GoodbyeHaran

Self-Worth in Song

2012-01-23T09:50:00.001-05:00

Depression. Self-Worth. Self-Esteem.

All issues I’ve never faced. At least not personally. I have many struggles, but those are not among them. Anyone who knows me can probably attest to it. If anything, I tend toward an inflated view of self and I may be a little overly happy at times. But they are ongoing struggles for many of the wonderful women in my life. So I try to understand, but I usually don’t. I try to help, but am best stepping into the shadows and letting someone else do the empathizing and encouraging.

I’ve said here before that there are two primary ways I experience and understand emotion: through the psalms and through music. I often can’t express emotions that are deep down inside, and even more frequent I feel I have no basis for understanding the emotions of others. Songs help me, especially with the latter.

Today I had a bit of extra time after lunch so I went for an afternoon run in sunny Marseille. I don’t usually visit the park near our house on weekday afternoons, and discovered today that I didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the crowd. I was surrounded by walking pregnant women, homeless people (one of whom may have been Santa Claus), and young lovers. As I ran through the sparsely populated park, a song came on my headphones and I listened intently for the first time.

The voice belonging to Jenny - of Jenny and Tyler (a married music duo) - came cutting through in what sounded like raw emotion, and for the first time I felt something I’d never understood. I stood on top of a hill and looked over a city, wondering how many people were feeling the same awful, cutting feelings. As the song ended, I immediately wished my baby daughter were already a teenager, so I could share this piece of art as a way to open up and to show hope. A great song. Listen to the end.

Through Your Eyes: Jenny and Tyler

The backstory.

Language Gaffes

2012-01-09T11:22:00.002-05:00

Learning a second language is hard. No way around it. Hard. There’s so much to think about: phonetics, spelling, grammar, tenses, familiar vs formal, the list goes on and on. Ahh!! And we must get it all perfect. Right? Well, no. Why? If one learns a language to perfection, that makes him an academic. If one learns to a point of utilization, that makes him a communicator. And I’d argue that the second is far more rewarding than the first.

But that’s enough about that. You know what’s fun? Mistakes. We all make them. And not just language learners, native speakers too!

Yesterday I read a newsletter written by a French friend of mine. She ended the editorial letter with a typical French salutation, je t'embrasse chacun (which essentially translates to my kisses to each one of you). Except a little typo changed everything. She left out one letter and the greeting became je t'embrase chacun (I set each of you ablaze). Quite a bit different!

Reading/hearing mistakes from native speakers does make me feel a bit better about my own frequent faults. But that does not erase them. Here’s a few of my favorite ones from the past:

-When leaving a friend’s house I made a simple conjugation error and tried to explain myself by saying “my brain is tired” but instead said “my goat is tired” (I still don’t know where I pulled ‘goat’ from, the two words aren’t even similar in French).

-In Swahili, a single vowel change morphs a greeting of “how are you?” (lit. ‘no problem’) to “are you farting?” Or the response can easily morph into “I’m farting”. I had a lot of fun with that one. Mostly on purpose.

-I once went to a music practice session with a local songwriter. On the phone he’d asked me to bring something. I didn’t understand perfectly, but thought I had the gist of what he asked. So I loaded up my 50’ extension cord and headed out. When I arrived, he thanked me for the extension cord and asked if I’d brought the amp adapter he’d asked for (a tiny 1” long piece of metal).

-One night we were playing games with some French friends, and one young man handed out paper to everyone in a circle. He then began his instructions in English by saying, “so you take this piece of sheet...” (say it out loud).

-Another mistake I made more than once when learning Swahili a few years back was leaving out a syllable of “see you tomorrow” and saying instead “we will get married tomorrow”.

Today I visited our local school and talked to the directrice. Before I left she complimented me on my French. She then said that hearing my accent made her want to travel more (after deliberation I decided to take that as a compliment). Either way I walked away feeling good about my language abilities. When I went home later, I began the conversation by telling my wife, “so the school directrice is really nice.” Then it hit me that my first impressions of people in France as nice or not are wholly based on whether or not they compliment my French! Even better if they laugh at my jokes...

