On [pins I deem worthy of] Pinning: Pinterest Round-Up, Round 7.

I hope you are all having a fabulous weekend! I can't believe it is already DECEMBER!!! Tonight is my school's Christmas formal. I'm planning on wearing a dress I purchased in France, and I'm going with a friend of mine who I've gone with for the past two Christmas banquets. (Also, he's getting married a week from tomorrow, CRAZY!) The banquet will either be hilariously awkward or surprisingly fun. Either way, it's free food so...that's pretty exciting.

1. This is a brilliant idea! Take three of those $5 mirrors and a few lighting fixtures to make a dressing room quality getting-ready area.


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2. I want to crochet these for my baby [first cousin once removed] cousin. I made her a rhinoceros before she was born. She loves to read an animal book, and has all the stuffed animals except a hedgehog and a turtle.

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3. I'm trying to find a rehearsal/rehearsal dinner dress. I'm can't even decide what COLOR to wear to this thing! White, beige, champagne...or something more dramatic...red...or even multicolored sequins (gasp!). Any thoughts or suggestions? I generally loathe shopping...so finding a dress online sounds more appealing.
 

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4. Fun couples costumes for Halloween...next year!


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Sheldon and Amy Farrah Fowler. #truelove

5. I'm definitely NOT a morning person, but this article has inspired me to (attempt to) become less of a snooze button person. This summer in France, I found out how great it makes you feel when you can live an alarm clock-less life. My schedule now isn't condusive to that drastic of a change, but it would be nice if I could actually get up in the morning instead of fighting with my alarm clock and the urge to sleep five more minutes.

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Are you a morning person or a night person (or neither)? Which dress should I wear to my wedding rehearsal? Do you have another suggestion? How crazy is it that it is already December!??!?

On [how everything can change in] A Year.

Six months ago today, I landed in France.

Three months ago today, Adam and I set off across the United States on what was basically the road trip of a lifetime.

Six months from today, we'll make covenant promises to love one another forever, entering into a lifetime of holy matrimony in front of our family and friends.

Photo by Adam Mason of Mason Photography.

Whew. What a year.

On Comps, Crepes, and [love] Cakes.

 

The other morning I made crepes for breakfast, in a nostalgic attempt to re-live my time in France. I just wish I had nutella instead of just chocolate syrup. I wouldn't mind a bike ride along the river, a fresh baguette, and an accordian player following me around to make the ambiance just right.

 

Also, these crepes were delicious!!!! Once my comps and papers are complete, I decided a "Crepes and Love Cakes" celebration is in order! 

 

 

On Leaving [my heart] and Returning to [what isn't so] Normal.

My friend Line and I at the cathedral in Cologne, Germany.
I need to work on my jumping picture technique.
Rule no. 1: remove the scarf. 

I’m sure some of you are wondering why I abruptly stopped blogging 2/3 of the way through my time in France. While I don’t have an adequate excuse, I will make a humble attempt to explain.

I made phenomenal friends from all over Europe while attending a conference nestled in the Hansel-and-Gretel-esque forest of Germany. At this conference my faith in small groups was restored while sitting in damp grass and reading the Bible aloud in three languages. I experienced God in settings as vast as a pew in a gymnasium to a mosque under construction to a massive cathedral full of art and tradition.

My CONNECT 2012 small group. I love and respect these girls so much.
They are strong, fearless, independent, warrior women.
They will be used to change Europe for Jesus.

Immediately after returning to France, I packed my two (very heavy) suitcases and began my (very long) journey back to America. I said goodbye to a country and to people who I had lived and breathed among for three months. I briefly visited Madrid, a city so alive with music and wonder and chocolate and churros.

Thirty-six hours after returning to my own bed, I left on a journey camping across the southwestern United States—from Springfield, Missouri to Portland, Oregon, by way of the Grand Canyon, visiting friends and family and making forever memories—with a boy who has settled into a special place in my heart.

Rangers for a day in Carlsbad, New Mexico.

We escaped near death by coyotes, ate delicious food, wandered through caves 80 stories underground, saw a potential alien abduction in Roswell, watched a woman wrestle a pelican in order to cut a fishing lure off its wing, and traipsed through the redwoods with my family. I’ve left my heart in Portland among my favorite mountains and rivers and green. Where the people are weird, and that's ok.

