Lavender

So continuing my theme of blogging (weeks after the fact) about things I redid this summer that I'd already done some other summer and never blogged then either...

In the summer of 2008, while in Marseille...which I thought might be my only time in Provence (ha! little did I know), I took a day trip to Avignon, and while there, took a bus tour of several small towns in Provence.  I got to see Roussillon and Gordes, which to this day remain at the top of my list of favorite places in the south of France.  On that bus tour, I also got to see lavender for the first time.  I don't have those pictures on this computer (or in France...how are those back up disks still in America?!), so you'll have to click HERE to see my first glimpses of lavender.   

I believed then, and still do, that lavender must be what heaven smells like.  It's so peaceful, so calming (except for the giant bees), that surely the eternal peace of heaven must boast that fragrance.  

So in the summer of 2009, when I reached a point of needing to get out of the city of Marseille for a quick break, I asked Mr. and Mrs. X if we could go out to the lavender fields.  They happily obliged, and we took the camelridingcowgirl along as well.  Oh...did I mention that the sunflower fields are on the way?

 (Yes, I am wearing the same shirt in this picture as I was wearing in Avignon in my last post.  I did not do these trips on the same day.  Actually, these pictures are three years apart.  Ha.  I do love that shirt!)

And then...there they were.  Not just a field in front of an abbey, like I'd seen the first time, but fields as far as I could see.

In case you're wondering how I got to take all these awesome pictures...I did have to climb on top of the car to get them!  :)

Two of my favorite people in France: Mr. and Mrs. X.  Who have not been in Aix since the end of January.  I cannot WAIT to see their faces in person next week when they finally return home!!!  You've been missed, friends.

 Doesn't that just make you happy?  It makes me happy.  A girl couldn't ask for better friends than the ones I've been blessed with here in Southern France.

 Lavender makes me so happy it calls for a jumping photo.  Which I rarely do anymore, ever since notpoems broke her back upon landing from a jumping photo.  But here is one before she broke her back.

Skip ahead three years, and I finally made it back out to the lavender fields again a few weeks ago.  I went with some friends who are new to France and we literally just barely made it in time.  They were harvesting the fields as we drove up.  You can see the harvested side on the right of the picture.  Some other friends went three days later...all the lavender was gone.

 As we drove, we rolled down the windows and just took in the fragrance.  I tell you what: I don't know what is more peaceful to me than that smell.  It's just glorious.  It spawned another jump for joy.

 I haven't come up with names for these new friends yet, but the husband of this couple took the jumping photo above, and the two below.  He caught me just walking through and enjoying the beauty.

 He also caught me and his wifey wife in a blissful moment.

So if you want to see the lavender and smell the joy, come in July.  I'll happily take you out there.  Bring your jumping shoes.

More on Avignon

I just glanced back at my last post and realized that (a) I never mentioned on the blog that there had been a bomb scare at the train station the first time I went to Avignon.  Isn't that what a blog is for?  For stories about things like bomb scares and getting stranded in Avignon as a result?  No need to freak out family--that was 2008.  (b) I still hadn't gotten around to downloading the pictures off my phone of the most recent trip to Avignon. (c) I am very very very behind in blogging.

Anyway... Avignon.  If I could turn back time to when I took some history classes once upon a time, I'd have paid more attention to why there is a papal palace in Avignon.  Don't popes live in Rome?  Yes, they do...but for a time they also lived in Avignon, because there was more than one pope.  (See?  I did pay attention in that class!)

And while I've now been to Avignon at least three times that I can remember, I still have yet to go inside the papal palace.  Next time, maybe?  This time, I just enjoyed walking around with my friends.  While we were wandering, we stumbled upon an Amorino's ice cream shop.  Amorino's is my favorite ice cream place in Paris.  It used to exist in Aix-en-Provence, but sadly, does not anymore.  (Although, I just looked at their website to discover that there is now a shop in Cassis.  Watch out world!  I'll be there next week!)  Why do I like it so much?  Well, not only is the Italian ice cream delish, but they give you up to five flavors for a set price, and design it all to look like a pretty rose.  My favorite combination: coffee, dark chocolate, hazelnut, and speculoos.  Yum.

