#26. Compassion hurts.

 "You want me to share in your affliction, but you never shared in mine...

I've been suffering for much longer, and so I know what pain is." 

-Arlequin, from Marivaux's L'Ile des Esclaves (The Island of Slaves, 1725)

Imagine an island where the roles of Master and Slave are inversed. This is the set-up in Marivaux's 1725 play, in which descendants of slaves who formed their own island colony decide to teach a lesson to any slave owners who should happen upon their community. Thus when Iphicrate, slave owner, and Arlequin, slave, find themselves shipwrecked on the island, Arlequin has his first taste of freedom, and Iphicrate, his first taste of slavery.

Arlequin suddenly finds himself, for the first time in his life, in a place of position, of privilege, of power. What would you imagine that he does with it? As can perhaps be expected, at first he enjoys it! But when his former master begs for mercy, he grants it. Why?

Because unlike his former master, who never showed true compassion, the new Master Arlequin knows what it's like to be a slave and to suffer. He lived that way his whole life, and so even though Iphicrate has barely had a taste of slavery, Arlequin can't allow him to continue suffering. And now that Iphicrate has (literally) walked in his slave's shoes, upon regaining his position, he will never treat Arlequin the same way again.

This is compassion; this is empathy: truly understanding someone else's experience. Not assuming we know what it's like, not trying to justify it because we had good intentions. Arlequin's master believed that he genuinely loved his slave and treated him as a member of the family. But that is never how Arlequin felt, and once Iphicrate has spent some time as a slave, he finally feels it, too. 

My organization recently held an internal discussion on race and racism, and as our president pointed out, if anyone is in pain and I can't understand why, the onus is on me to try to figure it out! It's not their job to justify their hurt. So, the next time my sister or brother tells me they are in pain, will I try to explain it away to make myself feel better? Or will I just listen--really listen--and do everything in my power to try to understand? That is true compassion. And it hurts.

#25. Don't look away.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest

if we do not give up…” 

-Galatians 6:9

     This year, more than ever before, I've felt the weariness.  I think there are multiple factors, one of which is living in an urban environment where multiple times a day I am faced with those who are desperate, lonely, and hurting.  To be honest, sometimes I feel so helpless that I just want to look away.  It's so much easier not to look, not to see, not to engage.  But in my heart, I know this is wrong.  I must look, I must see.  I don't want my heart to become hard.  I don't want to lose my compassion.  So I feel caught in a tension, wanting to do something to help but rarely knowing how, feeling like for every one person I talk to, there are ten more that I don't.  People say, You can't help everyone, and that's true.  But does it mean that I should help no one?  At the very least, I think, whatever I do or don't do, I should not look away. 

