point. I knew the name of the correct path, but where was that sucker? After numerous map consultations and squintings at the characterless sky, I circled the same lake several times and landed myself in a Cambodian garden. At this inconvenient moment, I found myself completely tapped - thirsty, hungry, and pretty sore. While I tried to figure out another route home (perhaps one they had decided to mark), I busied myself with imagining the large bowl of hot couscous I would eat for lunch if I ever made it out alive.

Then suddenly, the sun came out. Oh, joy! With renewed vigor, I re-oriented myself, tightened up my laces, and within a half-hour or so, I was trotting into the park entrance. O, what a little sunlight can do!

Karl says it's because I'm heliotropic. Or solar-powered, come to think of it. Of course, the sun can have a hugely damaging effect on things as well. Oil paintings and antique furniture, for example. So, museums are generally short on windows, and I am totally outta luck. Guaranteed to wander.

Last week, Karl tracked down a fascinating (and free!) museum that emphasizes the history of Paris, so we meandered over to the Marais, the oldest part of Paris, to check it out. The Musee Carnavalet, which bills itself as the "most Parisian of the museums in the the capital city", is chock full of treasures spanning from prehistoric times (pots and boats and things found in excavations), to Gallo-Roman remains, to medieval woodcarvings, to oil paintings of movers and shakers from the Renaissance, a dizzying amount of furniture from the various Louis' eras, and trinkets and documents from the French Revolution. Everything is there (except, perhaps, the original guillotine. That would be gross.) In addition, the famous Mme. de Sevigne lived here for quite a while. It's like walking through a timeline, if you do it from start to finish. Which, of course, we didn't do. Per usual, I got distracted by the 16th century, and didn't find my spouse until about an hour and a half later (but not before re-living the belle epoque, like three times. Once was plenty, I can assure you). Still, we both had a terrific time, and compared notes to get the "whole" story.

In general, I've just resigned myself to the fact that I will spend a lot of my life going in circles of various kinds, and the One who directs my path is going to make sense of it. And come to think of it, some of the greatest adventures begin in the middle of wandering journeys. Joshua and the children of Israel, The Apostle Paul, Ulysses, Lancelot, Dante...in the end, they all arrived home, safe and sound. Eventually.

Lazy, hazy, crazy days of...winter?!

The last few months of 2006 for us were filled with everyday wonder, heart-breaking complexities, innumerable and memorable new sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and an assurance underneath it all that there is a God who gives us the very best for each day, be it aventure or mésaventure. This conviction does not come...let's say naturally. However, little by little, we are learning to return to this truth when things do not go our way. This is our "lifelong fling", throwing caution to the winds and waves that obey Him alone. "How we've proved him 'o'er and o'er!" And when we do, we are met with the undeniable truth that His goodness extends way beyond what we can ask or imagine....or write.

Still, I think I'll keep tryin'.

The stretch between Christmas and New Years' is something of a lazy blur. We vaguely remember cold winds, interspersed with warm houses, which were filled with happy people, good dinners, and music made and enjoyed. Also, somewhat recall getting caught in a few rainfalls, slipping around on a crowded ice skating rink, chilly gothic churches with achingly-beautiful music, a few late nights catching the metro, and sleeping a little more than usual. In short, our days have been unmarked by routine as the grey sky itself. Yes, apparently, even the sun went away on holiday for a while. I must say, this is a welcome respite after the whirlwind exhaustion of new job, new bands, new city, new country, new church, new friends...new pretty-much-everything. Perhaps we were too preoccupied with either pressing task or pressing pleasure to stop and take a deep breath.


In....out. Ah.

Okay. I'm all set. Now what's next?

As for the man of the house, he's about to take his keyboard a-giggin' for the first few times. I should mention that he did bring his instrument to the New Years' fete at our friends' house, which was a huge hit, of course. We all sang till we were blue in the face and the seconds ticked down to 2007. Really, you haven't lived until you're stuffed full of raclette and champagne, trying to sing Broadway tunes and count down the year at the top of your lungs, at the same time.

