Works in Progress

This will be about 3 blogs in 1, mainly because I'm copying and pasting. They are works in progress, and any edits (check the French!) or further ideas would be appreciated.
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"I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, dwells in you as well." II Timothy 1:5

Grandmommy’s Hands
July 28, 2007

They are knarled now
Swollen to distortion, unable to accomplish the most personal tasks
All day and night, with pain they writhe,
unflexed and still,
lain upon a softly rising chest, swaddled by cloths wrapped by one, faithful 54 years
They appear as old roots sunk deeply and at length past the delicacy of newly tilled soil
Faithful and stable, aged and worn,
once full of ability, now testament solely to their love extended

All they have done reads like a list of an artist’s works,
left buried in a basement, unseen until the needed hour

Lavishly have they ministered in tenderness
To baby’s skin and dirty bottoms and bloody noses
Skillfully have they prepared in love by request
Chicken and noodles, scrambled eggs, and gingerbread cookies
Swiftly have they sent in memory
Stuffed care packages with all those favorite things; personal notes now tucked away in Bibles, journals, boxes—all of them; clipped cartoons and articles that have comforted over many a distance
Sweetly have they given in kindness
A caress of my face, manicure to my hands, and recipes from the family

They have worn with beauty and faithfulness engagement, wedding, and anniversary rings
They have held those same of their mate in sickness and in health
They have raised two children who arise to say, Blessed
They have shuffled cards, stacked dominoes, cleaned house, cared for the grandmothers, and rolled hair
They have lived well and served fully

I have only one, one set of memories
So there must be many more
If this is what I have known, what else is unknown?
What stories should be told to proclaim the magnificent works of a silent life?

They rest still now, admitting all that must be left undone, or left to another
They cannot protest or deny all that before was
Today they have their moment
Today another’s hold, comfort, warm
And their stillness tells the beauty of the generations
The line which continues their strength, their service, their love
We pray

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A La Gare du Nord
July 28, 2007

Your language spoken here
For the visitors
tourists
Mama’s and Papa’s
We are a city of many peoples

You are welcome here
Different shoes
hair
head wraps
Each their own
We are not strangers here
Though we live very far apart
Only passing daily with our bags

Your destination chosen here
For work
pleasure
escape
We are a city linked to many places

You are free to roam far from here
Different capitals
mountains
cities
beaches
All of some place else
But always, come back

Where would you prefer today?
Café across the street
Slide up the Eiffel Tower
Opera in Vienna
Poisson at a port
Guard change at the castle
Waffles and whited sepulchers

Your language spoken here
You are welcome here
Your destination chosen here
Your freedom found here

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How Do You Say…?
July 28, 2007

What is in a language
For wouldn’t your voice in any other be as sweet?

But my language is more than voice,
it is me and would you take that from me?
Moi-meme, she would be lost without her language
Groping for expression amidst a vacuum of metaphors

What is in a language
For wouldn’t your story in another sound the same?

But my story is living and so is my language,
Would you take my breath and leave me
Gasping for the telling?
Without my language, I have no story
It becomes non-descript and I am no longer its subject
But some other tongue

What is in a language
For wouldn’t your relationships be as good?

But my relationships exist in the space between my mind and my actions,
In that holy place where histories, hearts, and humor are shared
In that precious space where we engage according to native rituals born first out of our mouths

Do not mock my language and its power to name all that another would leave silent
Built out of that Tower which by pride was stacked and by power was felled,
it knows me and I it and we complete a unit amidst my people, diaspora
Spread to corners east and west, north and south, beyond borders and over seas,
my language recounts a way of being in the world with others, known only to us,
Us though separated by disparate cultures, by choice, by sin, by structures
Yet, if we listen, the hearing might be had
if we recall the unity our language creates

Do not take it from me
for I would be barren, unable to birth out that which might in the end speak Good.

Mais, la remplace avec une autre
laquelle exprime et vit
Peut-être un jour je trouverai un chemin à dire quel je voudrais
Aujourd’hui, je suis sans ma culture, ma personnalité, mon histoire, moi-meme
Je suis perdue sans tous que je sais
Je suis silencieuse sans tous que je dire
Je suis toute seule sans ma langue

(Translation:
But, replace it with another
which breathes and lives
Maybe one day I will find a way to say what I would
Today, I am without my culture, my personality, my story, myself
I am lost without all that I know
I am silenced without all that I speak
I am alone without my language)

Comment nous avons recontre Jesus?