***

      I exit the metro with my cell phone in my hand, intending to make a call.  But then I think better of it and slip it back in my purse.  It's getting late, and I've heard too many stories already of girls having their phones snatched out of their hands--or worse--while walking alone at night.  Better to stay alert, I think.
     I cross the street to cut through the small park in front of city hall.  It's a relatively open area, but there are some large bushes on the left side of the path that obscure the view around the corner.  I think about how easy it would be for someone to hide there and jump out when I walk past.  I give the bushes a wide berth and quicken my pace.  As I peek around the bushes, I see that there is no one there, but then I notice an older gentleman on one of the park benches.  He'd been there this morning--or was it the previous morning?--when I was leaving home.  In fact, I've seen him here often lately, at various times of day, always with his crutch and a shopping bag next to him.  I suspect he even sleeps here sometimes, but I'm not sure.
     The man mumbles something, and I stop walking.  He says something else, obviously addressing me, so I move closer and ask, "Pardon?"
     "Excuse me," he says in a slurred voice that is very difficult to understand, and I move closer.
     "I'm handicapped and homeless.  Do you have a cell phone?"
     Before I can even think, I go into defense mode.  "No, I'm sorry," I respond quickly, even though I can feel my phone beneath the hand resting on my purse.  "But here," I say, unzipping a side pouch and pulling out some coins.  "Here's some money.  Maybe you can use it to buy yourself something to eat."
     "Thank you, but please, I need a cell phone.  Can you call the 115?"
     Still with defenses up, my mind goes into double time, searching through its French language and culture files...115, 115, why does that sound familiar...? Oh yes, I think that's the number my coworker called when a woman came into our building looking for shelter.  It's the number you call when you need shelter.
     "Please, can you call the 115?" The man asks again.  "If not I'm going to have to sleep on this bench."  His words are badly slurred, and it's hard to understand him.  I don't know if the slur is the result of alcohol, his handicap, or the large wound on his forehead.  It's starting to scab over, but it still looks pretty nasty.  In any case, it seems like he really does need help, and I know I can't just walk away.  I've already told him I didn't have a cell phone, but he seems so out of it, that I doubt he'll think twice about it.  So I pull out my phone and dial 115.
     Several rings, no answer.
     "Is it normal that when you call the 115, there's no answer, sir?" I ask.
     "Very normal."
     Just then, two girls approach with a drink and some small sandwiches.
     "Here you go, sir.  We brought you back something to eat."
     I smile, and they address me.  One tells me she's already called 115, but they told her they had no vehicle and couldn't come get him.
     "So what should I do?" I ask.
     "Call the firemen," the gentleman says.  "The firemen know me."
     The girls ask if I need help, but I say it will be ok, so they leave.
     The fireman is kind but says he can't help either.  I'm not really surprised; of course finding lodging isn't part of his job.
     "But what am I supposed to do?" I ask.
     "I don't know.  Unless a Good Samaritan wants to take him home.  Where do you live?"
     A Good Samaritan.  A term right out of the Bible, from a parable that Jesus himself used to teach us about what it means to love our neighbor.  What would Jesus do?  Take care of him.  But is that really what Jesus wants me to do?
     "I live by myself, I can't really...but I can't just leave him here alone."
     "I'll transfer you to the paramedics," the fireman says.  "Maybe they can do something."
     I'm not 100% sure if he's helping or just trying to pass the buck, but a few minutes later I'm re-explaining the story to the emergency operator.  She seems dubious at first, but she dutifully takes the information.  I can hear keyboard keys clicking each time I respond to one of her questions.
     "How old is he?" (62, he says--younger than my dad, but he looks so much older and weathered by life.)
     "Has he been drinking?" (He says no, but I think maybe.  But I don't tell her that, because I'm afraid that if it's true, maybe they won't send help.)
     "Is he hurt?" (I tell her about the wound on his head.  He says he was attacked, but I don't know when.  I remember seeing it when I passed him this morning--or was it the previous morning?--but I don't tell her that, either, because I'm afraid she'll think he only wants medical help in order to get off the street tonight.)
     "Does he want to go to the hospital, or does he just want shelter?"  (I ask him, and he says hospital.)
     "Ok.  I'll send the ambulance.  You wait with him until it arrives."
     By this time, the man has realized that I am not French, and I tell him I'm American.
     "American, really?  He raises his eyebrows.  I like Americans."  Then in English:  "Thank you very much."    
     I smile.  "You're welcome."    
     "So they're sending someone?"
     "Yes, the ambulance is coming to take you to the hospital."
     "And you'll wait with me?"
     "Yes, I'll wait with you until they get here."
     "Thank you very much."  He pats the bench beside him, and I sit down.  Now that I'm on this side of him, I can see an open wine bottle, more than half gone.  My heart sinks.  What will the paramedics say when they arrive and see it? 
     "What's your name?" I ask.
     It takes three tries before I'm able to understand his response.
     "Jo-Jo.  My nickname is Jo-Jo."
     "I'm Emily."
     We make a little more small talk, or rather Jo-Jo talks.  I can't understand a lot of what he says.  I think he tells me he used to be in the military.  It would explain why he walks with a crutch now. 
     "So they're sending someone?" he asks again. 
     "Yes," I confirm. 
     "Who?  From the 115 or the hospital?"
     "From the hospital," I say.
     Jo-Jo bursts into tears.  He's trying to talk, but he's blubbering, and I can't understand anything. 
     Oh, Lord, I panic.  Did I make a mistake?  Should I not have called the hospital?  I don't know what to do.  I put my hand on Jo-Jo's shoulder while he cries.  I still can't understand him, but after a minute, I'm pretty sure that they're tears of relief. 
     "So the hospital is sending someone?" he asks.
     "Yes, they're sending an ambulance."
     "And you'll wait with me?"
     "Yes, I'll wait with you."
     "Thank you very much."
     "You're welcome."

     We continue like this for the next few minutes, making small talk, as much as we're able.  Jo-Jo tells me some things about his life.  He mentions that he speaks several languages.  ("Did you notice?  Thank you very much.")  I can't help but chuckle at this, even in the midst of such a wretched situation.
     At least five more times, he asks, "So they're sending someone?"
     "Yes, they're sending an ambulance."
     "And you'll wait with me?"
     "Yes, I'll wait with you."
     "Thank you very much."
     "You're welcome."
     At least three more times, he bursts into tears.  It makes my heart hurt so much that I start crying, too.  He's so relieved to get some help, to get some relief, to have somewhere else than a park bench to go tonight.  But I worry about him.  What will happen to him when he gets to the hospital?  What does French law say about their obligation to care for someone like him? 
     By the time the paramedics arrive, I'm not sure if I'm relieved or even more anxious.  What will they say?  What will they do?
     I soon realize that I needn't have worried.  The two paramedics are quick, calm, and kind.  Their job is to care for people, all people.  I am so grateful to them for their impartiality, their professionalism, their discretion.
     I thank them for coming, and they thank me for waiting.  They tell me I can go, but it's hard to walk away.  I linger for a moment, watching them help Jo-Jo onto a stretcher.  He reaches out for my hand, and I grab it. 
     "I'm praying for you," I say.  I've told Jo-Jo that I'm a believer, that I'll be praying for him, that I don't understand why God allows certain things to happen, but that I know God loves him.  I know this is true, but it's still hard to walk away.  I ask God to watch over Jo-Jo, to protect him.  I thank Him that Jo-Jo will be safe tonight.
     I don't know if I'll see Jo-Jo again.  Will he be back on the park bench tomorrow?  Or could this trip to the hospital be the start of a greater healing for him?  I hope so, but I don't know.

