Pomp and Circumstance

It all began several Sundays ago, while we were enjoying a quiet, sun-filled afternoon at home. Suddenly, a veritable avalanche of popping and booming sounds came pouring in the half-opened patio window. We poked our heads out to investigate. Student protest? Workers strike? We settled on building demolition, since a large cloud of dust appeared to be emanating from a nearby locale. But on Sunday? Then we heard drumming noises. This was simply too much for our curiosity; we scrambled for our shoes and headed down to check out the commotion. You never know what surprises Paris might hold for you.

As you might well know, the Chinese just finished celebrating the New Year. Joyeuse Fete! Living in the Asian quarter of Paris, this explosion of colours, dragons, dance, rhythm, and overall merriment hit a little closer to home than usual...right past our front door, in fact. Standing on the sidelines, I chatted with fellow residents about the event while Karl ran around with the camera and dodged exploding firecrackers. It is the Year of the Pig, and our landlady seemed greatly disappointed that they didn't march a bunch of porkers down our street. Apparently, last year's "Year of the Dog" festivities included a parade of Actual Dogs. Well, live dogs are undoubtedly more easy to come by in Paris than live pigs (judging from the amount of doggie poo one must sidestep on a daily basis), so it must have been a budget issue. Or, considering the traditional status of a pig on such occasions, perhaps too disturbing: "look honey, at the cute little piggies...that's what mummy's got at home in the oven." I guess last week's sortie of Charlotte's Web in French theaters was just a little too close for comfort.

About a week later, we found ourselves gawking at another sort of paegentry. This time, rows of mincing skeletons marched past enrobed in Paris' latest and greatest, as we attended our first défilé. Karl has made a lot of new friends in the music world, which is always connected with many other worlds. As it happens, a guitarist he knows works in the fashion industry, so we thought "why not", let's check out this most traditional of Parisian pastimes. Flashy, breathtaking, fast, and strange. The thing I find most amusing is that some of these shows are called "pret-a-porter", which literally means "ready-to-wear". Really. What percentage of the population do you think is really ready to wear the majority of what comes through that little door in back?

(Still, for those of you keeping track, I'm sorry to say it looks like BIG shoulder pads are coming on down the line again. Really, I'm truly sorry.)

Surprisingly, the show did not take place on a stark runway, but a stunningly beautiful Belle-epoque room with imaginative lighting and a fabulous string quintet playing James Bond-esque lines of music. Yes, a frivolous way to fritter away an afternoon - but if you like people-watching, it doesn't get much better than this. A writer could people an entire novel with half-an-hour of observations from the waiting line in the lobby alone. (Hmm. There's a thought.)

Though we weave and wander through a true Vanity Fair with all of its worldly pomp, circumstances of true beauty still glimmer from time to time. The ring of gold in the swine's snout is still a ring of gold. That is, we believe that the Lord God created this crazy world -with all of its rhythm, color, dragons, pigs, snaps, pops, and booms. With all of its strains of music, curves of beauty, lights, and girls who let a genuine smile slip out and shine from time to time. How is a christian to be "in this world and not of it?" Perhaps part of the picture is zooming in on these redeemable reflections of God's creation - in a world largely dominated by indiscretion. It takes a sharp eye, a tender heart, and wisdom - may He cultivate these in all of us.

Artichoke Love

There is an old French saying that one who falls in love easily (and often) is a coeur d'artichaut. An artichoke heart. Now, being a great lover of this vegetable, I have often wondered what this could possibly mean. Anyone who has painstakingly trimmed, steamed and peeled apart the suckers knows that this is hardly a facile operation. Seriously. You could spend a half an hour alone just removing the hairy choke. And the prickly armor? Hardly a come on. Perhaps it is the exceptional tenderness of the fruit underneath all of this rigamorale that led to this curious expression.

Google had other thoughts.

It seems as if this charming yet confusing appellation comes from the proverb: "coeur d'artichaut, une feuille pour tout le monde". That is, "an artichoke heart, a leaf for everyone." For example, the girl who falls head-over-spiky-heels in love with every boy in the office. And on her street. And, and, and. And just when you thought she had completely given her heart away bit by increasingly tender bit, she turns over a leaf, so to speak. Ad infinitum. Perhaps you think I have painted a very pathetic picture. But I think not. I mean, artichokes may not be infinite, but what about the capacity of the human heart to love?