"How did you come to meet Jesus?" This was our reflection for the first day of classes at Les Cedres in Massy, France, just south of Paris. After we read Luke 24 and the account of Jesus appearing to the disciples after his resurrection, I thought on this question and realized for supporters and friends who are keeping up with this blog, it's a good one to answer. Various theories and theologies abound as to how one comes to know Jesus--at one point, i.e., conversion; over a series of encounters that are inextricably linked to the person and work of Christ; through nature; through hearing Jesus' name; through Scripture; by the power of the Holy Spirit; by an entering into the presence of God and encountering Jesus there. I'm not particularly pluralistic in my thinking, but I do believe how one comes to know Jesus, to experience God's forgiveness, to have identity reborn is less important than that one in fact does. Otherwise, we get dragged down by the process and miss the truth of His Person. And last time I checked, God's middle name is both mystery and folly. Who are we to place his ways in a human box?! And so, to my story...

I remember clearly Kelsey Gardner running up to me during spring of our kindergarten year. "Last night I invited Jesus into my heart!" she excitedly shared. Well, that sounded interesting to me, and as a 6 year old familiar with Sunday School, communion (Mom and Dad had a BIG fight when he let me take it before I was baptized!), and sin, I knew what Jesus was about. So when Kelsey asked me if I wanted to do the same, I said of course. She was my best friend then and we both wanted to share everything. We plopped on the steps of the old science building at our school and she led the prayer. I was baptized later in the year alongside my other best friend, Erin "Jo" Holcomb. I met Jesus in prayer and alongside other people.

Often I've joked about needing a 12-step recovery program for Baptists. It was drilled into me that indeed I might be headed for hell if I didn't come forward for every altar call and if I listened to DC Talk. I, however, remembered my prayer with Kelsey and also didn't buy the argument (I actually remember all of this.) so when most of chapel went forward for a guilty confession, I stayed in the pew talking to Jesus there. I knew I messed up daily, that I wasn't always a good kid (even if my nickname was "goody twoshoes" until I graduated from high school), but I felt no need to respond to hyperbolic statements founded on cultural misunderstanding of the times. So too when there was a call to come forward to commit your life to the mission field like Corrie ten Boom, Amy Carmichael, Hudson Taylor, etc., I didn't. All the holy kids did, but I wasn't about to commit myself at 8 to serving God in another land. Thus, probably why I'm in France today...All throughout this time, I knew I knew Jesus. No revival preacher or skipped communion or missed altar call could convince me otherwise. I met Jesus despite my cynicism and despite everyone's advice.

At 12 I was flopped across my mother's bed thinking and praying. I have no idea why, but I told God this--God, I have my doubts. I'm not sure I'll always be the most faithful follower. If I stop to think about what I read in my Bible and what Jesus preached about himself, it makes absolutely no sense to me. I will have my questions, but, this Gospel, well, I'm in. And thus began an actual pursuit of knowing God, of searching out his Scriptures, and of thinking for myself rather than just rolling my eyes at the altar call (I really did, although I LOVED the story about Amy Carmichael.). The following year I began writing devotionals for Waco's homeschool newsletter and my entries were called "The Apple of His Eye." I got the biggest kick out of reading Scripture, praying, then writing about it for others; I still do in fact. That one year of being home-schooled became a crucial part of my knowing Jesus. I met Jesus in the Scriptures.

As I said, I was "goody twoshoes" in school. Made good grades, didn't party, went to church, liked church a lot, and after Mom and I recovered from our rough spell lasting two years, I was a decent daughter. Falling in line with this, I went on every mission trip that church offered...and then I went to Brazil for an even larger mission trip (again, I think the lack of response to altar calls played a roll here). While with time and education I have critiques now of that mission trip, I still recall it as significant, huge, and heart/life-shaping in fact. In Rio de Janeiro abject poverty starkly speaks of need on many levels, and I began to realize that if I was going to know Jesus, I was going to have to deal with this. And I didn't like it. During my junior year of high school, I tried to escape it. Joined Cotillion (a huge waste of my mother's precious resources), went to a party or two, slept in on Sundays or went late; I wasn't vehemently rebelling but was trying to forget what I saw and even the names I still remember, like Camilla--resident of Rio's dump at age 5, beautiful, covered in dirt, and I wonder often what she's doing now. I tried to forget until I was invited to a party early the next summer at work and when I was told what games they played and how it all went down, I went home and had another talk with God. "Lord, my soul hurts because of Rio. I hurt because I know I've hurt you this year. But, this is what I'm deciding today. If I'm going to follow Jesus, I have to live differently. And I'm going to have to see what he saw and feel what he felt. I don't like that but Jesus and his teaching is radical, Lord, and forgiving me all my sins is enough to keep him on that rough wooden cross for eternity and I don't want to make him hang there any longer. I'm not going to that party Lord, and if they ask me why, give me strength and patience to say why." They didn't ask...and as it turned out, I don't think I was actually missed. I met Jesus in Rio...and in acknowledging emotions.