#24. Loving People is Messy.

Loving people is messy.

Sometimes you bend over backwards to help someone, and they don't even say thank you.  Sometimes you give away the coat off your back, and they ask for your shoes, too.  You can give and give and give, while others take and take and take.

So how much is too much?  When do you stop?  When should you say no?  Is there such a thing as too much love?

I think many societies would say yes.  You have to protect yourself, preserve your own interests.  "Put on your own oxygen mask first, then help others!"

But what would Jesus say?  How much was too much for him?  When did he stop loving?

He didn't.  His love took him all the way to the cross.

He didn't love us because we deserved it or because he wanted something in return.  He loved us while we were still sinners, while we were still his enemies (Romans 5:7-8).

"Love brought Christ down from heaven to a manger in a stable; love led him from the stable to a cross on Calvary; love carried him from the cross into the tabernacles of our churches; and it's the coming of the Lord of Glory into our tabernacles and into our lives that has made all the difference in life to us" (from Drink Christ's Chalice Lovingly, by Sister Mary Michael).

Because of this amazing, undeserved, unconditional love that Christ has shown us, the natural response is for us to reflect that same love.

Each of us is called to "love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind" and to "love your neighbor as yourself" (Luke 10:27).

But who is my neighbor?  The expert in the law asked this question because he wanted an "out"--he expected that love would have a limit.

If we could read his thoughts back then, they'd probably be about the same as our own thoughts today:

God, tell me exactly who I really need to love--where can I draw the line?  Ok, orphans and widows, sure.  But what about my annoying co-worker?  Or the smelly man on the metro?  Or that guy who is always asking for money when I come out of the store?  Why doesn't he just get a job?

I tried loving that lonely woman at church, but it's just so exhausting to spend time with her.  She asks me for all kinds of help, and she never even says thank you.

I gave and I gave to that friend, and she turned around and talked about me behind my back and ruined my reputation.  Surely you don't expect me to give any more to her?

The answer that the expert in the law received from Jesus--and I believe the same answer we receive today--is that we are called to love anyone and everyone, not just those who are like us or even those who will appreciate it.  We are called to love when it's inconvenient and even when it hurts.

God, I'm not capable of loving like you.  But I want to try.  Help me to keep loving when it gets messy and even when it hurts.  Thank you for loving me first and for teaching me how to love others.


And Jonah stalked
to his shaded seat
and waited for God
to come around to his way of thinking.

And God is still waiting for a host of Jonahs
in their comfortable houses 
to come around
to his way of loving.

-You Jonah by Thomas Carlisle

#23. If It's Heavy, Drop It.

David* shuffled up to our table, backpack on his back and a shopping bag in each hand, along with his sandwich.  His load was made more difficult by the bandage on his right hand, limiting the mobility in his fingers.

“Please, have a seat,” we said.

I went to get him a cup of water, as I could see that he’d already had enough to carry.  

When I returned, he was already in the midst of sharing his story with my friend—how he had essentially lost everything in his life except for what he carried with him in those bags.

“This is it, this is my life,” he said, pointing out his old military uniform.  

“You know, you don’t have to carry that burden on your own,” my friend said.  You can take it, take all of your problems, and put them at the foot of the cross.”

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

David’s eyes filled with tears, as if he wanted to believe that what she said could be true.  But he shook his head.  “No.  I can’t.”

We talked for quite a while that day, but at the end of the conversation, he picked up his bags again, and he left.  “Oof,” he grunted as he swung his backpack over his shoulder.  “It’s heavy.”

"My yoke is easy and my burden is light."

A few nights later, in a totally different part of the city, I stood waiting for some friends.  I looked around me, not sure from which direction they would come.  I saw a man with a bandaged hand, carrying two bags, walking toward me.

“David?” I asked.  

It was him.  He stopped and we talked.  His burden had only become heavier since the last time I saw him.  I asked him if he needed anything, some food or some money to pay for lodging that night.

“No, no,” he said.  “I found a good spot near the Métro; I’m on my way there now to meet a friend.”

While we were talking, another man came up and asked if we had any money so he could get a bite to eat.  I offered him some and, after he left, again asked David if there was some way I could help him.  

“No, there’s nothing,” he said.  He was convinced that it was up to him to resolve his problems on his own, even though he had no idea how he was going to do it.

I let him know I’d be praying for him anyway, and he picked up his bags and left, saying he hoped we’d cross paths again someday.