My busy life of part-time work, and full-time seminary studies, socializing, churching, and all-around-general-being-awesome has returned in full force, while I kick and scream and long for the slow pace of life I took for granted (and at times resented) in Europe.

Bear with me as I continue to process my thoughts and feelings about my time in France, and all the cool things God did in my heart. I’ll share more stories and pictures in due time. 

On [the discovery of] Universal Languages.

This little love braided my hair for me.

When a group of people don’t share the same language skill set, they are forced to resort to alternative methods of communication. Pointing, drawing, and hand motions are often employed. Those who know a bit of the other language attempt to teach each other phrases or words a little at a time.

At some point these techniques fall short.

All that remains are the several universal languages of humanity.

Laughter.

Music.

Smiles.

Dancing.

I’ve recently discovered yet another, though it may be exclusive to females, eliminating the whole ‘universal’ claim I just made.

Hair.

She did this without referencing Pinterest. #talented.

Girls love to talk about hair—color, length, style, and texture. Girls also like to simply play with hair—even more if the hair does not belong to them. And when language is limited, sometimes you have to resort to styling one another’s locks.

When I was in Peru several years ago, the little girls in the orphanages loved to play with my hair, brushing it with their plastic combs and adorning it with colorful barrettes. I tried my best to push the thoughts of probable head lice transmission out of my mind, and let them love me in this tangible way.

Here in France, the girls are in college and most aren’t orphans, but the principle is the same. When we run out of words in the same language, we communicate other ways. We speak in fishtail braids and ponytails, bobby pins and headbands.

We affirm one another’s beauty. Through the smiling and the laughing and the styling—we are loving.

And it’s beautiful. 

On Reaching [the surprises at] the Summit.

The whole day was an adventure.

From finding the right bus to get to La Mure (Which roughly translates to blackberry or mulberry, not to be confused with Mayberry.) to literally scaling a mountain with my bare hands—adventure is really the only fitting word to describe the day.

There was that moment when I had to walk over a waterfall on a cable that was no more than 9.5mm thick; even though an hour earlier I promised my friends that I wasn’t afraid of heights. I’m a tough cookie. I’m not scared of heights, but I’m not too fond of dying either.

But I did it anyway—for the adventure. And for the incredible feeling when I got across on the other side of the rope, dangling on a side of a mountain, thirsty for more adrenaline and adventure. I’m hooked.

I know I've said France reminds me a lot of Oregon, and I’ll say it again. Being in the mountains, among the pine trees and trails and the outdoor-sports-enthusiasts, I couldn’t help but smell Oregon.

We reached the top, after about four hours of making our way upwards.

The prize for our efforts: a phenomenal view of the other mountains with a mosaic of pine trees (see photo below)—and a trail dusted with wild strawberry plants. (See bottom right photo of collage above.) They were the tiniest little strawberries I’ve ever seen, about the size of a peanut (out of its shell). We descended the mountain on the hiking trail, stopping every few minutes to fill our hands and tummies with the little specks of ruby sparkling against on the forest’s green backdrop.

After being warriors (climbing a mountain is very warrior-esque activity, didn’t you know?), we soaked our tired feet in the pool at the end of the waterfall we’d just ascended.

Adventurers, I tell you.

This would be me at the top of a mountain after a few hours of rock climbing.
Please excuse my helmet hair and harness. 

On [being out of the country on] Independence Day.

A photo I took on July 4, 2008 in Albany, Oregon.

Today marks my second 4^th of July spent out of the country, though not consecutively.

The first was in 2003. I was in Peru hanging out with my dad and my cousin Tina. I think we had a barbecue with some other Americans. I remember having to remind myself it was a holiday, and also distinctly remember noticing the absence of fireworks.

Independence Day was one of my favorite holidays as a kid. The reasons varied as much as the fireworks we shot off. It was summer, which meant no school and no assignments assigned over the holiday break. Summertime promised great weather. Summers in Oregon are perfect. Any of you Oregonians who disagree need to spend a summer in Missouri, and then you’ll agree with me.