 After my ice cream fix, me, Pantene, and Relentless headed off to get some pictures of the famous bridge of Avignon.  I'm often asked if I've danced on the bridge, and the answer is still, "No.  Not yet, anyway."  I have a picture similar to the one below with my old roommate, KO (who is now KK).  This time around, it's with Pantene, and the Mistral winds were out of control.

 There was absolutely no way to control the hair when they're blowing like they were that day.  At one point, they were blowing straight into my face, so my hair was behind my head.  Then the wind swirled, and all my hair blew around my head in a superfast movement--and HIT me square in the face, and then blew right back behind my head again.  I burst out laughing, and Pantene and Rentless couldn't even figure out what was so funny.  When the winds aren't trying to kill me, I really do love those Mistrals.

 Avignon is one of a million walled cities in Europe.  Way back when a long time ago, walls were built around cities as a defense mechanism.  I got so used to them in Portugal that I didn't realize that they're a big deal to see.  Paris' walls are long gone.  Most of Marseille's are (although you can still see a few Roman remnants of walls).  But Avignon--it's a good one.

 We climbed way up behind the papal palace and looked down at the broken bridge.

 This was right before the wind-whipping-in-the-face moment.

We headed back down towards the main square.  As we did, we went through this passageway by the palace that I had never seen before.  I kinda liked it.

 Until I saw this creeper.  And yes, the painting on the door behind him is equally creepy.

 So I turned around and bless my heart!  There was a trompe l'oeil.  Second to art nouveau, the trompe l'oeil is quickly becoming one of my favorite art forms.  It's an optical illusion.  The first one I saw was in Chambéry, where the inside of a church was painted to look like sculpted stone, chapel arches and all.  It was amazing.  I'd never seen anything like it.  Now, every time I see a trompe l'oeil, I get all giddy.  Many times, a side of building will be painted to trick you.  In this one, the "neighbors" are talking to one another from their "windows."  Love it.

 Just after that is when we stumbled upon Tristan O'Meara and his awesome musical busking.  (See next post).  It was the perfect way to end a great day in Avignon.  Here are my instagram memories....

Next time, I WILL either go into the papal palace or dance on the bridge.  Who knew, when I went back in 2008, thinking it would be my only time to ever see Avignon, that it would become such a regularly frequented place in my life that I could plan ahead to "next time"...?

Tristan O'Meara in Avignon

Back in July 2008, I went to Avignon for the first time, for a quick day trip.  You can see the photos from that day HERE.  I didn't know it when I booked the tickets for that day, but it was during a major performing arts festival that the city is well-known for.  All day long, there were actors everywhere dressed up in costumes, trying to convince you to come see their show.  It made for a very entertaining day.  I've been back to Avignon several times since then, but it's always been kind of quiet and calm compared to that first day.  

I went to Avignon again last week, and had yet another good time with good friends.  I'd post some pictures, but I can't find them on the computer.  Weird.  Anyway.  (Once I get them off my phone, I'll post them.)  Once again, we were there during the performing arts festival, so there were plenty of entertainers around.  Just as we were about to leave, we stumbled upon this guy.  It's a long video, and for the first minute or two, I was behind him, so he's in the shadows.  But stick with the video--cause he's so good!  I eventually moved around to sit right in front of him, and oh man.

I bought both his cd's.  

His name is Tristan O'Meara, and he's on itunes.  Go check him out.  He's legit, folks.  I don't regret buying those cd's at all.  I think in all my travels in all the world, I've bought a cd from a street performer maybe two other times.  Maybe.  And I bought both of this guy's.

How I Learned to Ask Men to Help me

Do you ever have one of those embarrassing moments when you think, "I'm so glad that no one saw that happen?"  Or how about when you think, "I am so glad there are no cameras pointed at me right now?"  No?  Well...you're weird.

I usually think something like that when something happens, and unfortunately for me, during an extremely embarrassing moment the other night, not only was it in front of 20+ people, it was also captured on film.  Gah.

Here's what went down.