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell" (The Four Loves).

At least our office girl is on the right track. At least she is a somewhat vulnerable being, albeit a little misguided. I like to think that maybe all she needs is a zesty lemon vinaigrette to temper her over-eager adoration. A little wisdom with her youthful artlessness.

These and other thoughts wove in and out of my mind as I made my way home from the market on Sunday, triumphantly struggling under the burden of exactly 3 euros in fresh produce. So, what can you get for this paltry pocket change? Well, it depends on when you arrive. The early bird does not necessarily get the worm here, and procrastination seems to pay off in larger dividends. The trick is to wander down at 1:3o or even 2 in the afternoon - most of the sellers have rolled up their carpets, but a few desperate fellows hang about till the last minute, hoarsely begging people to come and help them finir la table. Translation: I've been up sine 3 this morning setting up my stand, get this stuff outta my sight, everything's a euro per case. Now that's what I call a deal. Now, what on earth am I going to do with a dozen or more artichokes?

Well, peel them. Bit by bit. Till I get to that delectable little...say it with me now...

coeur d'artichaut.
kuhr-darty-SHOW

Hello, hello.

I dreamt last night that we suddenly happened upon a really good deal for a enormous apartment in Paris, if we were able to wriggle out of our lease at comparatively humble digs here in the 13eme. I suppose an extra room or two might have come in handy this past week, as we had our first guests swing through town, Christa and Tim Thaler. As it turns out, though, the little place fit four just fine. So those of you who have plans to sleep in our living room, go ahead and breathe a sigh of relief.

It was good to have an excuse to fall in love with Paris all over again. There are some things that you might not go out of your way to experience if you're hunkered down in a city for a while. The Tour Eiffel, for one - we hadn't been to the top yet. However, this week we found ourselves holding our breath as the elevator hoisted our wondering eyes some 300 meters into a windy Valentine's evening. How 18,038 pieces of metal held together by 2,500,000 rivets became a symbol recognized the world over is beyond me, but it holds an undeniable sway over anyone remotely prone to sentiment. Particularly on February 14th. "Geez, everyone's making out," one of our guests remarked. Welcome to Paris.

In all, the week was a delightful blur of homemade crepes, stories from home, Valentine's Day treats, waltzing into museums for free or almost free (in this case, the French penchant to go on strike worked in our favor), stinky cheese and baguettes, hot chocolate on the Place des Vosges, sneaking picnics in before the rainfall in hidden gardens, marketing through the narrow streets, sashaying down the Champs-Elysees, and other frivolities. When it came down to it, we decided to forgo the absinthe for a nice bottle of red wine and a full-fledged poultry dinner. Tough choice, though.

While bidding our farewells at the train station on Friday morning, it was truly as if no time had passed at all. As if we picked them up at the station, walked around for half an hour, and then returned them to the platform. Hello, hello. I don't know why you say goodbye. I say hello.

Open your Mouth Say "Ahhhh..."

-Ahh....

-Good. Okay now do the same thing, but bring your lips together into an "o" shape.

-Ah...ow...

-Two vowels in one sound....what do we call that?

-Diphthong!

-Right! How 'bout three vowel sounds together?

-Er...(indistinct murmurs, seats shifting).

-A triphthong. Everyone say fire with your best British accent.

-(embarrassed silence, save one bright-eyed, brave soul piping up with "Fi-ah?").

-Okay, everyone. How about: the roof, the roof, the roof is on...

-Fiyah!

-Perfect.

Teaching phonetics has have become my latest lot in life. Apparently, they've been a little short on professors to teach the lectures, so they've called on a couple of us to step up to the plate, handed us a pile papers, and patted us on the back with a hearty "I'm sure you'll do fine." It can be dry at times, but more often than not, the raw practicality of the discipline keeps me (and a considerable percentage of my students) engrossed. This is no useless knowledge; the rules and regulations of my native language are immediately applicable to my student's lips, lungs, tongue, and teeth. Brains are engaged at some point along the line, and pretty soon you have a bunch of French people that can remember to how to pronounce "shout" with "ow", not "oo".

