Different Kind of Free

We’re already more than halfway through an unrelenting Provencal summer (think mid-90-degree, stagnating temperatures and no fans or A/C) and I realized I haven’t updated this blog since spring. May, June, July, (and now, almost August too!)…. they slipped away so fast! I’m just disappointed in myself for not making the time. It’s been a whirlwind in every sense.

May was a month of epic highs and lows: I was still seeing my tutor regularly, progressing in French, getting into town here and there, meeting up with old friends and making some new ones, learning vast quantities of new things about international life, myself, others, and how small my horizons still were (is there ever a point where we just “arrive”? Eh. I’m thinking maybe not.).  Then, in mid-May, God worked a vast number of things together so I would be able to leave my first family and find a new one. Cue: family search!!  I talked with probably 10 or 15 prospective families in total, but was quickly able to narrow down the possibilities. During the first week or so of the search, I met with a family living  in the suburbs of Aix in a small village called Le Tholonet. When I left their home after the interview, they basically got a 9 out of 10 on my list (which brought them instantly to the top). I was ELATED and pret-ty sure they were the ones.

The month ended with a fun train trip to Cannes (during the week of THE film festival, but we just went to enjoy the sights), and a weekend stay in Nice (which was, well, nice. Har de har har. I wish I had a penny for each time someone said, “You went to Nice? Cool! How was it?” to which I responded with a blithely unintelligent, “Ooh! It was NICE!”  Heyyyy, it wasn’t on purpose!!  Je suis Américain. It’s a default descriptor. ;) ) And then finally, 5 fun days in Toulouse (“TOULOOOOUSE, FOR THE WIN!!!!” I was moderately obnoxious on this point…. But it seemed funny at the time. Heh.)

Here’s Nice: (or, well, one street of it)

Here’s Toulouse at the Pont-Neuf: (it was daytime there too, occasionally….)  ;)

On June 1st, I packed my entire life this side of the Atlantic — one big, luggy suitcase, a rolling carry-on, a cardboard box, and a cotton grocery sack for my tennis shoes and laptop — and left my first home. I boarded a bus bound for Aix, not exactly sure of the next step, but certain that there could only be better days ahead. The day started out cold and blowing and miserable, with rain pouring down like nobody’s business. I dressed in heavy layers, knee-high boots, and a hat. As the bus groaned itself Aix-ward, I watched the rain stream down the windows and prayed it would stop by the time I had to unload everything and haul it through the city.

Be careful what you pray for. When we stopped in Aix, the sun was shining in all its south-of-France fury. Wheeee!

A friend met me at the bus stop and helped me drag my belongings a kilometer or two to their place and told me that if it came right down to it, I could have a bed and a place to keep my things until I figured out what was next in my plan (I was also considering a 1-or-2-week volunteering stint at some organic farms across some of the southern regions of France, among other things, none of which actually worked out in the end.). Thanks, Jesus, for generous-hearted friends!

Unfortunately, my suitcase was ancient: borrowed from my parents, who may or may not have owned it for the past 30-odd years (kidding! Maybe….) and had none of those nifty wheels or the extendable handle that makes travel less of a figurative dance through purgatory. My friend pushed the suitcase (which weighed about 56 pounds — HEAVY, but mostly just UNWIELDY) on all four, rattly little wheels until one-by-one, they melted (yes, MELTED) and fell off. I hauled the box and the bag on top of my little carry-on suitcase and huffed and puffed and sweated my way down the steaming, broken-up sidewalks until I had blisters on both hands and was pretty sure if I took one step further, I’d have to make good on that “in case of death, your body will be shipped back to your country of origin” promise I had on a piece of paper, stuffed in some folder somewhere.

Finally, some blessed, blessed kid on a scooter saw our sweaty, red, death-march expressions and stopped and asked if we needed help and we said, “Oh, yes please” which is really the only way we managed to get everything to the house without summarily dying. Thanks, whoever-you-were! You were a lifesaver. Like, literally.

Home sweet home (at least, for a few weeks):

On June 13th, my new family came to the Villa (above) to pick me up. We drove to a beach in Marseille for the day. No bathing suit for me! I’d kind of spaced that morning, I think, from all I had to prepare. But as I waded up to my waist in the freezing, freezing Mediterranean and watched my skirt float up around me, and as I pushed two sandy, tanned little bodies through the water on their surf boards, I knew I was finally in the right place.  And you know what they say…. sometimes you just know that you know that you know…. ;)  It was a good feeling.  Like I finally belonged somewhere for real.