It was a appreciation dinner for a very special group of people.  We were all dressed up.  I enjoy having a good reason to dress up, and I was sporting a new dress, high heel shoes, and make-up.  Watch out world!  I was already a little embarrassed upon arrival, because even though I showed up 5 minutes early, the entire rest of the group had shown up 15 minutes early, and thus...I was the last to walk in the room.  ACK.  I don't want that much attention, nothankyou.

Well, the sun was shining through the window directly into my friend's eyes.  There seemed no way to fix the problem until we realized that the large potted tree by the window was on wheels.  Someone suggested that we just roll the plant over a little bit, and the tree would be blocking the sun from my friend's eyes.  Easy enough solution...until one of the people at the table went to get up to do it.  She's in her 50's, and I just thought, I can't let her push that big potted tree!  There wasn't a man at our table, or I would have asked him to do it.

I'll admit that it never crossed my mind to ask a man from another table (in our group), or to ask the server.  The American-Go-Getter in me just thought, "There is a problem and I am able to fix it."  (Or maybe the sinner in me thought that?  Gah...why does everything come back around to that?!)  So I stood up, walked over to the pot, and began to push.  

Right as my hands touched the pot, I see a man's face leaned over looking right into my eyes...and he was thoroughly amused.  It was one of the servers.

I stood up straight and barely squeaked out in French, "The sun was in my friend's eyes."  But this guy was such a ham...he ate up the entire glory moment of my foolishness and cheekily did something (I honestly can't remember what, I was so horrified already) that got the attention of the entire room.  Everyone was staring and many were laughing.  

By this point I was so embarrassed I truly wanted to crawl under a table and die.  There I was all dressed up like a grown up in my high heels and make up, and you know what I did?  I closed my eyes, covered my face, and counted to five, hoping that by the time I was done, he'd be gone.  

I suppose the cameras came out during that moment, because several pictures were shown to me later of my face covered and the moments afterwards.  I opened my eyes, uncovered my face, looked, and sure enough, he was waiting patiently for me to acknowledge that he had not gone away.  Instead, he had moved to be right by my side.  

He stepped in even closer.  He very demurely whispered to me, "Why didn't you ask me to move it for you?"

I whispered back in a barely audible voice, "Because I didn't know you were there."

With a twinkle in his eye, he grinned as he said, "I'm here now."

Eating my humble pie, I responded, "Will you please move that tree?"

He graciously did as everyone kept laughing at the strange scene.  All they'd seen was me moving a tree, and me covering my face in utter embarrassment and then him hamming it up with me afterwards. I scurried back over to my table and wished, again, that I could crawl under it.  All the women table asked me why I didn't listen to them when they'd told me he was coming.  Apparently they'd told me this as I was standing up, and the sound of the chair moving had covered up them warning me to wait until he was gone.

The rest of the night, he'd come over, lean in, and whisper things in my ear like, "How are you doing?  Is there anything I can do for you?  Do you need anything from me?"  Gah.

For reals: all dressed up, and instead of feeling pretty and special, I make a complete fool of myself.  In front of 20+ people, who all laughed at my foolishness.  And captured it on film to help me remember it forever. 

It could only have been worse if I'd fallen over in those high-heels and landed face first into a pile of goo.  

Upping the Ante

I may not have mentioned Radical in a long time, but it is still there...in my mind, in my heart, and I desperately long for it to be in my actions.

Yesterday, I was sitting with two Muslims friends of mine.  We were feasting on ice cream, since Ramadan starts today and we won't get to partake of that pleasure together for another month.  As we were eating that sweet coolness, a Gypsy came by begging.  One of my friends gave her a euro.  The other friend chastised her for enabling the Gypsy.  Friend 1 replies, "But we are to give to the poor.  It is our duty and obligation to God."  Friend 2 pointed out that Gypsies are not poor.  If one hundred people a day gave 1 euro as Friend 1 had done, that Gypsy would be making 100 euros a day.

Another Gypsy came at that moment, and Friend 1 got up again to give a euro.

