Misty Hebrews... the 12th

I've had the book of Hebrews on my mind a lot...  So I really wasn't surprised when my friend Emily Caulk advised that I listen to a Misty Edwards sermon entitle "Hebrews 12."  I was excited. Hebrews 12 being one of my favorite chapters in the Bible, and Misty Edwards being one of my favorite people... EVER... set up a wonderful afternoon in my dorm room with my laptop, Bible, and headphones. 


I've felt a lot of prying recently... Like God has pulled out his tool chest and He's about to crack open the Precious Moments box I have hidden under my bed. It's full of the things I forget about, the things I'll never admit to on my own, and the apathy that I keep tucked away for a rainy day. I get pretty defensive of that little box...  But I'll never admit to that either. I keep telling God that I want Him to lay it all bare and to get the junk out of my life. But then I don't know what to do with it, how to remove it, or even what it is sometimes...  Hebrews 12 is a smack-in-the-face chapter. I like that. For being a pacifist, I appreciate it when God gets violent in our relationship...


I feel alive.


I feel cared for.


I feel like someone is paying attention to my wandering compass, my misguided idea of a good time... my rainy day apathy. 


I like it when He tells me that He's not okay with it. That He's not okay with me. there. lost. hurt. jaded.


Listening to Misty talk about Hebrews 12 was a wonderful, beautiful, needed smack in the face. But now I'm left with this odd sense that I don't know what to do with my newly stirred passion, my opened eyes, or my realization of Jesus. And maybe that's the point...  I'm not supposed to DO anything. 


Frustrating.


How do I live with my Atheist friends? Why can't I keep my standards where they're supposed to be? Why do I get discouraged? When will my friend from Civilisation du Français let God encounter her? Who am I becoming? And, am I okay with it? 


Why can't I stop asking questions....


I want to be a Hebrews 11 child, who takes Hebrews12 seriously...  and then lives an Ephesians 1-2 life.


And I want to start now.


In France.

Passivity and moderation are the roads left untravelled...

Autumn at le Salève...

If I never touch the ocean, I would only come back home... Still this burning in my throat is going through all of the motions and I will someday come to my home.... and maybe one day I will reach the ocean

If I were a painter and could paint a memory...  I'd climb inside the swirling skies

Passivity and moderation are the roads left untravelled...

There's no place like London

I missed my train by two minutes, maybe less. The trains in Sheffield are even more punctual than the trains out of London, and I wasn’t quite punctual enough. A very kind rail worker informed me that the next Manchester/Piccadilly line stopping at Edale would not arrive at the station for two hours. It was time to wait. So, I found myself a bench next to platform C2 and opened my book.

Red Moon Rising. A wonderful book. When my friend, Molly McKinney, told me that I should read it, I wasted no time purchasing a copy. She’s that kind of friend ... the kind who should always be taken seriously because you’ll never regret it. I was half way through a chapter entitled “The Rain Maker.” Excellent chapter. The entire book is about the 24/7 Prayer movement through Europe, and the this particular chapter was focused around the stunning prayer movements that were changing lives on the party island of Ibiza. I read story after story of God’s intervention on behalf of the bohemian masses snorting cocaine, attending crazy raves, and hosting orgies on an island that is slowly dying under their weight. I was partially through a story about one of the team members - a young woman named Carla, who was walking the streets of the island praying for people to be healed and telling them about Christ. Before I could finish the chapter, I shut the book - disgusted. I threw it down on the seat beside me, and I began this dialogue with God:

Me: Why?

God: Why... what?

Me: Why aren’t I in love with you?

God: I don’t know ... I love you.

Me: Yeah, you ARE love, of course you love me. I mean, I know you’re good, I know that you created me, I know that you bless me ... But I’ve lost my passion. I know you’re worth loving, but I’m just not in love with you. Where did it go?

God: You’re asking me?

Me: Yeah, I am. God, I see you everywhere, I am constantly amazed by your beauty and your goodness... I know you’re good to me. But I have no passion for you. Why? I’m SO jealous of people like that Carla girl. Why does she get to be passionate and go tell people about you?

God: Because she goes and does it!

Me: That’s not fair! God, I don’t even know what I would say! I mean, how do I convince someone that you’re worth it? Or even that you’re real?

God: I love you.

Me: I know ... But why can’t I get excited about it?

God: Maybe you don’t understand it ...

Me: I definitely don’t understand it.

God: Well then accept it!

Me: I do! I just can’t get excited about it ...

God: No, I mean accept the fact that you’re no passionate about it right now.

Me: Can I do that? Is that allowed ...?