The food! The steak and other barbecue delights that go along with the 4^th of July sure made this carnivore happy. Not to mention eating watermelon, blueberries, peaches, and other mid-summer ripened fruits until our bellies ached.

And two words: strawberry shortcake.

The only thing more exciting than the food was the FIREWORKS! This pyro-kid loved fireworks. I was probably more timid around them during the actually lighting process than I like to admit, but I definitely enjoyed watching them. The fountains. The sparklers. The popping, jumping-ones. The loud, whistling-ones. The illegal bottle rockets (that the neighbors set off, of course!). Living out in the country meant that we enjoyed a few more fireworks than the city-folk. I think sometimes we were celebrating our freedom to set off explosives more than our right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Maybe pursuing happiness can sometimes look like setting off fireworks with your family and friends on a hot summer night, while eating steak and strawberry shortcake.

This holiday is so much more serious when you’re older. It seems tainted by never-ending arguments about politics, nationalism, and patriotic worship.

But maybe this isn’t a bad thing. 

Maybe the freedom to discuss these things is at the core of what this holiday represents. 

Freedom of speech to say whatever you want about the government without fearing retribution. Freedom of the press to tell the people the goings-on of elected officials. (And the freedom to decide whether or not we believe what the press is telling us!) Freedom of religion to worship who you choose, in the manner you choose.

I must admit I’m not sure how to react to this holiday when I’m currently in a country known for not being particularly fond of America. However, no matter what side of the ocean I’m on, I can be proud of several things my country stands for: freedom, family, food and even fireworks.

On Myths [that might be true] About France.

Ah, France. :) A lovely moment of tango I captured while in Marseille this past weekend.

Before leaving for my summer in France, I heard several assumptions American people hold about the French. Most travel sites will dismiss all of the following myths about France as folklore, while imploring you to immediately get on a plane.

I, on the other hand, strive for truth. 

Most of these stereotypes/myths definitely hold a grain of truth, but I will still implore you to visit France, if the opportunity arises for you.

Myth #1 The people smell bad.

Well, deodorant isn’t too popular and the summers are hot. You do the math. For the most part, I didn’t notice any smell until June/July rolled around and I was in close contact (read: public transportation) with people. Yes, they smell, but not any worse than any other grown human being not wearing deodorant on a hot summer day.

Myth #2 The women don’t shave their armpits.

Yes and no. Some do, some definitely don’t. I’ve seen both. I’m not sure why, considering their propensity for nudity (see myth #6).

Myth #3 French people are rude.

The problem with this myth is that most people saying it are actually speaking about Parisians (people who live in Paris). The thing you have to understand about Paris, is that it’s a big city: full of people who have things to do, people to see, places to go, etc. Any big city you visit in the world will have people who are on a mission. Have you ever heard anyone who just returned from New York City remark about how friendly everyone in the city was? Didn’t think so.

Myth #4 French people hate Americans.

This myth probably goes along with the perception of rudeness (myth #3). However, in my experience, French people have been very curious about me (the American). They love to ask questions about my country, culture, background, etc. They may not be too fond of American government, but they are very knowledgeable and up-to-date on current events and politics from the United States. The French people (and the non-French people living in France) have been so incredibly gracious to me, even with my inability to speak French. 

Myth #5 Everyone smokes.

People definitely don’t smoke as much as you would think, but it seems to be more socially acceptable in France than in the States. Maybe they are using it as a weight-loss tool to prevent becoming fat like the Americans.

Myth #6 There is nudity everywhere.

Nudity is far more acceptable in France than in America, but it’s not an epidemic by any means. I‘ve seen one naked lady on a beach. Some advertisements are a bit more racy than I’m used to, and more nakedness is exposed on television during daytime hours than the FCC would allow. However, I’m definitely not as bombarded with nakedness as I expected to be. Walking down a street in Las Vegas is much more shocking in the nudity department.

Myth #7 Everything is expensive.

Obviously, it depends on what you’re buying. Most food is more expensive, but bread is fairly cheap—and it’s infinitely better. Gas is more expensive, but if you take public transportation (super cheap), you won’t have to worry about that. Traveling always costs money, but you gain so much that it is always worth the investment. 