Friend 2 and I both began to discuss who are the poor, who has God called us to support?  What is the best way to provide for them the way that God has called us to do?  I explained to them that I pray and ask the Holy Spirit to give me wisdom and discernment to know who to give money to, who to buy food for, and who to walk right past.

In our city, there are Gypsies who beg.  There are elderly and sick and abused women who beg.  There are "the lost boys" who are fully capable of working but instead sit around with their dogs drinking beer and juggling and doing nothing who beg.  If I gave a euro to each one, I would soon be out with them begging.

Friend 1 responded that God "by His magic" would provide money for me in that case.

I don't think He provides by magic.  I think He provides in His majesty...and in His mercy and justice and grace and favor and love.  I think He gives us wisdom in how to be His vessels for that provision.

Ann Voskamp has yet again written an excellent post on how to give to the poor, how to "be the change in the world" as she called it.

Check this out:  For $105 a month, you can make a real difference in the lives of 70 poor people.

• It costs $38 a month to sponsor a child through Compassion International.  
• It costs $55 to give clean drinking water to 68 people for the rest of their lives.  What if you gave up 55 sodas for yourself and gave clean water forever to 68 people?  What if you sacrificed soda (or coffee or whatever your guilty pleasure may be), giving up that thing forever so that you could give $55 every single month?
• It costs $12 to buy a mosquito net that can prevent malaria.  Sacrifice one trip out to the movies and you just saved a child's life.

Two years ago, I signed up to sponsor a child through Compassion International and was giddy to be making one small change.  Now I am thinking that it is not even the bare minimum that I could do. 

With Ramadan here and so many thinking and talking about food and the poor and sacrifice... I think Ann Voskamp just upped the ante.  Friends, let's give more.  Let's sacrifice more.  Let's be His vessel of majestic provision to those who truly need it.   

Of Gods and Men

You might remember that just a few weeks ago I met a pied-noir, a French woman born in Algeria when Algeria was France.  I actually met another one just a week or two later.

Well, today I met a woman who was sort of the opposite of a pied-noir.  I shared a table with her at a café, and she talked to me almost the entire time we were together.  She was so very interesting.

Jacqueline was born in France, in the north--"I am a Northist!" she exclaimed--and married a Muslim man, even though she was a Christian.  They remained married for 62 years, despite their religious differences, until his death two years ago.  (It was a little amusing when, my friend with me thought she said 72 years of marriage.  She then told us that she's almost 84 years old, and so we were doing the math and I thought, "There's no way this French woman got married at 11 or 12 years old.  No way."  She clarified the number by saying, "Six.  Two.  Sixty-two.")

In the 1960's, when Algeria fought France for her independence, and all the pied-noirs had to leave Algeria and return to their "home" country that was not their home...Jacqueline and her husband moved to Algeria, since it was his home country.  She learned Arabic and set up life there, and lived there for quite some time.  (At one point she told me she lived there for nearly fifty years.  But then she told me she returned in 1996, which would only have been around thirty years.  I know I'm no good with numbers, and especially when they're being said in another language...but I think maybe Jacqueline also was not good with numbers, or maybe just her memory is failing.  She later told me that a particular event which occurred in 1996 happened in 1982.  Hmm...)

She told us stories of how she would explain to her Muslim in-laws why she could not, under any circumstances, convert to Islam.  Stories of her clothing design business in Algiers.  Stories of how things have changed there from the Algeria she had grown to know and love as home.  How her husband saw the bad coming and thus bought her a small house on a small piece of land in the heart of Marseille so that she would have a home to come back to whenever they left Algeria for good.  Stories of her children and grandchildren.

She has a son and a daughter, which is "the treasure of a king," she said.  Her son is an artist, and has many of the typical woes of an artist.  Who wants to buy paintings?  No one, that's who.

One of his paintings is a huge mural of the monks who were killed for refusing to leave the people they'd come to serve, a story now made famous by the movie Of Gods and Men.  She said her son had been so sad the day he heard the news of their death, she wasn't sure if he would paint again.  The people of his village loved the monks.

"Wait, what?  Your son knew the monks?"