It's been a couple of years since then, it's fall of 2002 and I'm a sophomore at Wheaton College. My ways are reformed, I'm headed to law school and foreign diplomacy, because if there's one thing that Camilla needs, it's someone who will remember her when we're doling out aid to the globe. Then Jesus got me again. Not that he didn't have me already--he did--but some of my terms were still running the show. Until I met Jesus in a couple of his disciples--Beth Dockum (now Hickey), Christine and Christine, and Elizabeth Smith. Beth was my RA freshman year and she thinks I'll change my International Relations major to Christian Education. I smile kindly--that's nice. She also thinks I should be an RA. That's also nice...I'll be in France studying though. Christine and Christine are my little sibs in Wheaton's new Big Sibs mentoring program--I love them dearly and we meet weekly. I love walking alongside young women in Scripture, prayer, and sharing. RA applications are out and Elizabeth Smith, Resident Director, tells me I should apply...that's sweet. How encouraging. I walk out the door to dinner. Then I check in with Financial Aid about studying abroad. As it turns out, Wheaton does not finance studying abroad unless you are a language major; I'm a minor if I want to graduate in four years. Dashed against the harsh walls of reality went my plan since 14 years old of studying in France. My tears caused a miserable onslaught of doubt and again I have a conversation with God. "Lord, France was my plan, but it's obviously not going to work. What is your plan? Have you closed this door for something else?" I apply to be an RA and am accepted and given the floor I requested. I also change my major to Christian Education (now, Formation and Ministries). I met Jesus in his faithful people.

My RA year continues to be one of the most influential years of my life. Forty-nine women to love on, listen to, cry with, pray for and with, bake for, dance with, to grow with...oh, and I should study too. Somehow that year I managed a full load of classes, RA life, part-time job, a few newspaper opinions, and the best GPA of my college career. It was grace but it was also this--I was doing what perhaps gives me the greatest joy. As I've shared with my mentor from that year on Kym Taylor, I have never felt so completely swept under the rug yet so completely alive in all of my life. And when you're alive, anyone will tell you, everything is better. But it was also a difficult year, full of confronting my weaknesses and self-doubt, comforting the hurting and lonely and angry, sleepless nights for the sake of brothers and sisters, and decreased social circuit. During the month of February, I could hardly make it between classes without stopping in a bathroom or in the Billy Graham Center chapel to cry. By spring break as preparations for an internship in France (see, God had other ideas) were underway, I was empty and remained on campus to sort through a tumbling stack of personal business set aside and finish all France work so I could focus on ending the RA year well. I remember the week after all the ladies moved out just laying on the hall floor weeping profusely, praying for them, asking for comfort for me, praising God for a year I never expected. How I ever made it to France I will never know. But I met Jesus in having great joy and life and by acknowledging mine and others' great need of him.

Do you ever have a moment when you need someone to release you? I mean, give you freedom to go, to be you, to make a change, to remain? I do and I've met others who do too. December 2005 I'm sitting in Warner Theatre somewhere between 12th and 14th Streets and D and E, NW, Washington, D.C. This is my dream! I'm taking in a performance of The Nutcracker as can only be creatively directed for Washingtonians, replete with Cherry Blossoms instead of Snowflakes, Davy Crockets instead of Russian dancers, Native Americans instead of Turkish contorters...and King George as the Rat King--and it's all free due to a Samaritan Inns night and the generosity of a house mate. Plus, I'm sitting next to another house mate and we're sharing it together. Except at intermission we've taken our bathroom breaks and are sitting there in silence, and I know; I know that my house mate more than anything else wants to go home...and I know I have to release her. I have no idea why, but I turn to her--are you enjoying it? Yes...pause...silence...Do you need to go home? Yes, I think I do, but please don't feel you have to leave too. I know you've looked forward to this. She leaves. I stay. And it was still magical. I felt like a child again, and the colors and design were unlike any the Joffrey has ever used; this was Christmas in DC!!! But I'll never forget leaving Warner Theatre. Children were exclaiming. Taxis pulled up and people piled in. Couples held hands. Friends debated where to go afterward. And I was alone, standing at my familiar bus stop in the darkness of winter night, feeling safe, knowing where I was, but completely alone. No one to exclaim to, which I'm given to doing often. No one to ask, what did you think of the artistry? No one to have a drink with after. And I realize. It's just me. I wasn't lonely, but I was alone. So I stood with strength at the bus stop. I boarded my midnight night train to home, and I placed my temple against the cool window for comfort. Then I slipped upstairs through the quiet house back to my bedroom and I talked to Jesus there. I sat at the foot of my bed and said, Jesus, I'm alone and I feel alone. So I need you to share the sweet moments of life with me. I need to share not only my pains but Lord, life is sweet and life is good, and I want you to walk alongside me and let me know that you're there and that you delight in what my heart and mind delights in too. Jesus, I don't know why now, why not sooner or why not later, but I need you to hold me, to say not only I AM but I AM HERE, WITH YOU. Jesus, the Nutcracker was great, and I'm sharing it with you! I met Jesus when I was alone.