Take Action. Words are Empty.

2012-01-05T05:23:00.002-05:00

A man had two sons, and he came to the first and said, "Son, go work today in the vineyard."
And he answered, "I will not"; but afterward he regretted it and went.
The man came to the second and said the same thing.
And he answered, "I will, sir"; but he did not go.
Which of the two did the will of his father?

They said, “The first.”

Jesus said to them, “Truly I say to you that the tax collectors and prostitutes will get into the kingdom of God before you."

Follow the Leader

2012-01-01T15:47:00.004-05:00

Walking through a small French ski town I noticed a simple, perfect metaphor for something I’ve been struggling with: leadership in the family context.

There was a father carrying his skis on one shoulder, walking slowly and carefully down the sidewalk. He stopped at a crosswalk, awaited the walk signal, and crossed the road to arrive at the ski lift base. Behind him were two small children, both carrying skis in a similar fashion, following carefully in their fathers’ footsteps. This man could have saved himself a lot of time had he left the congested sidewalk, hopped some snow piles, and walked down the road like many of the other skiers. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was leading his family. The children were mimicking his every move, and he had to model what they needed.

Since the beginning of my wedded bliss I’ve always said that the hardest thing about marriage is that I’m no longer thinking and acting for one. Every decision, every action, affects my wife just as it does me. Maybe in a certain situation I’d be happy to sacrifice my own comfort, but I can’t just snap to that decision because I’m not the only one sacrificing. Sometimes I speak too quickly, before I think through every side of a response and how it affects BOTH of us. As it turns out, rippling consequences multiply even more so as my family grows.

Now I have a wife, two kids, and we live far from every comfortable memory and familiar face from the first 25+ years of our lives. More than ever my family needs me to be a leader. So I drive and direct, I do finances, I deal with legal paperwork, I even make hard family decisions. But that’s not leading, at least it’s not all of it. I spend time with my kids, I do chores... all good things, but still not what my family needs of me.

I need to walk the path that I want my kids, my wife, my whole family to walk together.

Diverge for a second... allow me to explain why something so simple is so hard for me. I have this weird complex about hiding the ‘good’ things I do. Not exactly hiding, but sort of shielding. It’s like this strange attempt at running from pride that I’ve ingrained in myself. I nearly always make gifts for my wife surprises, because I don’t want her to have even a hint that I’m doing something nice. If I’m home alone I make that my time to clean the house or wash an extra load of dishes/laundry, all because I don’t want to look like I’m begging for praise... or something. Instead of openly declaring a time to study the Bible, I find times that are blank spots in the day where no one will notice if I disappear for 30 minutes. Yes, I’m strange.

But that which I have always done is the opposite of what my family needs right now. I must sacrifice my own preferences and ticks to walk the walk that my family needs to walk. I need to stop doing worthwhile things in secret, and start doing them in front of and amongst my family. I must do it not for myself, but for the value that will be learned and adopted by those that love and respect me. I need to interpret the needs of my family and do exactly those things.

I should get up early, even though I don’t want to (or think I need to). I ought to organize and streamline in a way that makes sense to someone other than just myself. I have to deal with the discomfort of living my life as an open book, which must include the good things. I have two beautiful children that already imitate everything I do. Lead by example, right? It’s not that hard.

And then there's this:Where does he get these ideas?!

Choosing an Instrument

2011-12-27T16:17:00.008-05:00

Our little boy loves music. Whether it's playing his toy guitar, pounding on a friend's piano, singing the 'ABC' song,or sitting at daddy's drumset after a concert or church service, he loves to be involved in music. And that warms my heart more than I can say. But now that he's approaching the formative age of 3, I'm faced with a dilemna. Which instrument do I place in his hands?