I hope so, too.  I hope that the next time I see him, he’ll have some good news to share.  I hope that the next time I see him, he’ll have given up trying to carry his burden on his own.

I can understand how David feels.  I’m a pretty stubborn and independent person.  I don’t like to ask for help.  I don’t like to admit that I can’t figure something out on my own.  But over the years, Jesus has made it clear to me that apart from Him, I can do nothing (John 15:5).  Every time I try, I fail.  Every.  Time.  And it's exhausting.

I don't know the extent of David's burdens, but I do know that they are too heavy for him to carry on his own.  And I know that Jesus is ready and waiting to pick them up, as He has done for me, and as He can do for each person.  But first, we have to be willing to put them down.

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."  -Matthew 11:28-30

*name changed

#22. I Have a Split Personality.

I spent a lot of time last week looking through old pictures, and as I did so, I had a strange feeling--like I almost didn't recognize myself.

Who is this girl?

This girl--let's call her Emily--is a full-time teacher and Bible study leader in the US.  She has a different activity almost every night of the week.  She goes to hockey games, DVR's Criminal Minds, surfs the Internet for fun science experiments, drinks Dr. Pepper, and always wins at Mad Gab.  She has the best friends in the world.

Yes, that is a donut.
Not everything has changed. :)

This girl--let's call her Emilie--is still trying to find her place a bit in France and has lots of free time.  She sounds like a kid when she speaks, she struggles to pray out loud, she never drives anywhere, and she has to wait until the weekend to talk to her friends in the US.  But she has also made friends from all over the world and can communicate with people who don't speak English at all.  She watches Cyprien videos on YouTube, drinks wine, eats fish(!), and surfs the Internet for fun English ideas.

I wish there was a way for all of the people I love on both sides of the ocean to meet both parts of me, but I don't even think I could adequately explain.  I was, however, able to come pretty close when my parents came to visit a few weeks ago.  They already know Emily better than most people, and they got to spend a few days with Emilie, too.  It was incredibly refreshing to have this time with them, and of course to see them in person after 7 months!

I thought it might be hard when they left, but I actually felt ok.  I really am happy here.  Now I'm starting to make plans to return to the US for the first time since I left, and that makes me both excited and nervous.  Everyone there will be expecting the same Emily to return, but that's not entirely who I am anymore.  What will this Emilie feel like when she makes her first visit to the US?  What things will she see differently?  What things that used to feel comfortable and familiar no longer will?

This cross-cultural living business is no joke.  I spent yesterday with two lovely boys (ages 2 and 5) that I would not have had the chance to meet if I wasn't living here in Lille.  Meanwhile, one of my best friends in the US has a new baby that  I haven't met yet!  And the kids I do know are growing up and changing so quickly that they probably won't even remember me the next time I see them.  But I am grateful for the opportunity to know and love people both here and there, even though that means my heart has to be divided, too (see also You Can Serve God with a Broken Heart).  And I'm even more grateful that when I feel out of place, I can remember that my true citizenship is not in either one of these countries, but in heaven (Philippians 3:20).

"...They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them."

-Hebrews 11:13-16

The Things That are Missing from Me

People here frequently ask me what I miss the most about the US.  Of course, I am always missing friends and family; that is no surprise.  But what do sometimes catch me by surprise are the little flashes or snapshots of memories--either specific things that have happened in the past, or just general feelings--that come to mind, often at the strangest times.

I don't miss Starbucks coffee, but I do miss "happy hour" with my Westgate friends and colleagues.  (Oh, and I do kind of miss pumpkin spice lattes, too.)

I don't miss watching hockey games as much as I miss watching them with my dad.

Maybe next year, Blues...maybe next year.

It's true that the pizza in the US tastes better (because let's face it, a real pizza has mozzarella, and you eat it with your hands!!).  But when I think of pizza in the US, I don't think of the taste as much as I think of Wednesday nights at junior high youth group, Papa John's day at school (which also happened to coincide with jeans day!), or someone (usually Mom) driving through Illinois and calling to say, "Should I stop at Roma's on my way home?"

In Chicago...and yes, we did stop at Roma's on the way home.

Whether I'm feeling happy, frustrated, or embarrassed (that one happens a lot), I miss coming home to my best friend and roommate and telling her about my day.  

Pirate party!

The last night in our apartment...with our impressive parking lot golf ball collection

There may be other little things that I miss here and there (ex. self-stick stamps, Hidden Valley Ranch dressing, free refills) but they're not important.  Ultimately, it's the people--and the memories I associate with them--that I miss.

This is still a hard phrase for me to express in French.  In English, it's me that does the missing:  Ex. I miss my family.  But in French, it's the thing that is missed that becomes the subject:  Ma famille me manque...which is sort of like saying, "My family is missing from me."  Even though it's more complicated for me to think this way, I like that way of saying it.  I'm completely content and happy here, but I also recognize that there are some things (people) missing from me.

#21. There's a New Kind of Comfortable in Town.

