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.

Jesus?

The last few weeks have filled my mind with questions about Jesus. Was Jesus really God? And whatever the answer is to that question; why does it matter? “What if he takes his place in history with all the prophets and the kings who taught us love and came in peace, but then the story ends? What then …?” – Nichole Nordeman’s lyrics have been stuck in my head for weeks as I’ve pondered the man Jesus. Why should I put faith in a man who may or may not hold my salvation in His hands? What if he was just a lunatic, on the level of a poached egg? (1) Does it really make sense that God, The God Almighty, would send a piece of Himself down to earth? It’s definitely a stretch of the imagination. So … What have I to do with Jesus?

There are three words that get tossed around a lot in the Christian religion: faith, grace, and love. And all of these words can be insanely ambiguous and over-used. What do they really mean? Why do they matter? And what do they have to do with Jesus?

Bill Johnson writes, “Grace is the atmosphere created by love that makes faith the only reasonable response.” … What the heck is that supposed to mean? Great! More ambiguous language. Awesome.  But then I looked at it in context … (2)

It was a hot day, dusty day in Palestine. The young woman throne to the street could taste the dust between her teeth as she gritted them in unadulterated anger. Her emotional state was the only thing about her that could be considered “unadulterated”… She knew that word well. She was well-acquainted with adultery, and now it was time to wipe her name off the list, clean the slate, kill the sinful beast that had fallen prey to these righteous men – the Pharisees. Her shame was unbearable. Not only was she going to be stoned, but she had been caught in the very act, and now being publicly accused and mocked. She lay crumpled at the feet of the righteous teacher named Jesus. Through the corners of her eyes, she could see other teachers of the law clutching stones, anxious to hurl them at her in pure malice. The Law of Moses demanded this … she knew it was just … she knew there was no way out. She was a sinner, and the law demanded death. The onlookers waited, ready for Jesus’ declaration of condemnation on this woman. But instead he stooped and scribbled in the dust.

I have no idea what he wrote, but I do know that the grace he was offering this battered soul created an atmosphere that drove the accusers away. That atmosphere was so strong that there were no arguments, no protests. Judgment had been defeated by grace.

The broken woman at the feet of the Grace Giver didn’t need to be told to believe in Christ. She believed. Jesus’ love for this woman had given her grace … and the only logical response was to put her faith in Jesus. Faith, grace, and love. “Grace is the atmosphere created by love that makes faith the only reasonable response.” Yes.

Maybe I see myself as one of the Pharisees sometimes. I’m not adulterous, I’m not a vagabond at the feet of Jesus, I’m not about to be stoned for disgusting, sinful behavior! … or am I? I lose faith when I start to see myself in the wrong position. When I forget about the atmosphere or grace and love that surrounds me, faith seems ridiculous and far away. When I lose faith, I find myself on the outskirts of the crowd, stone in hand, ready to beat down the broken hearts. I find myself working against Jesus, battling the powers of love, grace, and faith. I become a monster. 

But, “Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so…” Jesus loves me, this I know. Because all of the stones are fallen to the ground. Because love and grace give me no alternative. Because the only logical thing to do is to fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. (3)

1. C.S. Lewis, “Mere Christianity” (p.40) 
2. Bill Johnson’s Foreward in “Culture of Honor” by Danny Silk
3. C.S. Lewis, “Mere Christianity” (p.41)

I'm asking

I can feel You ... I can feel You.   Inside the songs I struggle to understand. In the church members whom I've always found dry and difficult. 

I feel You.                    So what are you doing?

Here.

Now.

"I can feel you all around me..." 

            What does that mean?

I love that I can feel You.

I love that You're a feel-able God.

But I can't feel what You're doing.

Unless, that is, all You're doing is letting me feel joy ... love ... peace ... You.

                  Is this Heaven?

Is this life?     and more abundant ... ?

Well, I want more, whatever it is. 

                  I'm asking.

Can I have more of You?

Franglais!