Here's the options the way I see them:
-Drums/Percussion -> easy one, we have plenty and I know a decent and cheap teacher; but they're a pain to carry around, hard to practice in a city, and do we really need two drummers in one household?
-Guitar -> readily available, already have one, widely useful for everything from camping to family worship time to big-time song-writing; but everyone plays guitar, I mean everyone. I'm trying to think of someone I know right now that doesn't play guitar, nope, can't do it.
-Piano -> classic, beautiful or jazzy or just about anything, can sing and play or can just play, I love listening to (good) piano playing; but there's so much to decide within, like do we start with classical music-reading, or playing by ear?
-Horns -> next...
-Other string instruments -> an interesting possibility, I love me some cello (even better if you can beatbox with it, though I believe the market on that's already taken), violins are purty or lighting quick and easily portable, a harp is odd yet quite davidic; but what if he likes the bass? We don't have room for one of those in our apartment!
-Woodwinds -> jazz flute, that is all.

Of course I'd like him to learn a little of a lot of stuff, to be a good musician he'd need to. But there's also the struggle that many like me face: we so want to do a little of everything that we never get good/great at one thing. I feel like that's most of my life. To be honest, I'm not sure I'd change it though. So, which one do I start with, suggest, hope he attaches to?

A Provencial Christmas

2011-12-22T05:36:00.015-05:00

Christmastime is often a revert to the past, to what's comfortable, familiar, and loving. We gather with family and share warm experiences and thoughts, gifts, hugs, and laughs. Unless of course for the last 6 years you've lived in entirely different cities spanning over 3 continents. As an expat abroad, holidays are fun but also tough times. We get to share new experiences and see how the rest of the world celebrates, but we're away from everything familiar and our family that we love. In recent years, we've made it a point to travel even more, letting the excitement of experiencing yet another new place overpower the loneliness of missing home. This year that didn't work out, and we weren't sure what to expect. God knew what He was doing though, and our Christmas at home in Provence has been a lot of fun already!

We've learned about the traditions of our current home (Marseille, France) and have truly enjoyed becoming more a part of this city and region. Perhaps the most famous tradition that Provence is known for around the world are the handcrafted and extremely popular Santons made here. Beginning in December, our Christmas markets fill up with thousands upon thousands of little people. Santons are, at their core, a nativity scene. You start with Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus......then you can add some shepherds, wise men, animals, angels. And then the part that makes it original: You build an entire old French Provence town around the manger. There's fisherman, teachers, olive pickers, lavender farmers, bakers, old men playing pétanque, and the options go on and on and on. Yeah, it may not all be in the Bible, but it is all in the hearts of everyone from Provence. It's also displayed on a table of just about every home in Provence through the month of December. We haven't started our collection yet: these things aren't cheap! We will get it going next year, piece by piece until our house is overrun by clay French lilliputians.

Another tradition about which we've been learning is "la bûche" cake. This is the #1 traditional dessert in France for Christmas. We've now sampled at least one at every recent party and dinner we've hosted or attended. They can come in many different flavors and consistencies, but the thing that remains the same is the shape and look. They are designed to look like logs, ready for the fireplace, or consumption with a fork in this case.

In order to feel a little more normal at Christmas, we've made some efforts to get out and see lights. Living in a major city makes houses all decked out with lights and lawn ornaments and the like hard to find, but the urban centers do light up for festivity. Here's a few shots of our streets at night in December: Seems like a pretty high and traffic congested place to put a disc golf hole. Joyeux Noël tout le monde!

Potties and Fear

2011-12-11T16:50:00.000-05:00

We’re in the midst of potty training. Right smack dab in the middle of the glory days.

Today we went to church. Sawyer was running around afterwards as he usually does, then disappeared. JJ went looking, no sign of him. Other parents joined in. Nothing. Worry began to mount, then the bathroom door popped open and there he stood, naked from the waist down but grinning ear to ear. “I used the little potty!” he said with pride. Our church has a little kid-sized potty, he likes that. He had thrown away his pull-up diaper, and we didn’t have another, so he went without for awhile.