Shoot. If only the path from knowledge to practice was always so short.

Karl and I have always tried to make a point of remaining lifelong lovers of learning. But we have remarkably diverse styles. I admire him for being able to educate himself for immediate, direct purposes. Learn the jazz charts down pat for the upcoming show. Read a magazine and learn how to put up drywall. Watch an online video and understand how to properly program the organ module. Look up a website to find useful French phrases before going to the Parisian music stores. The efficiency of this type of learning is astounding to me. No messing around with facts and figures for their own sake, just intensely practical. Hands-on, in every sense of the word.

I, on the other hand, tend to love knowledge for its own sake a little too often. Open my brain, fill it 'till my cup runneth over, and I'll sort out the jumble of thoughts afterwards. Sounds like a plan of sorts, maybe, but this process takes time. It's like cleaning out a large purse or the fridge every month or so - you've got to dump everything out, decide what's worth holding onto, what to throw away, and put the keepers back in an semi-orderly manner. By the time I work through this "spring cleaning of the mind", I've lost an opportunity or two to put some things into practice. Case-in-point: a recent re-evaluation of my academic goals set me back a good three weeks or so from actually going to the library and studying. (Uh, yeah. That's my idea of practicality...reading more. My wallet is stuffed with a collection of at least 5 different library cards, and I haven't even made it to the national library yet. Groan.)

Good thing I'm married to Karl. If it wasn't for him, I'd probably still be sitting cross-legged on the floor in a muddle of thoughts, trying desperately to organize them according to the Dewey Decimal system or something.

Things are Looking Up

Why is it so unusual to look up in our society? I mean, in a perfectly literal sense. Nobody really cranes their neck skywards, unless it's a bird, a plane, or....Superman! The rare heaven-gazer is quickly written off as mad - unless he is a child, in which case a few years of peaceful cloud-watching are grudgingly allowed. As soon as he achieves "grown-up" status, however, all bets are off. He so much as takes in a gorgeous sunset, and he's hauled off to the asylum.

Not quite two months ago, Karl and I were strolling home from my workplace, when a scruffy-looking figure approached us. Expecting the usual request for a few centimes, I quietly prepared myself to give the same regretful mantra I have to dole out to about 4 out of 5 people per day here in Paris: silver and gold have I none. To our great surprise, he asked us hurriedly if we had a camera. (Abbey's indignant interior voice: "What? Do I look like a tourist to you, or what?") He looked crestfallen as we responded in the negative. C'est dommage, he said. Too bad you don't, because there is a certain rare way that the light is going down over the Seine right now that creates a beautiful image. He insisted we head towards the river at once, with all of the verve and vigour of an aesthetic proselyte - GO, now! Be baptized in its glorious light. This singular man was determined to bring us to beauty.

(But away with him to the madhouse! He's got holes in his pants.)

These days, there are no more tawny leaves clinging to the chestnut trees, nor variegated oranges, greens, and browns to hide the sky. When we venture out to a jardin or a parc, we see (and hear) the bare branches clapping into the naked sky. That is, when we look up. For myself, this is usually when I'm running a very...boring stretch of a path for the umpteenth time. Seeing some sky (even a grey one) brings a little relief to my eyes that are tired of looking at the earth. It reminds me of the Harry Connick song, With imagination (I'll get there):

"When weary is your world
Go and spin another
When weary is your world
There's heaven to discover."

Ah, idealism from top to bottom in one, delicious stanza. And boy, do I eat it up. But there is an element of very real (and realistic realism, for all you realists out there). That is, this world - as full of savory Seine sunsets as it is - can become quite wearying. Full of difficulty, tribulation, boredom, pain. It is not enough to keep your chin up - even we seemingly tireless optimists peter out after a while. But it is looking up to the One whose beauty is always fresh and satisfying that keeps us running strong. Like the Psalmist wrote:

My voice You shall hear in the morning, O LORD;

In the morning I will direct it to You,

And I will look up. (Psalm 5:3)

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!