I quickly settled into a routine. The schedule was always the same; my expectations, clear. I basically was expected to take care of everything concerning the kids: laundry, ironing, cooking their meals, grocery shopping, if necessary, cleaning their room in particular (the house, in general), packing their school bags, picking them up and dropping them off at school or the centre aere…. anything they wanted or needed was basically my business. We even managed to sneak in some English practice on the side (since they only speak/understand French and Italian) by playing some English memory games and reading Dr. Seuss books.

July…. more of the wonderful, wonderful same.  I can’t tell you how blessed I feel to be here: living in this old stone house at the base of La montagne Sainte-Victoire: donkeys braying in the front yard, olive trees begrudgingly bearing their harvest in the back…. The language barrier was (and maybe still is) and a bit of struggle here and there, but when I don’t have an experienced French-speaker in my audience (well, besides the kids), I think we communicate really well. I’m slowly picking it up!

Romeo (5) and Cesar (4) are both very, VERY active, demonstrative kids who know their own minds…. and how to keep you on your toes! ;) But it’s good! I feel stretched by the difficult moments and totally warm and fuzzy and sappy during those moments when I get a great big bear hug or kisses before bed. It kind of makes it all worth it!

I don’t know if this melts your heart like it melts mine, but…. **happy sigh**

The only difficult thing this summer has really been the absence of, well, people in my life. Church closes down for the summer (it won’t resume until September 11th) and some days, I just feel a little like I got stranded on my own, scorching little planet. ;) Well, better days are ahead! I’m really looking forward to the rentrée of church and arrival of more students and interns. It’ll be good to officially start up my studies again too! I’ve tried to do some in my own spare time, but it’s not always easy without accountability!

August…. I was blessed to spend two weeks this month in Germany, visiting a friend and their family. I haven’t had time to really sort through all the pictures yet, though, so I’ll have to do a separate post about it later, I think.

But anyway, here I am, back in France! Surviving, occasionally thriving, hoping to outlast the heat, and living with expectancy for all God has in store for the remaining months ahead!

Thanks so much for reading this, but thanks especially for your prayers! I love and miss you all more than you know.

À bientôt!
Jenn

This past week, I read Crazy Love by Francis Chan. Excellent book. Probably one of the best I’ve read in a couple of years.  But the coincidence that I would turn the last page AND be smack in the center of one of the largest cities in France just couldn’t be ignored.

That realization — and the responsibility that came along with it — tore my day apart.  It’d been a long time I felt so convicted.

Chan basically ends the book by challenging Christians to lay down their lives for others.  If that means downsizing to a smaller house, using public transportation instead of owning a car, tithing 50% on faith, buying someone a simple meal when you may not have enough for your own, or moving to another continent, so be it: regardless of your situation, God will provide.

So, as I finished the book, I was sitting alone at the top of a hill, in a grassy park.  Earlier, I’d watched a screaming couple break up with each other with drama and hysterics. They walked away separately without looking back.  Later, parents wandered by, pushing children in prams, balloons trailing behind. Students rushed past with backpacks and books, always late.  Around lunchtime, groups of people began to arrive with wrapped baguette sandwiches and boxed salads: forming circles in the grass and kicking off their shoes. In the distance, football games broke out with shouts and laughter.

I sat and watched everyone. Listened. Only heard one conversation in English and it was brief. It’s amazing how those stand out to me, though, in the midst of all the words I don’t understand.

So many people. So much bustle. So many needs. So little Jesus.

I closed the book, filled with inspiration.  I was going to go out and find needs — needs don’t have a language barrier — and I was going to meet those needs if I died trying.

I wrote in my journal: God guide me. I’m filled with conviction, but no wisdom. Show me what is wise. What do you want me to do for these people today? Keep me from foolishness; give me discernment. Speak through my words; use my actions for Your glory and my sanctification.  I’m going out on faith — please let  it be for something of eternal value.  Show me the needs.

I got up, gathered my things, and hurried out of the park to find the nearest bus stop that would take me back into the Center.  There were two people waiting for the same bus.  I watched them nervously.  Were they the ones Jesus wanted me to help?  But….I don’t speak French!

Satan really started to dig his heels in as I stood there.  Somehow, in the shade of the downtown streets, the conviction didn’t burn as deeply as it did on the hillside at the park.  I could feel the passion shrinking as I shifted my backpack from shoulder to shoulder and strained my eyes into the distance, watching for my bus.  I didn’t talk to them.

I got on the bus. Swiped my card. Avoided eye contact with people. Suddenly felt embarrassed by my blind enthusiasm. Who was I fooling?  I listened to conversations in French, watched people talking from behind designer sunglasses, wondered what I had to offer that they didn’t have.

Well, besides Jesus.

Wait. What?

What do any of us TRULY need….besides Him?

Yep.