*silence*

Yesterday I was in Oxford. Beautiful. I was instantly in love with Oxford in the fall. After wandering through the colleges for a few hours, I meandered into the Oxford Press shop and searched for an interesting book to read while I wandered this academic town. My eyes strayed to a small blue and white hard cover. W.H. Auden: Selected Works - perfect. Then it was time for a walk. The Christ Church park was open for a few more hours and so I entered by the large iron gate to meander next to the stream. Coming across a beautiful bank side next to a small eddy I stopped to sit, opening up Auden and zipping up my jacket because the wind was raw. Verse after verse flowed from the page, but as time passed, my body became more and more aware of the need to move and become warm. So, standing up, I continued my stroll through the autumn leaves, passing old stone bridges and rugby paddocks. “Paysage Moralisé” came to mind and I began reciting it to the air and the trees.

The train is pulling into the Edale train station and so I gather my things and mind the gap as I step onto the old cement slab. It’s 5pm and I have a lot of hiking to do before I’ll be anywhere I can spend the night. As I hike from peak to peak, valley to valley, green field to green field, I become enchanted. I cannot imagine a more beautiful place, a more perfect scene, or a better way to spend my time. The Stanage Edge stands against the skyline, inviting me to come and climb. So I do. After a night of rain, I make my way up to the Edge and search for other rock climbers. They aren’t hard to find, and soon I am happily installed with three Irish sprites and a French gentleman who are happy to let me climb with them. After four or five routes, it’s time for me to continue my walk to Sheffield so that I can catch my train back to London.

I can’t stop thinking about my family. I can’t stop thinking about my friends. Too many sleepless nights on street corners have left my nerves on high alert and now anything that slightly reminds me of the people I love sets me near tears. I pull out the book of Auden poetry and read it to the herds of sheep as I walk. Auden always reminds me of my sister Karissa. I start folding the corners of pages containing poems she would like. I don’t know when I’ll have a chance to read them to her, but it makes me feel better to look forward to it. Someday. Christmas pops into my stream of consciousness. I will miss Christmas at home ...

The Oxford choral evensong was at 5:30pm and my intentions were to be there. I arrived four minutes late - just in time to walk in as the notes of an English choral piece reached my ears. I was instantly in love ... and instantly transported. Images of my family around a Christmas tree, singing British Christmas carols in six part harmony flooded my mind. My mother would make a huge bowl of Danish rice and my sisters would have carefully wrapped their gifts in the room next door. Christmas with The Cambridge Singers and A Brass and Organ Christmas would be playing on my father’s magnificent speaker system, and I would be lying on the floor, looking up at the Christmas lights - dancing like stars in the Bethlehem sky. But not this year. The sad realization snapped me back to the present and I took a seat in the back of of the chapel. But I couldn’t hide the tears which began to slowly fall down my face, becoming uncontrollable sobs. As we sang the congregational hymns, I couldn’t open my mouth for fear of a wail coming out instead of a melody. So I hummed along and tried to maintain my dignity. I had forgotten my love for British choral music, and I felt nearly transported as the chords drifted to my ears. But the evensong was over too quickly, and it was time to wander the streets of Oxford once again, this time in tears. 

“There’s no place like London...” Johnny Depp’s voice was ringing in my ears as I walked to through Gatwick Airport, looking for the Easy Jet counter so that I could board my plane and leave this city. I continued to hum various melodies from Sweeney Todd as I strolled through the airport, so glad to be finally leave. There really is no place like London, and I couldn’t wait to get away. I had spent three sleepless, cold nights on its streets and even picked up an accent. I can think of no worse place to be homeless than London, and I wanted nothing more than to land in Geneva, walk to my school, and fall asleep in my dorm room. It was time to go home. I missed my family, I missed my friends, I missed my passion for God, and I even missed hearing nothing but French. I was reeling. I had so many questions. I needed answers ... I felt like I had aged ten years in ten days, and perhaps that was more accurate than I could ever know. 

I’ve learned that I need people. I’ve learned that I need some security. I’ve learned that I need direction. I’ve learned that I need God ... and that God needs me. And I learned that there really is “no place like London.”

.

I put pepper on my food before I taste it...

It’s a small café on a small side street next to a small, gargoyled cathedral. I’m in the Latin Quarter of Paris, a city far beyond my comprehension yet becoming strangely familiar as I’ve wandered its streets for the past four days. The restaurant is comfortable, nostalgic and, best of all, warm. I can tell by his accent that the owner is Italian but I continue to speak to him in French. He learns that I’m from America and insists on calling me “Baby,” which, in case you’re wondering, is a little awkward in a room full of native French people.

An old, waxy candle burns on my table, a baguette sits nicely in a wicker basket to my left, the service here is excellent and the water is free if I give the owner a kiss. The setting is beautiful, and I’ve set my mind to eat like I’m here with my lover, but in honesty I’ve never felt so alone. In a city of lovers, I have nothing more than my backpack and twenty Euros crumpled up in my pocket.