One morning last week my son and I were in Vieux-Port picking up a few things. He started to do the pee pee dance. I took him to the bathroom in Starbucks. With his pants to his ankles, I lifted him on the toilet. But before he spread his legs the stream began, straight up into the air. I jumped back, holding him by the shoulders and narrowly avoiding a shower. His sudden incessant spitting told me he wasn’t so lucky. He managed to stop and I pulled him off the toilet, stood him up, and pulled his pants, shoes, and socks off. But then he started up again, standing on the floor next to the toilet. I picked him up like an out-of-control fire hose and somehow ended up holding him horizontally over the toilet, doing my best to aim him straight down. We made a total mess. Naturally, a middle-aged woman was waiting to use the bathroom when we exited. Sorry.

A few weeks ago we really seemed to be making progress with the whole potty thing. He would go when he had to, tell us, and beam with a sense of accomplishment when he did it. Then everything stopped. We never knew why. He lost all interest and preferred diapers instead. When he finally did agree to try again, it was only the little plastic bucket potty on the floor, no longer our regular toilet with his kiddy ring seat insert. It all seemed odd, why had he reverted?

Fast forward to last night. It was midnight, both kids were asleep, the house was quiet and cleaned, and I was watching a basketball game while munching on a baguette. Then my pajama’d 2-year-old came shuffling into the living room rubbing his eyes. I could see in his face he’d been awoken by a nightmare. He climbed up in my lap and buried his face in my chest. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Fall off big potty,” he began repeating over and over. He’d apparently had a nightmare about falling off of the toilet. Which makes me wonder whether an experience (say a few weeks ago?) led to the fear, or the fear simply grew itself. Either way, it’s a fairly legitimate fear for him.

Which got me thinking about my own fears. What am I afraid of? I think a lot of people have never truly thought that through. Answers like snakes, spiders, and sharks aren’t all that legitimate, in my opinion. I’d be willing to bet that the percentage of people who have actually been attacked by a snake and consider that one of their top fears is pretty miniscule. Kids tend to be much more honest and perhaps even more self-aware at times. My son is afraid of falling from the toilet. Could happen. He’ll probably survive it though.

So what am I afraid of? My stock answer for that one is usually “being successful in things that don’t matter” (thanks to Mike Brady, Bob Warren, and whomever else that may have come from). It’s true, but to be honest, it’s not the fear that keeps me up at night. So what am I afraid of? Here’s a few that come to mind right off:

-teaching my kids that communication and technology are more important to me than they are
-waking up one day and realizing I’ve missed my kids’ childhoods because I was too busy with other stuff
-sickness and health loss, and years off of my active life because I don’t take enough care of my body
-a friend passing on and wondering why I never told him/her about Jesus and the life-changing salvation I have in Him
-loss of loved ones and the loneliness, guilt, and other emotions that would follow (thinking specifically of my wife and kids, I don’t think I’d cope well)
-pain (pain and I don’t mix too well)

Knowing these fears of mine helps motivate me to do worthwhile things, like put my phone down and raise my kids, work out, and share my faith.

What are you afraid of, really?

Morning Ride... Heeeey Chickens!

2011-12-09T04:11:00.003-05:00

Picking out a Tree

2011-12-04T14:58:00.003-05:00

We’ve never had a real tree before. For Christmas that is. Neither of us. Well, none of us four, I guess. This year, however, we decided to try the real thing.

You would think that I’d have learned my lesson during months of projects to turn our empty shell apartment into a home: always find and read “How-To” information before starting something for the first time. I have sticky wooden counters, extra holes in our walls, and a jagged shower door all because I like to learn by doing, exclusively. But I still haven’t learned. It’s just a Christmas tree, right?