"Travel is the only thing you buy that makes you richer." -unknown
via Pinterest

[25 before 25] On Eating [in a fancy restaurant] Alone.

La Petite Idee - Grenoble, France.

"Go to a fancy restaurant—alone…keep cell phone in purse the whole time."

I put item No. 2 on my [25 before 25] list, because I knew I probably wouldn't do it without some sort of motivation. As a kid, my dad would tell me about the cool restaurants he would go eat at while away at conferences. (I mentioned this in a post about solitude in early 2011.) I'd be appalled that he would go out to eat alone. I guess I imagined that he would just pick up some sandwich-type-foods at a grocery store and eat in his room...or at least make friends with other conference-goers, to brave the fancy restaurants together.

I even put a caveat on this list item, restricting cell phone use during said meal. I knew that if I had an "escape," I would use it.

At the time of writing this list, I had no idea I'd be living in France for the summer. You can't get much more "fancy" than French, and since fewer people than there are fingers on my hands have my French cell phone number, the phone was not an issue or temptation.

I sat on the patio of this super cute little restaurant. The waiter spoke a little English and we labored through the "specials" together, but I essentially ended up telling him to bring me what he considered to be the best.

I ATE DUCK! (Well, the waiter said I think it was duck. At least I know it wasn't horse, the bones were too small.) It was phenomenal. It was moist and juicy and fell off the bone.

Two young men walked by and wished me "bon appetit." (Side note: People here are always asking me how to say this in English. The closest equivalent I can think of would be a waiter at a restaurant saying, "Have a good meal," but we don't really have anything that we use the same way the French use "bon appetit.)

The potatoes tasted as though they'd been marinating in butter all day. I used the bread to soak up all the delicious juices that seeped out of the duck and potatoes and vegetables. (I'm trying to learn to eat with both hands actively engaged. This is difficult.)

The apricot crumble was hot and gooey, with the perfect amount of "crunch-factor."

I found myself having to intentional keep from rushing through the meal--not because I wanted it to be over, but because it was so delectable. I told myself to savor every bite, to enjoy the ambiance of the surroundings.

The best part of the experience (ok, second best after the food) was finding out that eating alone in a fancy restaurant isn't scary at all. I'd totally do it again, without hesitation. Obviously, I love being in the company of people, but enjoying a treat like this alone wasn't even close to horrible.

Probably because it made me feel a lot like a secret agent on a classified mission, doing my spy-thing in a foreign country. 




YOUR TURN:
What are your thoughts on solo dining?
What item should be my next goal on my [25 before 25] list?
Would you eat horse meat if presented with the opportunity?

On Pan Flutes, Water, and [loving people at] La Fête de la Musique

la fete de la musique in grenoble, france.

Last night was France’s 30^th annual Fête de la Musique. This roughly translates: festival of music/music day/party where everyone in the whole city goes outside to enjoy music (not to be confused with "children of the music"...that would be enfants, not fête). Apparently it’s becoming more and more popular around Europe and the rest of the world, according to the website dedicated to the event.

The event itself could strike some as unconventional. The streets are flooded with a mix of all ages: children, young people, old people. They gallivant through the streets grooving to the beat of all kinds of music: gospel, rock, pop, brass marching bands, electronic techno, reggae, Peruvian pan flutes, etc.

If you ignore the very obvious connection (la fête de la musique is always on June 21) to pagan summer solstice ceremonies, which included dancing and chanting. However, since several now-“Christian” holidays have pagan roots, it seems unwise and unnecessary to condemn a celebration solely on the basis of the date on the calendar.

Thousands of people in each city around France gather in the streets to celebrate the universal language of music. While excessive indulgence simultaneously takes place, the unity of this kind of event is admirable. People look past racial, cultural, lingual, socio-economic, age, and generational gaps for one night; embracing the one thing they have in common: their humanity.

remix water bottle.

In an effort to meet the very human need of thirst, about 16 people from Remix student group meandered through the crowds, passing out over 800 water bottles in a matter of about 2 hours. Stickers with some words Jesus said and the group’s contact information were stuck on every bottle. French people hate religion, especially when it is not kept private. This simple act of sharing kindness with people is a small way that the love the Christian community has for its city can be seen on a night when all other barriers have been taken down.