But I digress. At the end of January, Karl will be participating extensively in an open jam hosted by our church in a former music club with a 13th-century basement stage. Then, he's got at least two gigs in February and March with some jazz cats. In addition he's been wrapping his brain around a promising project with a vocalist, which will also result in gigs quite soon. It's a difficult thing to uproot yourself musically (especially from your hometown) and get to know a whole new scene, but he seems to be grafting himself in with the cool, laid-back ease that I appreciate so much in my husband.

The calming effect that he has (on me in particular) will be most welcome when I return to the working world in another week or so. The January session kicks off with a whole battery of oral exams, guaranteed to leave us all exhausted. Then, a whole a new teaching schedule to get in accustomed to, which will (thankfully) be easier, since I'll be teaching about half the amount of time than I did last semester. Which means that I will be trekking a bit more often the faintly-worn path to the library that I beat only few times last semester. And speaking of paths, I'll also be logging training miles in preparation for the April marathon, Lord willing.

Happy New Year, everyone! In 2007, "o, for grace to trust Him more!"

Please have snow...and mistletoe...

I have always placed considerable importance on traditions around Christmastime. December rolls around, and I instinctively go digging for a recording of the Messiah, stock up on extra butter for cookies every time I go to the store, and get sentimental at the smell of trees wafting over from the parking lot at Cub Foods.

Being overseas has not altered these seasonal compulsions one iota. I realized this suddenly on my way to work one day. Leaving the metro stop, I thought I caught a faint whiff of pine emanating from above. Sure enough, to my surprised delight, there were piles of prickly pleasantness just waiting to be taken home. That is, by anyone willing to drop the necessary euro. Aye, there's the rub!

Given our restrictions of space and budget, we had to content ourselves with something a bit more modest. As I told Karl, this will (Lord willing) be the only year that I will be okay with a tree that he can carry home in one hand. Here you can see him, struggling home with the burdensome mass. Poor guy.

Still, we mounted the final product high and proud on a barstool. Hopefully I didn't give it an inferiority complex with all of my whining. For trimmings, I had some mismatched earrings and postage stamps that seemed to be to scale.


Stop laughing. It's true. Still, it's kinda pretty.

Of course, admiring the tree leads - quite naturally - to eggnog and cookies. Eggnog? In France? Good luck with that one. After wandering the confusing aisles of the supermarket fruitlessly for a spell, we decided to have a go at the old fashioned route and make it ourselves. I can hear a chorus of clucking tongues and disapproving glances from all of the mothers who read this blog regarding the dangers of samonella. Allow me to explain. One of the best things about France is their obsession with the freshness of certain foods. One of these is eggs. Believe it or not, each egg is separately date-stamped. In addition, the fancy, organic type all have the name of the farmer right on the carton. Convenient, if you're dying of the dreaded disease and you want to contact them and let them know how crappy you feel. Unlikely, with the precautions that I've just described. So, the evening of the tree concluded with glasses of frothy wonderfulness and candlelight.

Of course, how can you nosh on goodies like that around the tree and avoid breaking into song? Rather than singing the glories of "O Tannenbaum", however, we joined our voices with those of fellow Christians celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ. We've feted His coming together on a number of occasions over the past few weeks. Last weekend, for a change of pace, our church met in the 13th century basement of a former jazz club downtown to sing carols. It was a treat to sing old favorites in French and English, and sometimes German.

Without any further ado, here we came a-caroling. (A few samples that my ingenious husband captured along the way):



Go Tell it on the Mountain


Joy to the World


Finally, we donned every inch of wool, leather, and Gore-tex that we own, and endured a stiff wind outside of the Notre-Dame. (Their Christmas tree was a little but bigger than ours. Really, I'm okay with that. Really...) Our patience "in freezing winter night" was well-rewarded with an exquisite rendition of Benjamin Britten's Ceremony of the Carols and a few other tasty morsels from the Middle Ages. En plus, it didn't cost a mite.