So off we went to Ikea. Anxious to get one, we went the first day trees were stocked. Yeah, it was rush hour, and dark, and it happened to be raining. We figured out the system (pay 20€ now, and bring the tree back for recycling after Christmas for a 19€ Ikea credit), and went out to the tree lot. First off, the stock for the day had already been picked through. Everything left was tiny. Or, short at least. Secondly, they were all cut and wrapped up in packaging. They looked like sticky torpedos. How am I supposed to pick a tree that’s folded up like an umbrella?

After 30 minutes of trudging through the rain, I saw what looked like a nice full tree. But a teenage girl got there first. She pointed it out to her dad, who looked and said something about the trunk being too short, and put it back. Sounded silly to me, so I took my luck, picked up the tree, and checked out.

Since it was wet, I left the tree overnight in the garage. Next morning I opened it up to let the branches fall down a bit. Didn’t really think about how hard it would be to get an open tree through 4 doors, into an elevator, out of said elevator, and down the hall to our apartment. There’s now a generous trail of pine needles that goes from our door all the way to our garage.

Back up in our apartment, we discovered an issue while trying to stand the tree up. Because of a very large branch coming out near the base, getting the tree into its stand was almost impossible. That whole “short trunk” thing... apparently it meant something. Finally, I went to the internet and discovered that trees should be stood up and placed in water within 8 hours of being cut. And another inch or two should be cut off the bottom. Oops. Not happening. We finally stood the tree up, even have a tiny corner of the trunk touching water. It’s not drinking though.

Annnd, our tree is shaped like the letter < b >. Baby got back. Instead of having people thinking we have a new modern-art chair in our living room, we turned the backside against the wall. But it’s so big the tree is pushing off the wall, thus leaning out over our living room.

That’s our Christmas tree, 2011. And we love it.

Scary. We'd better get up.

2011-12-04T07:30:00.008-05:00

via

from visual.ly
via michaelhyatt.com

Burrito Expert?

2011-12-01T16:52:00.002-05:00

There’s a burrito restaurant in Aix-en-Provence, a little place called BocaLoca. I’m pretty sure it’s the best Mexican/TexMex place in France (and yeah, I’ve checked). They fashion themselves after a Chipotle/Q’doba-type joint, and keep it simple with no-frills burritos + chips and salsa. As best I can tell, the place is French owned and operated, and for some reason this makes me happy. I had lunch there today, and a somewhat funny conversation. Thought I’d share it.

I walk into the restaurant and up to the counter to place my order. There are three people inside: myself, a manager making the burritos, and a new employee/trainee taking orders and money. (this is all roughly translated out of french for your reading pleasure)

Trainee: Hello, what would you like to eat?
Me: A beef burrito combo, please. No sour cream, extra guacamole, and make it spicy.
Trainee: Ok, 0-5 how spicy?
Me: 4
Trainee: [His eyes widen and he looks up at me] That’s pretty spicy, we don’t do too many like that. Are you sure you want it at 4?
Manager: [Chuckles] Don’t you hear his accent? He’s...
Me: American
Manager: American. So a 4 to us is like a 2 to him. He’ll be fine.
Trainee: Ok, if you guys say so.
Me: [seeing the manager dip a spoon into the pinto beans] Oh, and I would like black beans on that, not pinto.
Trainee: Oh, I’m sorry, but the black beans are for the chicken burritos, with the beef you can only have pinto.
Manager: [rolls his eyes] No, no, no! What are you saying?! He’s American. He knows this food better than you or I do. Everything that we serve, he knows the tastes and how they mix much better than us. If he asks for black beans he has a reason. We serve black with chicken and pinto with beef to keep it simple for everyone else. But if he wants black, we give him black beans. That’s his taste, it’s ok!

The manager then went into a rather long discourse with the new guy about why they do what they do and how it’s all for keeping ordering simple for people who don’t know what they’re ordering, not because it’s the only way to make or eat it. I stepped back and waited, then talked with the manager for awhile about his salsa recipe (they have really good salsa there!), which apparently came from Boston (who gets a salsa recipe from Boston? whatever, the stuff tastes good). The whole thing just made me laugh.