On Bubbling, Unquenchable, [revolutionary] Joy.

goodnight, Paris.

I’ve noticed a tendency in people of my generation (and often in myself as well) to be on a quest for happiness. We are far too inclined to look for happiness in other people, in a relationship.

We too often base our own worth, value, and happiness upon whether or not someone likes us, approves of us, chooses us.

None of that matters.

Your value is not dependent upon what people think of you.

Don’t use other people as a gauge for determining your happiness.

If you want to have real joy; unquenchable, bubbling joy—it has to come from a real, unquenchable, bubbling source.

People are finite. People are quenchable. People don’t always bubble.

So to think or expect that your own happiness is dependent upon how someone else feels about you, what they think about you, or if they approve of you, is to guarantee yourself unhappiness.

Recently, a friend asked me “what do you want?” My gut reaction in my mind was to say, “to be happy.”

But I want more than that. I want depth. I want to have more joy. Simply “being happy” isn’t enough. But I know depth can be hard; it can be painful.

But when I allow those dark/scary/hurting places to be loved and brought to light and truth is spoken into those situations, change is possible. Revelation of truth brings about change—the kind of change that is revolutionary in a person’s life.

Change that is far more revolutionary than mere happiness can bring.

When my heart changes in that way, I am able to honestly declare, “I have joy.” When everything around me may make for a crappy situation, happiness might not abound. I won’t always say, “I am happy,” because life happens. Life is hard—with all its disease, sickness, sin, anger, lies, broken families, and unemployment. The world isn’t perfect.

But my God is.

His love is perfect.

I’ve already been chosen. He has already proven that I matter. He has already demonstrated how much value I have. I am already loved.

You are already loved.

When the revelation of the truth of that love shines into the same crappy situation, and we allow our hearts to be changed, there is joy.

On [the pros and cons of] Train Travel.

Gare de Lyon in Paris.

One of the goals (No. 9) on my [25 before 25] list was to ride a train. A few months before writing my list, I had taken the Amtrak from Seattle to Portland, and LOVED it. 

Train travel is romantic, in the 'inclined toward excitement and mystery' definition of the word. You don’t have to wear a seatbelt like in an airplane. There are food cars! I knew I wanted it on my list because I’d enjoyed it so much before, and wanted to make it a semi-common practice in my life. 

When I wrote that list, I wasn’t sure that I’d be coming to Europe for the summer, which made checking this item off the list fairly easy. Not only do I take the tram (lightrail train) almost everyday in Grenoble, but also the high-speed trains are one of the cheapest, fastest, and convenient ways to travel around the country and continent. Last Thursday, I took the SNCF train to Paris, and while writing this post, I’m on the train back to Grenoble.

Each type of train has different pros/cons, but the high-speed, double-decker, long-distance trains are by far the best. The seats lean back further than on an airplane. Everything is roomy, and your baggage doesn’t go in compartments far away, there are shelves in each train car. That way, if you accidently pack your lip gloss, Bible, or water bottle in your "checked" bag, it’s only about ten steps away. No one throws your bags or squishes them or leaves them sitting outside to get rained on. You know where your bags are at all times.

Trains take you through spaces of land you would NEVER see apart from the train ride. I’ve seen so much French countryside during the six hours of train riding to and from Paris. It looks a lot like the Willamette Valley. Green. Numerous farms. Trees. Sheep. Cows. Even the clouds look Oregonian: Low. Fluffy. I guess this comparison makes sense, considering the comparable latitudes of Oregon and France.

Metro line RER A in Paris.

While in Paris I experienced another version of train, the underground Metro. (This wasn’t my first metro, I’ve been on the one in Washington D.C. several times.) These types of trains definitely have more cons than pros. First, the awkward people—this includes those experiencing all levels of inebriation, as well as general attitude problems. Luckily, I was with people for the most part while on these excursions, deflecting any disturbance worth noting. 