In moving to a new country and a new culture, I knew that I was exiting my old comfort zone, and there was no guarantee if or when I would find a new one.  After just six months of living in France, there are still a lot of things that aren't comfortable--speaking and understanding the language, building new relationships, stepping around piles of dog poo on the sidewalk... 

Recently I was away from Lille for 9 nights--by far the longest since moving here.  I like to travel, but I also like to come back home again.  And while I was away, I experienced a strange feeling of trying to determine exactly where "home" was.  I wondered what it would feel like when I got back to Lille after being away for so long.  Would it feel like coming back home or not?

The first couple of days, I got right back into my routine, and things felt fairly normal.  Monday night I had signed up for Franglish, a local French-English conversation group.  But as the starting time approached, I really didn't feel like going.  I didn't feel like making small talk; I didn't feel like meeting anyone new.  But it was too late to cancel, and I had told one of my classmates that I would be there.  So I went.  And I'm so glad I did!  My French still needs a lot of work, but I continue to see progress in the quality of conversations I am able to have with people. Afterwards, I talked with my two friends from language school, and it was so wonderful to see them!  (It had been a few weeks, since I'm not taking classes at the university this semester.) Then, as we walked toward the Métro together, we heard someone calling to us.  It was another former classmate who had gotten off at the wrong bus stop and was lost!  I don't believe it was a coincidence that we were there at the same time and could walk with her to the Métro.  As I walked and talked with her through the cobblestone streets of Lille, my heart was full of joy to be in that place with these new friends.  It may not be the same kind of comfortable that I feel in the US, but it's definitely something.

Good times with classmates!  I am so thankful for the relationships I've made and am making here.

How to Manifest the French Way

Today was a national day of mourning in France after the attacks in Paris yesterday.  
Above, citizens in Lille observe a minute of silence at noon to show solidarity for the victims.

A couple months ago I was talking with a French friend about cultural differences between France and the US, and I mentioned my surprise at the frequency with which I encounter manifestations (peaceful demonstrations or protests) here.  The next time I saw her, she jokingly asked if I had succeeded in joining a manifestation yet.  Well, tonight, I did!

At 6:00 pm, citizens gathered in La Place de la République, just about a five minute walk from my apartment, to show solidarity for those attacked yesterday in Paris.  When I arrived I saw the place was fairly crowded with people, most of whom were gathered in small groups, talking, smoking, or even laughing.  Is this it? I thought.  Not really what I expected.

However, another cultural observation I’ve made in my time here so far is that the French seem to have a sixth sense for knowing information.  I might be waiting for someone to give instructions, and suddenly, everyone else just seems to know what to do.  Et voilà...at 6:13 pm (I checked my phone) everyone stopped talking, then moved together to the center of the place.  Someone must have moved first or given a signal, but I didn’t see it.  People pressed together, raising pens, colored pencils, and “Je suis Charlie” signs.  

The silence lasted for about five minutes, after which someone started a slow clap (really), gradually picking up speed, and then a chant of “Charlie!  Charlie!”  Then everyone joined together in singing La Marseillaise (the national anthem), followed by another round of applause.  After that, I thought everyone was starting to leave, but they actually spread out and joined hands to form a giant circle around La Place de la République.  There were a few more minutes of silence, after which some people gradually started to leave, and others stayed behind with their signs and candles.

The overall mood seemed peaceful, hopeful, and determined.  No one looked angry.  I got the impression that they weren’t gathered to protest against anything; rather, to show solidarity and support for something—for their countrymen, for freedom of speech, for peace.

I took advantage of the silence to pray for France, as I was reminded that only Christ can truly bring the freedom, justice, and peace for which we all long.

"I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved.  They will come in and go out, and find pasture.  The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full."  -Jesus (John 10:9-10)

Trimming Down the To-Do List

I love the feeling of checking things off my to-do list.  But in France I have learned that a realistic to-do list needs to consist of just one or two items per day.  Sometimes it's my own exhaustion from language and cultural differences that slows me down; often it's the French business/government system itself.

For example, here is what I did on Friday:

1. I woke up at 07h00 in the apartment where I've been staying since my arrival in order to get ready to be at my new apartment before 09h00, to wait for my furniture delivery that would come between 09h00 and 12h00.
2. I had filled my big suitcase with things to take over to the new place (including a convection oven that I carried home from the store Thursday night), so I wheeled that along with me.
3. I stopped at the ATM on the way, because I can only take so much out per day, and I need to pay my rent next week.
4. While I waited for the furniture delivery, I worked on some things in the apartment, including setting up my new printer (which I also carried home from the store--different trip).  I discovered that the printer didn't come with a USB cable, so that means I'll be taking another trip to the store.
5. Furniture was delivered by 10h30, yay!  So I locked up and walked to the bank to deliver a signed paper saying that I give the bank permission to withdraw money from my account so that I can pay my electric bill online.  (Note:  This may seem like a bit of a nuisance, but I bet it cuts down on Internet identity theft.)
6. I went to the SFR store to ask about getting Internet for the apartment.  I chose a plan and was told to come back Saturday morning to sign the contract.  (Update:  Contract signed; the box will be delivered to a parcel service at the end of next week.  I'll pick it up there, and then I'll try to figure out how to set it up myself!)