My wife tells me that to be an expert at something, you have to log 10,000 hours in that field. I wonder if I’ve eaten 10,000 burritos. I’ve lived 10,000 days plus about 3 years. So assuming from the age of 3 on I have averaged a burrito a day, I’m around 10,000. Close? Maybe. Maybe that’s a stretch. Still, between eating, ordering, preparing, and discussing burritos, I think I can call myself an expert. Or, you know, I’m American. That’s good enough, right?

Free Music is Best

2011-11-30T15:35:00.002-05:00

An excellent, well-written piece by Derek Webb as to why free music is better for all parties involved than iTunes, Spotify, or any other money or ad-driven service.

Giving it Away: How Free Music Makes More Than Sense

And if you don't yet frequent Noisetrade, you need to. Lots of free music, all the time. Read the bios, the "for fans of", search by genre, or stick with the top downloads and find something new to enjoy. And right now, there's plenty of Christmas music floating around. Can't go wrong with free new Christmas music, right?

Integration

2011-11-28T09:45:00.002-05:00

A couple months ago I was talking with a good friend, a Frenchman who was about to make a move to the United States. He was excited but nervous about his upcoming life change. Not a sports guy himself, he asked me this question:

“Is it necessary to learn sports in order to integrate into American society as a man?”

I pondered. I think I responded something to the effect of “it’s not 100% necessary, but if would make integration and understanding of society go a lot faster if you did.”

Since then, I’ve though a lot about that question. I’ve thought about it from both sides of my experience. What does it take to integrate into American society? What does it take to integrate into French society? And more generally, what’s important/necessary for integration into any society? I’d love to know your thoughts.

Last night I had an experience that showed me how far I’ve come and how far I have to go, as it relates to integrating.

An American friend and I went to see a movie. Usually we’d take public transportation, but knowing I had a few other stops to make I offered to drive. Two turns away from my apartment I regretted that decision. We hit stopped traffic and I immediately remembered that Marseille’s soccer team had a game that night. And not just any game; Marseille vs Paris. The two biggest cities in France. The two biggest egos in France. Probably the two most popular teams in France. Think Red Sox - Yankees, UNC - Duke, Ohio State - Michigan (as it relates to French soccer). And I live a few blocks from the stadium.

Once reminded of the game, I knew the traffic pattern and was eventually able to break free and get to our movie theater. During the movie I received a text from a friend at a restaurant by the port. It seemed a cruise ship had docked and the port was overrun by Americans and other foreigners generally making a fool of themselves. My friends there were people watching. Clearly I was far more integrated than those tourists.

After the movie I went to visit a friend (who’s not a huge soccer fan... prefers American football actually). We tracked the soccer match online, and about an hour after it ended I thought the roads would be clear enough to get home. I drove home and was successful in avoiding jams. Again, I knew the traffic patterns, I knew the timing of the game, I knew what to expect. Driving home I rolled down my window to watch and listen to the jubilant displays of fandom around me. Marseille had won. Horns were honking, fans with flags and scarves and team jackets and jerseys were dancing down the sidewalks. I understood it all.

Yet, I didn’t feel it. I was happy for Marseille. It’s my city, my local soccer team now too. But I didn’t feel the pride, the joy, the need to dance in the streets like most of my neighbors did. I understood it all, which was far more than the oblivious tourists in pubs and bars, who may have wondered why the city had no French people before midnight. But I didn’t feel it like they did.

I’m learning there’s a difference between understanding and fully integrating. I understand my new city, my new society. I really like it here now. I do feel like home. But I’m not truly local. Not yet. May never be. But I want to.

What do you think? What does it take to integrate? A new city, a new country, a new society... Have you ever moved?

Family of 4 photos

2011-11-23T09:33:00.011-05:00

Family photos, taken at 2yr9mo, 7 months, and, uh... late 20's. These are a select few out of many taken while Stateside.

