I Walked Out

I walked out of the Crosses' home my first afternoon here, battling jetlag and in need a brisk walk around the village. The afternoon's wet air fell on my hair and tightly wrapped scarf, and I drank in the moment of this return. As if on cue, the church bells rang and my eyes brimmed with tears. Oh how I have missed this, the rhythms of a land whose churches still speak its hours though their God seems to have left long ago. My church history class is teaching me to think that perhaps it is not their God the French have rejected but their God's institutions...and all the human filth which accompanies their presence on earth. Impassion me to speak of a God apart from his church's sordid history and embolden me to serve the Church so that we are equipped to be his rightful witnesses.

I walked out this morning with the Crosses' au pair Rachel into the morning's fallen fog as it engulfed our steps on the way to the village boulangerie for fresh baguettes and pain au chocolat. The wetness of night still hung in the air and on leaves as scents of wood and waxy candles wafted out of olden crevices. Ah, France...the countryside, some things never change. How good it feels the hand of an old friend. We sat on concrete barriers over looking the church yard below. Lord, guide me to see your vision out from where you have set my feet, as it has been and as it will be. Call me to be a part if you will.

I walked out of Le Sylvia, my old Chantilly haunt of summer 2004, notebook in hand as Charles and I wrapped our vision-casting coffee that turned into lunch appointment. So much teems up and over that I cannot write, but it seems God is busy weaving as always. May we follow his hands as he brings together a whole.