All of this happened before noon, and after that, I was ready for a nap!  It is easy for me to wear myself out trying to be productive; and what usually happens is that my time spent alone with God is the first thing to go--when in reality that is the most important thing.  So instead of running myself ragged, I am learning to slow down and prioritize.

     As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him.  She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet listening to what he said.  
     But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!”
     “Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed—or indeed only one.  Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”  
     -Luke 10:38-42

A photo from my new apartment!

#20. It's a Great Big World.

As a student, I loved getting new school supplies every year.  As a teacher, I loved it even more!  :-)  In fact, my mom and I would still go shopping together every tax-free weekend.  This year, I got to buy my school supplies in France, which was a whole new experience.

Here is a photo of my new “pocket” French dictionary…a gift from the university!  Also, check out my sweet new pencil case in the background.  Correction…pen case.  “En France, on utilise toujours un stylo” (professor at the university).

Other than my stylo case, I actually found the process of French school supply shopping to be a bit overwhelming.  Why can’t you buy a notebook with pages that tear out?  Why don’t the folders fit inside the binders?  Why do the binders have 4 rings instead of 3?  If one is going to make a binder with 4 rings, why sell a hole punch that only punches 2 holes at a time?  If one is going to sell a hole punch that only punches 2 holes at a time, why not make the adjustable ruler go all the way through so that a person with some perfectionist tendencies can make sure the top half of her paper is as evenly punched as the bottom half?

Of course, in the grand scheme of things, none of these details really matters.  I am thrilled to be here in France, learning both the language and the culture.  The US is a big country, but the world outside of it is a whole lot bigger.  And the more people I meet here who are from all over the world, the more I appreciate the greatness of my God who created and cares for every tribe, tongue, people, and nation.  English is a pretty widely spoken language, but not everyone here speaks it.  So even though my French isn’t great yet, I think it’s pretty awesome that having this language in common with my classmates allows me to communicate with people from places I’ve never been and may never be able to go.

“The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built by human hands. And he is not served by human hands, as if he needed anything. Rather, he himself gives everyone life and breath and everything else. From one man he made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands. God did this so that they would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us. ‘For in him we live and move and have our being.’ As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are his offspring.’”  -Acts 17:24-28

P.S.  I finally found a “folder” I can put inside my binder!

#19. "Wait Time" is Important.

There is a term in education called "wait time," which refers to the amount of time between the teacher asking a question and eliciting a response from the student.  I was taught to allow at least 7 seconds "wait time."  That's not much in the grand scheme of things, but when you are silently staring at a room full of middle schoolers, 7 seconds can feel like an eternity.  The theory behind "wait time" is that it gives all students the opportunity to process the question and formulate a response before the teacher calls on someone.  Inevitably, though, what happened when I really did wait that long is someone would say, "Umm...what was the question?"

Sigh.

It was hard for me to wait, and it still is.  Waiting feels passive, and I want to be doing something.  I want to feel like I'm moving forward.  But sometimes, in education as well as in life, a period of "wait time" is exactly what we need in order to move forward.  There are lessons we learn in our wait time that we just couldn't if we didn't have time to process what is happening.  

For the past couple of years, I have been waiting and waiting to return to France...and now I'm finally here!  :-)  But that doesn't mean the waiting is done.  On the contrary, I have a new set of things to wait for:  waiting for an email to confirm an appointment, waiting to see a friend, waiting for the bus or the Métro, waiting for the day when I might be able to express myself freely in French.  In each "wait time," though, I can be confident that God has something to show me.  And when the time is right, He can and will act swiftly (see Isaiah 46:11, Isaiah 48:3, Habakkuk 2:3,14).  And then...it will be on to the next wait time.

Waiting at the bus stop...

#18. Incompetence is Ok.

Recently, I saw an episode of the TV show Mike and Molly in which Molly experiences a bit of an identity crisis after quitting her teaching job to pursue writing full time.  She even goes back to her old classroom to take a peek at her former students:

However, it becomes clear very quickly that she no longer has a place there.  The show was hilarious, but I truly did identify with Molly's feelings of incompetence and lack of belonging.

This past year has produced in me these same feelings as I left my full time teaching job to follow God's leading to France.  It's been a year of having hard conversations, sending emails until my fingers cramp, visiting unfamiliar places and cursing Google Maps for leading me astray once again, and substitute teaching...which it turns out, is not much like teaching at all.