Sing we all Noel!

It's Christmas time in the city

As the big day approaches, there is a certain glitter and glitz that gathers in corners of this city. It is as if the winter rains we've been having were showering down tinsel and strings of lights overnight instead of angry little drops of rain. Like snowdrifts, the decorations pile up in certain areas...public squares, restaurants, butchers and bakers.

But above all, the glam of the holidays clusters around the Champs-Elysees and the shopping district of the Galeries Lafayette, Europe's largest department store. There's the temple to commercialism...er, sorry....front lobby at left.

And then there are the famous shop windows outside of the Grands Magasins, along the Boulevard Haussmann. Those of you in Minneapolis, take the 8th floor Macy's show, multiply the square footage by about 10, and then squeeze it into hundreds of windows along many long city blocks. There's something for everyone here. The kids bunch around the colorful, animated displays of teddy bears and dollies, on little wooden steps built especially for them to see. The adults -when not busy rounding up the kids - are eying the more "artistic" of displays with that grave astuteness that comes so naturally to Parisians. This year, in awkward contrast to the somewhat saccharine displays for the little ones, the Galeries Lafayette did a series of pale women intertwined in various (some disturbing) ways with nature scenes. Seemed quite odd, till I thought of Edgar Allen Poe and those dark romantics. 'Course, then it seemed even more odd, because what on earth does birth of Christ have to do with a swooning lady in a wood?

No more than the birth of Christ has to do with a Christmas tree, I guess. Perhaps it is a small step from the sentimentalism of festooned pine trees with piles of presents to the somber specters of Gothic literature. One could argue that both indulge in empty emotionalism for its own sake. Either way, all the department stores really care about is whether their displays move me enough to buy that new pair of fine leather boots. (Oh wait...wasn't I supposed to be shopping for other people? Dang, it's hard to stay focused this time of year...)

Indeed, the question renews itself every year. How do we dwell on the true meaning of Christ's first coming in the midst of the hustle and bustle? Many people -Christians or not - find themselves turned off by the sentimental conventions of the holidays. (You can tell, because these are often the ones that are suddenly struck with the inspiration to fly the fam' down to Mexico for a week or two.) But really. Whether you're in snowy Minnesota or sunny Acapulco, the holiday is still so far removed from the original event. From the date we chose to celebrate His birthday, to the host of other traditions that have sprung up - not much can be traced back to that night in Bethlehem, really. Now, I happen to like many of these inherited customs, right down to cookie baking, elaborate gift-wrapping, and tiny white lights. But we let them steal the show. We expect nothing more than trimmings to hold up the glorious weight of eternal truths like "Hope", "Peace", and "Joy".

(Seriously. Read the paper napkins next time you're in Walmart.)

So, does Christmas as we know it "cheat [us] through philosophy and empty deceit, according to the tradition of men, according to the basic principles of the world, and not according to Christ" (Col 2:8)? Or, can these cultural pleasures serve to remind us of Christ's coming? Should Christians make a fuss about Christmas time, or not?

Work and Play

"My goal in life is to unite"

A couple of weeks ago, I gave a class of students the possibility to describe one passion in their life. By all appearances, the prospect of giving a presentation in English in front of others did not enthuse the majority. For example, during a brainstorming session that same class period, I caught one mopey student with no suggestions for a topic, but plenty of ideas on how to re-present his teacher. In caricature format, primarily.


Appearances can be deceiving.


When it came to presentation day, this student had one of the most dynamic and coherent deliveries. "Why read fantasy literature?" Between his dramatic pauses for effect and breathless excitement for the topic, he had us all on the uncomfortable edges of our institutional, molded-plastic seats. As I succinctly told him afterwards, he simply belongs at the front of the classroom, scratching out reading assignments on the blackboard. Which is fortunate for him since he's planning to be a primary school teacher.

"My vocation and my avocation
As my two eyes make one in sight."