I got off the bus near one of my favorite bakeries.  In halting French, I ordered a bag filled to the brim with croissants and pain au chocolat — my favorite guilty indulgence on school days.  When I left, I had exactly 27 cents left in my wallet.

I hit the streets.

A word about the streets: this is Aix-en-Provence. The south of France. The streets are beautiful. Narrow and cobbled: occasioned by a whimsical, pooled fountain.  Old, charming: lined with Romanesque buildings and Cistercian architecture.   This city was founded in 123 B.C. Yes, B.C. Even aimless walks through the city have the potential to be awe-inspiring.

But for all their beauty, the streets have low places.  In shadowed alleys, sheltered store-fronts, and on dirty front stoops: beggars sit. Every city has them. But that doesn’t make them all the same. They’re all people: so different.  Individuals with individual stories and needs and hurts and desires.

I set out to find them. The bag was heavy in my hand and my racing thoughts gave me a sort of breathless energy.  I knew Jesus was going to use me to change lives today.

I walked.

And walked.

For almost two hours.

Finally, I ducked into a tiny cafe, threw my backpack and the bakery bag onto a table and wearily climbed a stool.  Got out my journal. Wrote:  So much for helping anyone. I bought a huge bag of pain au chocolat and croissants. I ate some. Walked. Walked. Walked. And walked. Now I’m here to buy a drink. Who put all of the hungry people away?  If this is a joke, it’s not funny.  What am I missing?  Did I forget something?  Is this the wrong thing to do?  Is this God’s way of keeping me safe?  I don’t want to be safe if it means I can’t help people.  Jesus, I told you I was willing: don’t You need me today?

I finished my drink. Gathered my bags. Checked my watch. Started the sun-streamed trek back to the Gare Routière (the main bus station here in Aix): my heart: heavy as heavy could be.

Then I saw her.  She was sitting against a tree, along the Avenue des Belges. Her clothes were ragged and most of her teeth were gone. Her feet were bare and she sat on a pile of dirty cloths. In one hand, she held a sign, but I couldn’t read it.  I almost walked past because I suddenly realized what I would look like to everyone else:  A pushover. Naive. Foolish. People like this woman are often specifically ignored because their motives are second-guessed: i.e., maybe someone else sent them here to help them make a little extra money on the side. Maybe they’re drug addicts.  Maybe they’re really not that poor….

But my question is: does the back-story really matter?  At the end of the day, when you’re  in your warm house, with comfy clothes and a table in front of you, full of food, does it really matter if you gave a little out of your plenty?  Even here.  I don’t have a salary: just pocket money, but I am never in need.  I am rich.  And when I stand before Jesus, I’m pretty sure He won’t care whether or not I thought the need wasn’t real or that someone else would eventually meet it.  I’m pretty sure I’d like to tell Him I did exactly what He would do in that situation.

I took one last look around at the people hurrying past, decided not to care what they thought, and got down on my knees in front of the woman.  She looked surprised.  I looked straight into her eyes. They were blue and amazingly clear. I put down my bag and picked up both her hands and held them in mine.  I said (in super-poor French), “I don’t speak French very well. But you are loved. This is for you. It’s small, I’m sorry. I want to do more. God loves you. Bless you.”  I tucked the bakery bag into the blankets beside her, next to some dried-up orange peels, then rose to my feet. Her eyes were filling with tears. She pointed at the sky, then crossed her hands over her heart, saying over and over, “Merci, merci, merci beaucoup, ma belle fille. Merci. Dieu vous bénisse. (God bless you.)”

I had to catch the bus. I took a few steps backwards, maintaining eye contact until I had to force myself to turn.  I don’t know what her sign said.  I don’t know what her name is.  I don’t even know if she really needed that bag of food.  But I think Jesus led me to her on purpose.  If not for her, then maybe for me.  Maybe to realize my own selfishness and insufficiency: the tight-fisted way I’ve been living: meeting only my own needs, counting every euro, and only giving when I’ve been guilted or asked.

I need to give more.  Care more.  Notice more.  Do more than give out of my comparative plenty a couple days a week.  Give, give, sacrifice, give.  Give until it comes naturally.  Give until keeping anything extra for myself makes me stay awake at night.  Give until I truly am His hands and feet.

This week, I challenge you to ask Jesus to show you the excess in your life — and how you can use it to bless someone who has less.  And then, ask Him to show you the areas where you’re not as sure you have enough: give there too.  Give recklessly.  Give with abandon.  Give like you’re going to get it all back, but doubled instead.  There is no need, no want in Him.  “Thy Jesus can repay….”

He may not do it in the way you expect Him to, but be assured that He will do it.  He is so faithful.

Much love to you all, friends. Thanks for reading.