I realized about halfway through the year that it had been a really long time since I actually felt competent at anything.  Although I certainly never felt like I had it all together as a teacher--I still have a lot to learn--I at least had a certain level of comfort, familiarity, and skill.  And I loved my job!  But more than once this year, I've found myself looking out at a group of students who probably could not care less about me as I've thought in my head, "You don't even know me!  I'm a nice person, and I'm actually pretty smart.  So please, be nice to me!"

This feeling of incompetence is not particularly pleasant, but I think it's actually a good feeling to have.  Because it means I'm no longer able to rely on myself at all; I have to rely on God completely.  And while I'm still not in France, I am getting closer...and then I'll experience a whole new level of incompetence as I navigate a new language, culture, and career.

So I am thankful for the lessons that God has taught me during this year of transition.  I'm not where I was, and I'm not where I'm going to be.  But that's ok, because I'm exactly where God wants me to be right now.

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.   

-2 Corinthians 12:9

#17. It's Okay to Feel Overwhelmed.

At my recent cross-cultural training in preparation for ministry in France, I was asked to draw a picture (with my weak hand) that best described who I was at that point in time.  

This is me...

...lost somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean, my heart torn between my current home in Missouri and my future home in France. 

I had been looking forward to this training for months.  Even though it will be a few more months before I leave for France, this felt like such a big step in getting me closer to that other side of the ocean.  

And it was:  both in terms of the physical requirements for me to go, and—even more importantly—in preparing my heart and mind for the move.  God has already done a lot of work in me over the past few years, but during training we were asked to dig down deep…really deep.  At times it felt like every layer of myself was being peeled off and stripped away, until I was left with just the core of who I am, exposed for everyone to see.  It was painful and yet freeing at the same time…plus we were all in it together.

I’ve never been great at articulating my feelings; it takes ages for me to process what is happening inside me and to put it in words that make any kind of sense.  And throughout this whole process, I’ve had so many different feelings that it’s been almost impossible for me to make sense of them all.  My logical side wants to take each thought and emotion and put it neatly inside the appropriate “box,” but I can’t, because there are too many things happening all at once.

So some of the greatest gifts God gave me during this program were visual, tangible metaphors that I can use to describe what is happening inside me…both for myself and for others.

I can have a “yay duck” that says, “I can’t wait to get to France!” and at the same time have a “yuck duck” that says, “I’m scared to leave my family and friends behind.”  

I can feel pulled in eight different directions at the same time by my expectations vs. reality, others’ expectations of me, and my own desires.

When I’m struggling to understand or be understood in a culture that is not where I grew up, I can remember that I need to “move my chair,” and that “different isn’t necessarily wrong; wrong is wrong.”

When I keep thinking of the word “chair” instead of “chaise,” I can remember that I need to “strangle my yellow balloon.”

When I think it’s too hard to change, I can remember Paul, who became all things to all men so that he might save some.

And when I feel totally overwhelmed, I can cry, “Father, help!” and know that He hears me.

“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin.  Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.”  

-Hebrews 4:15-16

Happy NaNoWriMo! (No Judgment.)

Several years ago at a writing workshop, I heard about NaNoWriMo…National Novel Writing Month, which takes place each November.  November was already my favorite month…fall, my birthday, beards, and now writing, too!  The concept is really simple:  "300,000 writers; 30 days; 50,000 words."  

I love to write, but spilling out words onto the blank page* is a daunting task, and too often I start editing myself even before I begin to write.  I have files and files of ideas, sentences, and half stories on my computer because I wasn’t able to bring them to life…or at least, not yet.  Even if I don’t show my work to anyone, sometimes just knowing it’s “out there” is taking a big risk.  

This past summer in France, I had a written exchange with one of my English students about art.  I said I love art, but I’m not a good artist.  She responded that it’s not right for me to say that, because it’s not possible to judge art.  So in the spirit of not judging (even myself) I’ve decided to participate in this year’s NaNoWriMo…because I can, and because it doesn’t matter if anyone else thinks what I write is good.  If you want to participate, too, it’s not too late!  Go to http://nanowrimo.org/ and sign yourself up!  I’m going to cut this short, because I have to get to work…I’ve got 1,666.67 words to write today if I’m going to stay on track.

*"You better worry," says the blank white page.  

"I have nothing.  Everything depends on you."

-Gina Briefs-Elgin, 

"Happiness and the Blank Page:  Csikszentmihalyi's Flow in the Writing Classroom"

#16. I'm Not Missing Out.

Lately I've been spending a lot of time talking about France and sharing some of the exciting things that God is doing there.  

Meanwhile, God has been introducing me to a lot of other exciting opportunities, too--coffee shops in London, children's clubs in Dominican Republic, sports camps in Germany, cycling in Rwanda, Child Evangelism Fellowship in Latin America, teaching English in the Middle East and Asia, tentmaker ministries in Haiti...and as I hear about what God is doing in all of these places, I feel little pangs of...is it jealousy?  I am so grateful for the opportunity that God has given me, and I know France is the place He has called me for now.  But when I hear about all of these other opportunities, I can't help but feel like I'm missing out!  Or at least I did feel that way.