I'm still meeting Jesus. I've moved a bit, and I'm growing weary. But every new city, new or old face, different church, each time I open Scripture, when I pray, when someone challenges me, when someone gives me encouragement or admonishment, when my life is rerouted and I find myself wandering streets just thinking, sitting in the airport people-watching, living amidst the joys and pains of others, or just my own--I keep meeting Jesus. And he continues to surprise me with his presence and lessons, exploding my world with his love and grace, teaching me to give as he gave and love as he loved, to see and be and establish his Kingdom. Jesus knows I'm far from perfect because he's been there for every single one of my moments--when I explode with expletives, when I lose all patience with what I consider nonsense, when I get violent despite my commitments not to, when I indulge my flesh rather than submit my spirit, when I let my mouth run off--he's not only there for the delights but for the wrongs I commit. But Jesus also knows I'm his, not because of me but because without apology he pursues me in so many ways. Around every corner, I keep meeting him there. As the song goes, "I am my beloved's and he is mine, His banner over me is love." Comment j'ai recontre Jesus? Oh, the ways are numerous.

That Wonderful City of Love, City of Lights, City of...Shoes?!

The scent of body odor co-mingled with the train's refuse of smoke as I slithered the hot and sticky way into Paris. Such was my return to the city of not only love and lights but coffee, culture, and SHOES! Everywhere one turns during this month of "soldes" (sales), boothes, stacks, and racks of shoes tumble out of doors. Not to be off-set by the plethora of shoes, however, many languages spill out of just as many mouths, making it hard to feel a stranger in the city I love...for we are all at once visitors and at home here.

My first visit to Paris was instigated by an afternoon call from Linda Weber, GEM headquarters personnel extraordinaire, who has come to France and Europe to visit with and encourage others such as myself. We are Euroquesters--those who have made short-term commitments to serve in various European countries. We stopped for a cup of coffee before wandering through the streets of the Latin Quarter, replete with students, university bookstores, and tourists--as the Notre Dame stands close by. For decades, perhaps more, the Latin Quarter has been home to the great philosophical discussions of our time--including but not limited to Sartre, Camus, and Simone de Beauvoir--and while cafes still teem with the fiery conversations of the French, scents of Moroccan, Greek, and other Mediterranean fare lure both Parisians and visitors away to partake of their goods.

The afternoon's trek to the city was unlike those I have taken before for many reasons. One being, I felt no pressure to do and see anything...and that indeed is Paris's spell. As we talked and roamed, another Euroquester and I discussed the hard work of support-raising, the lifestyles we have left, and why we are here in France. We were not racing around catching this and that, but merely a part of the scene--passersby sharing snippets of the good life, the life we long so much to be for God despite ourselves. Another reason, I had not been in Paris since my stints in D.C. and Chicago, and as I mounted the stairs out of the Metro station and out onto Saint Michel Boulevard, my blood began to coarse faster, my eyes keen to all around me, studying storefronts, styles, faces, sounds...and I realized how much I love cities. I'm from Waco, Texas, a small metropolis boasting a university and all the accoutrements such provides alongside I-35 underpasses frequented by homeless men and women seeking their next meal. The varying socio-economic levels and vast divides between put even how my family lives there to shame, and it was in a backyard on 15h Street many years ago that I learned first about peoples, cities, and a world in need. Although small and not quite a city by count, Waco is where I learned to love so much of what gives me life now. And being back in Paris after having taken stock of my life lived from Waco to 'burbs to D.C. to Chi-town put a new twist on being there--Paris is wonderful but its intricacies can be found in so many other places as well, taking various shapes and sizes to fit the bill of what city you may name. I do not mean to slight Paris, and everyone who knows me knows how much I rave about this city, but although a mere 24 years old, I have new eyes to see it and love it...and see and love its people.