"Bien sûr!  (Of course!)  We harvested honey with them.  I had 85 beehives of my own alongside theirs.  They were so kind to all.  Everyone in town loved them, even though they were Muslims. The monks really showed God's love to them...especially when they would not leave out of fear of the terrorists.  My son was devastated when they were killed.  He painted the mural when the one who escaped the kidnapping finally returned to the monastery."

I'd heard about these monks, but hadn't had a chance yet to see the movie.  Now to have met someone who knew them, who had worked alongside them.... To hear of the impact they made with their lives and think about legacies left behind.

It was a rich conversation...and all because I sat down to share a table with a little old French lady named Jacqueline.

Summer and Surrender

I know, I know, I've dropped off the planet.  There is something about summer in Marseille that does that to me.  I mean, look at back at the blog in the summer of 2008 and 2009.  Nothing.  No posts.  Why?  Cause life gets crazy round here.  Summer in Marseille means things like laser tag and hiking the cliffs down to the Med...

 and eating watermelon and singing alot and going to other cities and getting henna done...

...and having deep conversations in French with some and in English with others and just hanging out...

 ...and fun times down at the Vieux Port watching motorcycle rallies and orchestras and flamenco dancing...

 ...and being with crazy Americans who come through who are willing to be ridiculous and do stuff they would never otherwise do like move a door on a bus across town...

 ...and playing games like petanque and spades and boggle and killer bunnies (oh wait, that hasn't happened yet) and laughing and singing and dancing and spending time at the beach and watching sunsets and talking about how good God is...

It's been a "I love my life" type summer once again.  God is so good to me.  In the midst of all this goodness and blessing and fun, I've been chewing on a deep thought.

Surrender.  

My friends and I have been singing songs with lines that say things like, 

• "Of all else, I am letting go."
• "I surrender all."
• "All the world holds dear, I count as loss."

All?  ALL?  That's a serious word.  To let go of all.  To surrender all.  To count all as rubbish.  ALL.

When I was in college, I was singing some song, and I heard the Lord speak so clearly that I actually opened my eyes to look around me and see who had spoken to me.  There was no one around.  The Lord had spoken so loudly to my spirit it was almost audible.  What did He say?

"Don't sing it unless you mean it."

That memory came to mind recently as I was singing about surrender.  Don't sing it unless you mean it. Don't say you surrender all unless you really are willing to surrender all.  And surrender doesn't mean just surviving through something unpleasant, complaining your way all the way through it.  That's not surrender either.

Surrendering all means all comforts like AC, good showers, consistent electricity, a quiet comfortable home, a car, a TV, a bed.  Am I willing to surrender all that for Christ, and joyfully sweat in the heat, in the humid shower that doesn't seem to cleanse, in the dark, flickering lights, in the noise of city life, on the metro, in the boredom of no television, in the lack of a home that is mine?

Surrendering all means all comfort zones like a familiar language, time concepts, clothing styles, pride and more.  Am I willing to surrender all that for Christ and joyfully learn another language, sound like an idiot as I prod along misunderstood every single day, get stood up time and again, lose hours of my day because people here don't mind being late and rescheduling, wear clothes that look retarded to me but beautiful to someone else, lay down my pride to look like an idiot as I do things I would never do in America?

Surrendering all means means all my hopes and dreams for things like a husband and children and writing a book and living in a certain place and being healthy.  Am I willing to surrender all that for Christ and joyfully stay single as long as He demands it and maybe never have children so my time is free for other things and leave the place I've always loved to live somewhere unknown and praise Him through sickness and trials and difficulties?

Surrendering all means all my safety and security.  Am I willing to lose everything for Christ and still praise Him and thank Him anyway?  What if I am robbed?  What if my house burns to the ground?  What if I am slapped?  Beaten?  Raped?  Kidnapped?  Killed?  What if those things don't happen to me...but to my family?  For the sake of Christ?  

Am I willing to surrender all that and more to Him?  We sing--and quite easily--"I surrender all,"to our King and for the advancement of the Kingdom...but do we really mean it?  I feel like I've surrendered so much...and yet in the midst of a summer of so much goodness, I am pondering through--would I give up all this goodness if He asked me to?

Cause I don't want to sing it if I don't mean it.