But a few days ago as I was praying for some of these other ministries (and confessing my feelings of jealousy) I realized (i.e. God showed me) that I'm NOT missing out at all!  Missing out would be not knowing these other people and places and ministries exist.  But God has given me the opportunity to participate in not just one ministry, but ALL of these ministries by praying for and supporting my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ--what an amazing privilege!

There are many places in the world I would like to go, and I may never have the opportunity to set my feet on all of their soil.  But I can experience the places, the people, and the cultures through those who are serving there; and really, that is what being part of the body of Christ is all about. 

Yes, the body has many parts, not just one part.  If the foot says, “I am not a part of the body because I am not a hand,” that does not make it any less a part of the body.  And what would you think if you heard an ear say, “I am not part of the body because I am only an ear and not an eye”?  Would that make it any less a part of the body?  Suppose the whole body were an eye—then how would you hear?  Or if your whole body were just one big ear, how could you smell anything?  But that isn't the way God has made us.  He has made many parts for our bodies and has put each part just where he wants it.  What a strange thing a body would be if it had only one part!  So he has made many parts, but still there is only one body.

-1 Corinthians 12:14-20

I know that when God calls us to do something, He will provide the resources we need, but still I've been amazed and humbled by the generous outgoing of support I have received already from so many friends, family, and even strangers!  It is an incredible privilege and responsibility to invite people to invest in God's Kingdom in this way.  I hope and pray that I can do a good job of relaying the work that God is doing in France so that they can experience it, too, firsthand.

#15. It's Just Stuff.

Last spring I began the process of packing up my classroom and apartment as I moved one step closer to leaving for France.  I actually started making my packing list for France months earlier, so as I made decisions about what would stay and what would go, I kept repeating to myself:  It’s just stuff.  If I don’t need it, if I can’t use it, I’m not going to keep it.

The problem is that I’m so sentimental.  Everything I see, touch, and smell reminds me of a person or an experience, and that makes it hard for me to let go of anything.  But it’s just stuff.  I don’t need the objects to remind me of those people and places.  So with the exception of a few items (childhood memories in a trunk; books on a shelf; one file of science supplies—just in case) I took pictures of the things I worried I might forget and boxed all of it up.  

Everything I needed for now and for France came with me to my parents’ house.  Everything else went into storage to sell.  [Yes, everything, dad…except the bed.  ;-)]

And now it’s time!  Our garage sale is this Saturday, so for the past couple of weeks I’ve been reopening the boxes I packed a few months ago and carefully trying to organize and display it in the most appealing way possible.  And still, I have to keep reminding myself, it’s just stuff.

 

But it’s cool stuff.  It’s the dishes that I carefully picked out before I moved out on my own the first time.  It’s posters and teaching manipulatives I made and used at the best job ever with the best students and coworkers ever.  It’s antique dollhouse furniture that I played with when I was little and thought I might give my own daughter someday.  

But it’s just stuff.  And if I can’t use it, I might as well give it to someone who can.  They can use it, and they can make new memories with it.  That’s what stuff is for.  To be used.

Having more stuff doesn’t make you a better person or give you a better life.  Matthew 6:19-21 says, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal.  But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal.  For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

I want my heart to be where God has called me to be—sharing His love and hope with others who need to hear it.  And I want to be free to go wherever He wants me to go and do whatever He wants me to do, without my stuff getting in the way.  So I’ve already decided when I leave for France, I’m only taking 2 suitcases with me…good thing I’ve already made my packing list.

I want my breakfast served at eight with ham and eggs upon the plate
A well-broiled steak I’ll eat at one and dine again when day is done.
I want an ultramodern home and in each room a telephone;
Soft carpets, too, upon the floors and pretty drapes to grace the doors.
A cozy place of lovely things, like easy chairs with inner springs,
And then, I’ll get a nice T.V.--of course, I’m careful what I see.
I want my wardrobe, too, to be of neatest, finest quality,
With latest style in suit and vest; why should not Christians have the best?
But then the Master I can hear in no uncertain voice, so clear:
“I bid you come and follow Me, the lowly Man of Galilee.”
“Birds of the air have made their nest and foxes in their holes find rest,
But I can offer you no bed; no place have I to lay my head.”
In shame I hung my head and cried; how could I spurn the Crucified?
Could I forget the way He went, the sleepless nights in prayer He spent?
For forty days without a bite, alone He fasted day and night;
Despised, rejected – on He went, and did not stop till veil He rent!
A man of sorrows and of grief, no earthly friend to bring relief;
“Smitten of God,” the prophet said--mocked, beaten, bruised, His blood ran red.
If He be God, and died for me, no sacrifice too great can be
For me; a mortal man, to make; I’ll do it all for Jesus’ sake.
Yes, I will tread the path He trod, no other way will please my God,
So, henceforth, this my choice shall be, my choice for all eternity.

-William “Smiling Bill” McChesney (1936-1964), missionary to Congo