Onion soup is the first course: hot, rich, and very French. As I near the bottom of my bowl I am endeavoring to remember Miss Manners’ (1) rule for which way to tip your bowl when rescuing the remnants of soup from it. Toward myself? ... Toward the table? ... Unsure. Feeling a sudden burst of self-consciousness, I glance around. Lovers. As far as I can see - which, for now, is the wall to my right. I’m unsure for a moment. What am I supposed to do? I’m the only one in the restaurant alone. Suddently, pouring my own water and chewing silently while I carry on conversations (2) with myself in my head seems ... well ... out of place. What am I doing here? How did I get here? And how the heck did I get here without knowing what I was doing?

Breathe, Sacha.

I put pepper on my food before I taste it. When my second course (leg of lamb, potatoes, and greens) comes, I do just that. I’m nervous because I’ve never eaten lamb before, and when it arrives the smell remind me of something I once dissected in Biology class. My first bite is sweet, savory, tender, and delicious. Before I know it, my lamb is finished and the rest of my baguette nicely dries up the plate.

I am content ...

Almost.

Profiteroles. Since I’m being so honest right now, I should say that I ordered profiteroles because it was the only word on the dessert menu which I didn’t understand. I was in need of a surprise ... If I cannot be in love tonight, then let me be surprised! I was not let down. Profiteroles are delicious, and if you have never tried them, please go right now and do so. An espresso and a glass of water and my meal is finished. It’s time to hit the street again.

I don’t want to go. Something inside of me is desperate to stay here. I invent ideas to wash dishes, wait tables, sing in the corner, anything! But, instead, I ask for the bill. Ten Euros and a kiss later I’m once again wandering the streets of Paris with my knapsack on my back. 

Just days ago I had been exiting Chez Clement, a wonderful restaurant on the Champs Élysées, after enjoying dinner with all of my class mates. We had laughed, joked, and taken photos together all along that beautiful street ... but this was a different exit. I wanted someone there with me. I wanted to laugh and talk and take pictures. I just wanted another human being who cared about me and whom I cared about. I didn’t want to be alone. But that was the point of what I was doing, right? I wanted to be alone! I had planned this trip so that I could go where I wanted to go when I wanted to go there and I didn’t have to worry about anyone else holding me up! I was free! ... Or was I? Was I really just molding a cage? An invisible cage that I would be trapped in for the following days?  

At night, the streets of Paris go from enchanting to more enchanting. Even though I’m alone, homeless, and cold, it’s hard to feel afraid; there’s nothing fearsome about the small cafés lit up like a fairy land with smoking, laughing guests sitting both without and within. Enchanting. As I walk past, I begin wondering how many Euros they spend on their meals ... Maybe they’d be willing to have a stranger sit with them for a few moments, just to soak up their conversation, their friendship, the presence of another human being. But instead I walk on past and take a back street to the small shops of the Latin District. 

My intentions are to sleep on one of the benches in the Notre Dame park by the river. But I am so distracted by the sights and sounds around me that I arrive too late and the gates are shut. A handful of guards standing nearby ushers away any thoughts of climbing the fence, and so, I begin the hunt for a new bed.

The bed hunt is no easy task. I have to find the warmest, safest, cleanest place possible. Everything my father ever taught me at Senior Survival about staying warm while I sleep is flooding back into my mind and I’m slowly checking off a mental list in my head, preparing for a long, uncomfortable night. But, when the place is finally selected and I set my mind to be content, I then put on all of my clothes and curl up for the night. My plane was leaving for London tomorrow afternoon, and the idea of a change of pace/scenery was a beautiful one, so my dreams are vivid and chaotic as I imagine the days to come. Everything was about to change, and I needed change. 

I’ve learned a few things while on this journey of mine. Setting aside the many things I’ve learned about myself, there is a pile of anecdotes  I have acquired while looking into the homeless mind. Or, rather, while living in the homeless mind. A year ago, while writing for the Collegian, I penned an article about the homeless people on the streets of Portland after experiencing their lives firsthand on the Portland Mission Trip. As I sat alone in the dark, on the streets of Paris, I was reading and re-reading that article in my mind, realizing that I was living it. Understanding, now, the reality behind my words and wondering how much affect these days and weeks would have on me. 

I was in for a surprise. In all of my life, I’ve never talked to more pigeons out of sheer boredom (3), I’ve never spent more nights in tears, and I’ve never grown so much in the space of two weeks as I did whilst homeless in Europe. 

My next morning was filled with crusty eyes, a sore back, irritated flower shop owners telling me to move, and navigating the Metro to Orly airport. I climbed onto the plane tired, hungry, and ready. I was ready for change. I was ready for London.

1. I have decided that “Miss Manners” was misguided. I will be writing my own, better etiquette book which can be picked up in stores near you. 
2. Really, these conversations are more like debates, where I argue with myself over the correct conjugations of French verbs. 
3. Don’t judge. They were very friendly pigeons.