Second, the crowdedness. This is to be expected in a massive city like Paris, full of business people to tourists, and the rest of the population that falls somewhere on that spectrum. You can easily figure out the social status of any respective neighborhood based on the people getting on and off at the metro stops. Some were clearly business districts, while others were places I’d rather not venture alone at night.

Even though it takes a little longer, I think I prefer train travel to airline travel--winding through the hills and the trees, rather than winding through the clouds. 

Seeing the world at eye-level out of substantial windows, instead of from a birds-eye-view out of tiny airplane windows.

Of course, if I was an exclusive train-traveler, I wouldn't have been able to cross the ocean to be here.

On [my first impressions of] Paris.

I've always noticed clouds.
This could be surprising due to my upbringing in Oregon, considering the normalcy of clouds in that region.
You'd think I'd be more apt to be excited about a clear, blue sky.
But, clouds have more character than a spotless sky. The sun is great, but clouds add needed variety.
I ran around Paris today.
We walked (briskly, to avoid getting hit by cars, motorcycles, and inattentive pedestrians) around, checked out all the famous buildings, and perched atop the city from the lesser-known (but probably better) lookouts on rooftops of over-priced, luxury department stores.
The Eiffel Tower is truly stunning. The opera house is gorgeous. All of the landmarks live up to the hype.
But, the clouds.
It sprinkled a few drops of rain today, but for the most part it was just a constant state of looming, gray clouds, making the contrast against the bustling city remarkable. I never expected ominous to be so beautiful.

photos by @thisisjbrown.

On Scarves, Stripes, and [what this American thinks of France's] Fashion

I have a guest post today on Koju Bofu, the blog of my super-cool-Polish-friend-Kasia-whom-I've-never-actually-met. It's all about my observations of what French people wear, and why some of those things just don't always work for me. Go check it out. Leave a comment. Follow her. She's cool! :)

On Elevators and [finding hope in] Unexpected Adventures.

A screenshot from a "last words" video
we made while we were stuck in the elevator. 

I checked something off my bucket list yesterday: get stuck in elevator. (Subsequently, this takes care of No. 22 on my 25 before 25 list.)

Of course, it didn’t happen exactly as I planned. Zac Efron was supposed to be there, but he missed his opportunity. Oh well.

Eva and I had just returned from a LONG bike ride along the river. We had forgotten water so we were dying of thirst. The apartment we live in is on floor 4 (which is actually the 5^th floor), and at floor 3, the elevator stopped.

No loud banging sound. No jolting. It just stopped.

One moment we were on our way home for some water and leftover pineapple whip. The next moment we were stuck without a time frame of hope for when we’d next taste water.

After a few minutes of figuring out how to use the call for help button, we were connected with a lovely French lady who promised that a technician would be around in oh…an HOUR or so.

We texted Eva’s mom who called down the elevator shaft to make sure we were still breathing, and should she call the firemen? We assured her that someone was on the way, and yes we had plenty of oxygen (but could you somehow send us water?).

We sat, which turned to slouching, which ended in lying on the ground; our heads propped up on our purses. It smelled funny, which could have been from our post-bike ride state or the unknown number of feet that have stood on the elevator’s floor since its last cleaning.

We laughed because we didn’t have the two necessities we normally have with us: water and the Bible. So rather than drink water (living or not), we found other ways to pass the time.

We sang some songs. (For some reason Veggie Tales and the Sound of Music were stuck in my head.) We played that game where each person adds a new line to a story that you create together. (The first story was about a dog who gets stuck in an elevator (I wonder where we came up with that idea?), and one story was about an ant who starts a multicolored wig business. Creativity at it’s finest!) We thought up ways to get out of the elevator, but ended up heeding the advice of the French lady on the other end of the intercom: “Don’t try and fix the elevator on your own.”

An hour later, almost to the minute, we heard a man’s voice, and we replied that, “Yes, we are still in here.” A few minutes later the doors popped open and we had to jump a couple feet out of the elevator to the floor, but hey, at least we were saved.

Getting stuck in an elevator happened the way a lot great things in life happen: unexpectedly and unplanned. 

We can spend hours and days and years planning out how our lives can be the best adventures possible, but sometimes the best things can’t be predetermined. Things like falling in love, meeting a kindred spirit, stumbling upon a brilliant new culinary concoction in your kitchen, finding a beautiful hidden secret place along a river, getting stuck in an elevator; these things can’t be planned.