Others spoke equally well about topics ranging from sports to music : Why surf? Why dance? Why play piano? Why take photographs? Why salsa? Why scuba-dive? Why ski? Why play tennis? Why create hip-hop? Why draw? The marvelous thing was, for many of them, these pastimes had somehow paved the way for their career.

For a number of them, this was something of an epiphany. One thanked me afterwards, saying, "this has actually helped me make some sense of my life." (Whoa!) She explained that her varied interests, which had always seemed rather erratic to her (boy, can I relate!), suddenly were a meaningful path to her present life. Maybe she can help me out with that, now. (Though something tells me she already has.)

"For only where love and need are one"

Some students gave us a little window into their care for others: Why work with handicapped children? Why visit the elderly? Why work with socially-troubled teens? These people that I have the privilege of teaching every week have rich lives, interwoven often with pouring out their time and energy for others. The common thread here was that a family member, ravaged with disease of mind or body, had propelled them into compassion for similar situations.

"And work is play for mortal stakes"

Oddly enough, the most offbeat offering was also the most emotionally-charged, given by the young man in the class known as the "humorist". With intentional irony, his talk on "why am I the class clown?" was a recounting of the abusive childhood that he was obliged to walk through, and how he used humor to cope. Courageously, the class clown took off his mask for a while, and spoke frankly. Much more impressive than any of his jokes to date, it won him respectful applause from his teacher and closest colleagues.

"Is the deed ever really done
For heaven and for future's sake."

Per usual, my students taught me more than I could ever teach them. As I watched their careful and nervous preparations, their beaming countenances, the light in their eyes when they realized what meaning ran like a thread through their lives, I couldn't help but think of dear old Robert Frost. Whatever we do on earth, at work or at play, may it have an eternal value.

"My goal in life is to unite

my avocation with my vocation

As my two eyes make one in sight.

For only where love and need are one

And work is play for mortal stakes

Is the deed ever really done

For heaven and for future's sake."

~Robert Frost

A Real Sunday

After a week which included a busy practice schedule for Karl, a generous helping of job stress for Abbey, and six days straight of rain and grey sky, we were ripe and ready for a true Sabbath.

First we slept in. Magnificent.

Upon rolling out of bed, we discovered that we were in dire need of a real down-home kind of breakfast. Maybe it was something about the sunlight streaming through the windows for the first time in ages. Perhaps we were missing the legendary Lewis home Sunday pancakes (Abbey's parents, for those of you who don't know). But being that my kin were several thousand miles away and still fast asleep, our only recourse was our trusty Paris guidebook. Thus:


This little joint was a step into the very best of Americana. Now, I should probably clarify something: we are in France to enjoy France. In fact, we are often depressed when we have to run an errand in the nearby mall, the main complaint being: "I don't feel like I'm in France anymore." Still, with all the best cheeses and wine in the world at our fingertips, a stack o' flapjacks is a stack o' flapjacks. When the craving hits, nothing else will do.

We couldn't have short-ordered a better solution to refresh our diner souls. The servers were sunshiny, casual, and unabashedly English-speaking. Bits of bluegrass music, Motown, and riffs of Bob Dylan's harmonica came wafting by with the smell of maple syrup and hot griddles. Best of all, BOTTOMLESS CUPS OF COFFEE. You must understand: this is NOT NORMAL protocol in France. You get your cute little espresso for 2E and that's it.
Not a bad experience, just different. But it's terribly disappointing to try to wrap your fingers around a dolly teacup when what you want is a nice, thick MUG.


Yeah, baby. So, powered by approximately 8 mugs of coffee a piece and I-don't-even-wanna- know-how-many carbohydrates, we walked home in the sunshine in our winter garb of T-shirts and jeans. Then, it was a scramble to make it to the weekly market for les provisions, practice some tunes for Sunday evening worship service, and tidy up the house a bit. It was a good thing too, because after church, we invited the whole Bible study crew over to our place for supper. First guests, officially! I can't believe it's taken this long to have people over, but we have a lot of generous friends that always seem to beat us to the punch.