The weather is peculiar here in Collonges, France. The campus where I am currently attending classes, is located near the base of a mountain/cliff known as le Salève, and because the Salève is massive and also directly to the east of the school, you never get to see the sunrise from campus. Your mornings are spent shivering as you wait for the sun to make it over the range of cliffs so that it can dry up the ample amounts of dew on the grass and heat your cold American body. But the weather isn’t the only thing I’ve been adjusting to. Though I must say that all of the adjustments so far have been pleasant ... so let’s adjust. 

A large group of smoking teenagers is lounging to my right as I walk down a small alley on the way to my favorite patissêrie. They sit there every day and watch me as I meander past, books in hand, endeavoring to comprehend the little bits of their conversation which drift past my American ears. We’ve exchanged salutations on a few occasions but, for the most part, we keep to our own little worlds. Their world intrigues me. Not because they’re smoking (as seemingly everyone does in France), or because they’re French (though that is a very good reason), or because of their clothing (which is so different from mine), but rather because they are a new world to me. Here they sit, in the quaintest alley I have ever seen, with cobblestones and old stone walls, doing nothing but smoking, laughing, and endeavoring to look cool.

The houses surrounding me have window boxes and latticed blinds, some with shutters open. I can hear someone practicing a piano in one of the houses, and in the yard to my right a man is tending his garden. He’s humming. I can’t recognize the tune, but that gives me some relief — now I won’t have it stuck in my head all day. This small town makes me wish I had theme music to follow me everywhere I go so that I could walk to its pace, hum along with the tune, and throw out a “Bonjour!” to passing strangers in between verses. I have already picked out a house that I will someday own, complete with stone walls, latticed blinds, and a garden. Eric Weber, Grant Perdew, and I will someday live there together in a domestic partnership, tending the garden, speaking copious amounts of French, and eating far more French food than is good for us. We will adopt lots of French children and spend our entire day listening to them talk in their adorable French voices as we sit on our front porch overlooking Geneva.

Many of you may be wondering if I have discovered any kittens here. You will be happy to know that I have discovered many forms of the feline species here in France. My impression that the French did not have kittens was completely misguided and I can now think of no cuter picture than a small French child holding a small French kitten. It’s truly adorable. And if you have never seen such a thing, please travel to France immediately and complete your life experience. (I will have a child and kitten waiting here for your convenience.) Though the kittens and cats alike are adorable here in France, I have not found them to be overly friendly. At first I thought it might be because I was speaking to them in English, but I was sad to discover that they are equally unpleasant when spoken to in French. Next I will try Korean to see if they have a more positive response.

I have found the French people to be much more agreeable than their cats. I wasn’t sure how I would be treated in France, and the stories of stuck-up French people were leaving me nervous. But I have found that the people here love my “Franglais” and willingness to be taught their slippery language. As soon as people find out that I am American and that I’m here to study French, they invite me to pick the fruit in their yard, try more of their French desserts, or meet their entire family. Sometimes it’s a little scary.

But the scariness of being in a new country has been unable to dislodge the pleasant experience of living here in France. Welcome to my world. You’re going to see more of it as I begin to relate to you, my friends, the beauty and the absurdity of the French culture. 

Welcome to France.

Welcome to France

#1 - Dolphins, sur le Salève!
#2 - La vie est belle... c'est vrai :)
#3 - Mes amies et moi, sur le Salève... 

My favourite things...

It's the little things. The little things that get me...  Like climbing a tree and scraping my knee... When I'm jumping from rock to rock like a mountain goat on the Salève and I rip my shorts... The fog that gets stuck in your hair as you climb higher and higher, leaving you drenched to the bone when you finally arrive at the summit... The choral music playlist I have saved on iTunes for the many times I become sentimental and begin to miss home... The early morning air pouring through my open window as I climb off my cot in each day... The stinging cut on my hand from the cruel rocks I met yesterday... My full belly, compliments of the caf and it's wonderful French food... The post-it-note on my window, reminding me to love myself today.

It's the little things. The scars, scrapes, tears in my shorts, dew in my hair, air in my lungs, music in my ears, and peace inside my soul...  They get me. Every time. 

I'm taken. I'm enchanted. I'm in love.... In love with the little things. In love with life. This life. My life. the little things....

And all I can say is hallelujah...