One of the girls here has been asking me a lot about how we hear from God. I think part of the problem is our desire to want to plan everything; to have a formula for how things will happen; to want to work out everything ahead of time. But God doesn’t work according to our plans, he isn’t a genie waiting for us to use the right magic formula, and sometimes the answer is simply “wait and obey,” instead of something clear and concrete.

But if our hope is for the best, and I believe he has the best things for us, what is unplanned, unexpected, and surprisingly will be greater than any adventure we could arrange on our own. 

On Swans, Sunshine, and [the way my heart is] Swimming

I don't know the couple in this picture. But hey, France is for lovers! :)

The Saturday morning before last, we slept in late, did some housework, and decided to go rent bikes.
But the bike place was closed on Saturdays. Typical.

Instead we wandered around centre-ville, waiting for Jorge (and the car).

Ice cream! (The chocolate is amazing here, and this region is known for its walnuts; so noix ice cream is is!)
Organic food hippie demonstrators; am I in Eugene?
Hot! Hot! Hot!

Finally, we were on our way to the lake. It was huge, and one side was bordered by a mountain. (I'll never get tired of the mountains!)

Did I mention the sun was hot?
The water, however, was cold.
But we swam.
Our toes slipped on the algae-covered rocks.
And we splashed.
And laughed. (Oh, my favorite thing. Other than naps!)
We caught lizards. And watched two swans elegantly swimming along the crust of the water.

Families with small children and dogs lined the lake's beach.
Never on leashes; neither the dogs nor the children.

After our toes were numb, and our legs sufficiently frozen, we dripped out of the lake to let the sun dry our skin.
I closed my eyes.
And delighted in the day.

When my mind began to retract and become filled with sad and weary thoughts (as it sometimes does when I'm alone), I intentionally pushed them out.
"Empty my mind.
Fill it with You.
Steady my heart.
Fill it with You.
Quiet my soul.
Fill it with You,"
I prayed.

For a moment it was just me, and the lapping water, and the warm rays of sunshine.
And I was.

On [how the night makes] The River.

The Isère river by day.

Eva and I had grown weary of watching French television.
Jorge picked us (and the guitar) up about 11:30 p.m.

I've discovered that Grenoble is beautiful at night.
By day, my eyes are captivated by the mountains.
But at night, it's the rivers that capture my gaze.
Though polluted, they don't look so dirty in the moonlight.
The shadows of nearby buildings lit only by streetlights hide the graffiti covering the canal walls.

After squeezing through a fence to get closer to the powerful Isère river, we sat among tiny rocks and tried to brush away remnants of broken green glass.

Two ducks fought the heavy current in an attempt to join us where we sat.

A lightning show started to our right, just behind La Bastille.
There weren't any stars in view due to the clouds, but the storm ensured a bright sky.
Thunder boomed between chords from Eva's guitar.

We sang
in English
and Spanish.
We laughed. How thankful I am for the universal language that is laughter!
And we talked about God, as often seems to be the case these days.

Eventually, as I've found to be the norm here in Grenoble, the rain caused us to vacate our temporary strip of riverside property. Off to our beds we went, but the river never sleeps.

On [being sure of the future by] Remembering.

A view of the mountains and the city from the terrace of the Musée Dauphinois in Grenoble, France.
Honestly, this has nothing to do with this blog post,
but I've already shown you what the view out my window looks like.

I've found the perfect little nook in my room for nestling into. With the window open and my knees pulled up against my chest, I wedge myself into a place where my back rests upon the open pane and my toes curl under the table in front of me.
It's best when I'm drinking tea (mostly because the coffee here leaves much to be desired).

This afternoon, one of the neighbors has a fireplace going. Between the tweets of the birds (I'm not making this up!), I hear the trickling-splatty sounds of rain on the roofs.
It's like Oregon-rain. Long and drippy, much better than the stormy rain in Missouri. It's like slow steady tears, rather than sobby outbursts.

A new friend and I went through our life timelines today.
And we remembered.