For you see, Paris is not only a city where all is beauty. It is one where much is empty. Its eyes, its churches, its arms, its souls--they long. One can see it and sense it. Organ music plays quietly in the background of the L'Eglise (Church) St. Severin, and four heads bow in silence, for rest, out of weariness, in remembrance...peut etre (maybe). I do not know, I did not ask. But the reverence echoes against the concrete wall where candles sparkle and light the shadows in stark contrast to the masses which congregate in Notre Dame, pushing and flashing cameras, sitting and listening, moving through what was once holy and now is a mass market for the wanting. They built the cathedral to celebrate the glory of a God worshipped within, that its details might sing of God upon entering and exiting...yet now we all trample its worn floors for a mere glance at a glory fleeting.

In France it is tradition to give the bise, the kiss upon each cheek, upon greeting; and most telling of all in Paris might be this--that outside the doors of Notre Dame stand three youths, college students maybe, with signs saying "free hugs" because this a place starved for the affection of others. As people approach they give, and many laugh, some throw heads back and say, why not?, others do not know what to do with it. Perhaps free hugs are saddest of all here, for what is the cost of a hug but the loving of one another?

The Journey Begins

The day started calmly enough, with a lazy roll over at the sound of the alarm, a final snuggle with sister and mom, shower as usual, followed by my coffee and yogurt with fruit and granola (all about which I remarked, These are better in France.). After a few last minute business details reviewed--you know, like bequeathing all I have and am responsible for to my mother in case I am rendered disabled, incompetent, or dead--and observing communion with mom and sister, we trekked to Dallas/Fort Worth for Flight 48, a straight shot into Paris Charles de Gaulle. Having shown little emotion all week over my quickly approaching departure, I was ecstatic to find that not only had I packed by the 50 pound limit, I had a couple of pounds to spare, with my 3rd bag--a new transient-lifestyle friendly large daypack--weighing in at 32 pounds. The lady behind the counter did not seem to meet my enthusiasm as she blankly handed me my ticket calling for "next." Then came the teary goodbyes, of everyone else but me. My mother, sister, and friend Melissa hugged me goodbye, took one too many pictures, and walked me up to and into the security line. Passing through the security check after breaking a couple of rules (I don't read directions thoroughly, apparently.), I rounded the hallway to the right, spotting my gate and taking a seat. Within 45 minutes, I was boarding.

I could dwell on all the details of my uneventful flight, made more delightful by a middle-aged French woman who willingly offered conversation for the duration of our time together. Her commentary on the U.S., French cuisine and coffee, weddings (she had attended one this past week), and shopping intrigued me; thankfully, however, I did get some sleep during the night and pushed my system to regulate to the French clock as soon as possible. After being fetched by Thad McAuley, a GEM missionary, I was aided in staying awake by a couple of French outings which followed.

Joy McAuley and I went to the grocery store where I had a quick refresher course in French produce vocabulary along with an introduction into baking ingredients and spices. Did you know you can't get baking powder in France?! I didn't. You can make it with cream of tartar, however, but you can't get that either! I will have to determine another way to bake for the guests I plan to have. After the grocery store and lunch, I read and napped for 20 minutes before the ultimate "keep you awake" French outing--Le Tour de France!!! That's right folks--first day in France and what do I get to see but the second leg of the Tour finish line in Compiegne, France. It was fantastique--after 3 1/2 hours standing and waiting for the bikers' arrival, they flew in, bumping and rattling their way over the last 900 cobble-stoned meters. I'm sure the cobble-stones are the least of their riding woes, but to the lay observer, we thought it looked rather uncomfortable and jarring. Once the whir of the final seconds passed, I and the McAuleys returned home by way of the Greek sandwich shop--yum yum!

After a full two days, minus some hours, I am a bit tired and will roll into bed shortly. For now, I am still looking out the window, blinking and thinking "I am here." Maybe tomorrow it will fully register.

On the Road, er, Airways Again

More to come later in a mass email and another post at some point, but for those who read, I'M GOING TO FRANCE JULY 9TH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Hooray! Yippee! Praise Jesus! Magnifique! Fantastique! Imagine me doing one of my celebration dances about now...GO! I still need a few more supporters, but I'm close enough to not warrant missing language school. As I realized, language study is on par in importance for this ministry opportunity with Scripture study and prayer; and the missionaries concurred. Now away I go to continue taking care of all the business and financial matters today. Packing will happen eventually...I mean, really, how much stuff do we need in life?