After everyone trickled out, we were sitting on the couch and trying to convince ourselves that it was bedtime. It was at this formative moment that Karl mischievously suggested something about "that Hammond organ player" playing at Caveau de la Huchette, and soon we were on the metro, rumbling our way towards the jazz show. The lady at the helm was Rhoda Scott. What a delivery! She and her drummer had the whole place hopping, directing an orchestra of bobbing heads and clappers, hooters, hollerers and knee-slappers. We hung about the entrance, because it gave us a clear view of her barefoot feet working the pedals, her well-worn hands working the keys, and her obvious amusement with the whole affair. Have you ever seen a blind person exude a no-holds-barred, devil-may-care kind of smile when they are engaged in their favourite activity? I think of Andrea Boccelli, the opera singer. Or Stevie Wonder. The remarkable thing about Rhoda Scott is that even though she is a seeing person, she has the same candid joy. And it's positively infectious.

Gosh, I hope that's what I look like when I teach.

In the end, we missed our second train and hiked home, tumbling into bed in the wee hours. After chatting online with folks back home, of course. I mean, what would a Sunday be without family?

From faces to names

You're never going to believe it, but that shifting multitude of faces and feet that roll past us like rivers every time we get on the metro, those are real people. I guess I've had my suspicions all along. I think of the scarved woman who sits apart, hand cupped for any falling change at the exit on my last stop of the day. She's pretty singular. Or the little voice piping up in exasperated French over the rumble of the train and murmur of cell phone conversations: "Maman, mais, NON!" It's hard to miss the fact that there's a real little boy in the midst of all that anonymity. Or the fairly frequent occurrence of a couple in a passionate embrace on the platform, like an oblivious island. Yet, too often, we let our eyes glaze over in boredom or self-centeredness. And we miss a hundred encounters with potential kindred spirits.

We are thankful that some opportunities have not passed us by. I'll give you an example. In the beginning, we told ourselves that there were (hypothetically) "lots of" musicians in Paris for Karl to meet. In everyday life, however, it isn't as easy to track down individuals that are ready to invest time and energy. Still, as of this week, there are about three or so such persons who have faces, names...even instruments. They come to our apartment to practice. Sometimes they stay for tea or dinner. Real, live people, with aspirations and appetites. I like that.


Again, there was the supposition that my colleagues from work would be probably be somewhat easy to get along with on a daily basis. But who could have guessed that they would become such fast friends? Not only that, but that we would be able to recreate a homey, scrumptious Thanksgiving dinner together, complete with turkey, cranberries, stuffing, pumpkin pie, and wild rice.* Of course, it is not a very French thing to do with your weekend. But because we have been such glad recipients of other cultures since we touched down here, we were thrilled to share a distinctively American holiday with people from several other countries (see John, the happy Australian at left). There was truly a spirit of thankfulness afoot, as we shared stories and pie, and recipes and pie, and American history with more pie...

Ouf. Yeah. Still kinda stuffed.

Finally, there are our dear friends from church. It's been three weeks since we accepted Thomas and Conni's invitation to their place for pasta, but it feels like we've known this circle of friends for months, maybe years. Just days after meeting them, we received an email with contact info which read: you are so new in this city that you have to have some contacts that can help you if you need or if it's only to be not the whole time alone. It almost moved me to tears, it was so practical and loving. The best part is that we can worship alongside these dear ones, praying and studying our Bibles together. My wise mother reminded me that I shouldn't be so surprised, as we had prayed to happen upon such a group of like-minded people. But so many new friends! Whether they be fellow musicians, fellow scholars and teachers, or fellow Christians - we are rich.

Add to this, our loved ones at home whom we miss dearly. It was you who first taught us friendship, so we would be able to recognize the real thing in the wider world. For this we are most thankful.

"But since we were torn away from you...for a short time, in person not in heart, we [endeavor] the more eagerly and with great desire to see you face to face." (I Thess. 2:17)

A la prochaine! (Till next time!)

* Thanks, Pam! You're the best! : )