I remembered...
where the Lord has brought me,
what he has taught me,
the people he has given to me to enjoy life with,
and what he has allowed me to experience.

I know it all had a purpose.
From being rescued from certain death as a 6-week-old baby to being sure God was speaking to me through a project in middle school.
He has been there.

My life thus far has been full.
...of wonderful, delightful, messy, joyful, challenging, and stretching experiences.
I can count this among those times.

I count these three months when I jet off to another part of this ever-shrinking world (that still seems so big). I count these days where I live with Venezuelans, hang out with French, and am intrigued by the North Africans living in the apartments down the block.

God brings each of us to the places where we are, and I can't believe any of it's an accident.
I must believe that, if I let Him, He will be faithful to direct my steps, always knowing my path before I walk it. I just have to be present on the journey.

So I sit in my nook overlooking my own little portion of Grenoble: where most of the buildings pre-date the United States, and most of the people weren't born here.
I'm waiting.
I'm asking.
But mostly, I'm being.
I'm being here.
Because someday—in two or five or 10 or 25 years—I will remember how these three months on my timeline helped determine the trajectory of my life.

On [the organ music of] Empty Cathedrals.

L'Eglise Saint-Louis in Grenoble, France

As I sat on the steps of L'Eglise Saint-Louis, it started to rain.
The droplets could be the tears of Mr. Loo-wee, or me, or Jesus, I thought.
Crying for the souls of the people of Europe who have forgotten.

On a Sunday evening their bars were crowded,
their restaurants were full,
their markets were bustling,
and their cathedrals stood empty.

The building housed 400 years of echoes of chiming bells and an organ bellowing hymns.
But then I realized there really was music coming from the church behind me.
I scrambled up from the steps, but found the door was locked.
No signs hung nearby to announce service times.

I slid back down to the ground, situating my head at the perfect angle to hear the melodies through the heavy wooden 17th-century door. I leaned back on the stone wall, simply listening.

After awhile, the music stopped.
The doors opened to reveal a man walking out of the cathedral, sheet music in hand. He proceeded to lock the doors behind him.
I imagined he was in there worshipping for an audience of one (or two if you count the nosy American listening through the mammoth doors).

In the mournful resonance of the organ's pipes I didn't hear the demise of Europe's faith. I heard reverberations of hope: that one day L'Eglise Saint-Louis would again be filled with worshippers praising together, along with the rest of Grenoble, with the rest of Europe; that the words inscribed above the doors—that this house was built for the Lord—would again be true.




*After some quick Google searches, I later discovered that this man was rehearsing for an upcoming concert featuring their newly refurbished organ.

On [how the mountains are like] Love Letters.

I apologize profusely to all of you who have been waiting for me to blog about France. I guess it all seems far too unreal, and like a puzzle to put into words. I feel like if I started to write I would miss something, but I guess writing a little is better than writing nothing. So here goes...

I have been here for almost a week and a half.

I'm all situated in an adorable little bedroom that overlooks some old buildings, with a delightful view of la bastille that is situated up in the foothills. 

the view looking out my bedroom window.

The city of Grenoble is in a valley between three separate mountain ranges. So no matter where I am at in the city, I can see the mountains. 

I like to call them my little daily love letters from the Lord. I pray that one day all the people in the city would hear God's majesty that the mountains declare day after day.

my view of the mountains from close to my tram stop.

Speaking of the tram, I've decided that wherever I end up living in the future, I want to be in a place with good public transportation. I don't miss having my car. It's really nice to 1) not pay for gas, 2) be able to do whatever I want on my trips through the city [i.e. read, people watch, or try and figure out what people are saying in French], 3) not have to worry about parking, 4) not have to worry about something going wrong with my car, which it always seems to do, and 5) not pay for gas! :) The tram here is about 26 euros for a month unlimited pass, and it goes near most parts of the city. Plus it allows for some walking, which is just delightful. The trams are actually quite clean, and I feel safer on public transportation here in this big foreign city than I would on Springfield's weird bus system.

I have plenty more to tell you all, but I should probably pace myself. Feel free to ask questions in the comment section so I know what you want me to write about. Sending my love from Europe! Oh, and I guess this can count for #5 on my [25 before 25] list! :)