Thanks Tracy for capturing some excellent photos!

What’s new chez nous?

2011-11-21T11:09:00.009-05:00

Been away awhile, been busy awhile, I think I’ll update with randomness on what’s been going on and what’s coming in our lives.

October was a wonderfully fun and busy month in which we celebrated my sister's marriage, trick-or-treated, and watched our kids grow out of a clothing size. We did all of these things from US soil, observing and eating our way through an exhausting but blessed vacation. Another US observation, where are all the motorcycles? There are tons in France. Like maybe a 1-to-1 ratio with cars in urban settings. US roads are quite different.

While in the States, Sawyer started somersaulting one night, out of nowhere. Not sure how nor why he decided to flip, but it has provided much entertainment for all of us.

Leaving the US was really tough, goodbyes have become a normal part of our lives, but they never get easier. We learn to enjoy every minute we have with family on one side of the world, friends on another, and realize that everything can be taken away in an instant. Coming back to France was better than expected. It did feel like coming home, and getting back into the swing of our jobs and friendships has been natural and encouraging.

The day we arrived back, I stopped into a nearby grocery store for some bread and formula. As I rounded the aisle heading toward checkout, a corner of shiny maroon cans caught my eye. Is that Dr Pepper? It couldn’t be. But it is! Two blocks from my house. And the cheapest price I’ve seen yet in France (about $1.20). My first thought was that it was a one-time shipment, and I should buy all 30 cans on the shelf. But I restrained, bought a few, and returned a few days later. Since then, I’ve been going in every 2-4 days to buy a handful of cans of Dr Pepper. I think I may be the store’s only customer buying it, but my plan is that they'll think there’s a steady demand and thus it’s worth restocking. By my count, my plan is still working :).

November in Marseille has been really nice. Cool and rainy at first, it’s now brisk yet warm during the day, cool and dark at night. The city is beginning to gear up for Christmas, and it’s exciting! Lights are being hung from poles, storefronts are full of Christmas trees and toys, and chocolate advent calendars are everywhere. Speaking of Christmas, here comes Santa Claus:

As if the Dr Pepper story above wasn’t enough of a ‘welcome home’ gift, a week ago my buddy Ryan and I stumbled across Mountain Dew! This is big. Dr Pepper pops up occasionally, but not Mt Dew. This is the first time myself or anyone I’ve spoken to has seen Mountain Dew in France outside of Paris. And not just Mountain Dew. This little random coffee and pastry shop had Mountain Dew, Code Red, and Throwback Mountain Dew. I had one, but at $4.13 a can I won’t be a regular customer. Some other American imports I’ve stumbled across recently:
-A single bag of Nestle Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips sat on a shelf for $7.99.
-A bottle of Nestle Chocolate syrup runs $9.46.
-A liter (maybe it was 2?) of real Canadian Maple Syrup can be purchased for $29.17.
-3 Reese’s cups for $4.06.
-A small bag of M&M’s that’s not peanut (I saw coconut and pretzel): $3.72.
I passed on all of those items. But 3 months ago I didn’t know they existed in Marseille, so seeing them is a nice little reminder of home.

Elsie’s not big on American foods. She just likes Franco-American Toes.

This week is Thanksgiving! Thanks to the wonderful generosity and help from some friends and donors back in the States, we’ll be doing it right. Our association teaches English, but our French friends love it when we share our culture as well. Our desire is never to change the culture we’re in, but only to enjoy and appreciate one another. So this week we’ll be throwing two parties with about 20 people at each. Turkey, stuffing, sweet potato casserole, pies... a lot of it from home. Can’t wait!

Did you know that Icy Hot and Wint-o-green lifesavers smell almost identical? Why do I know this? They say memory is tied to smell, right? Well in college, my sophomore/junior roommate and pal Eric always had a stocked bowl of Wint-O-Green Lifesavers by the door. I would steal them often, and ate a few nearly everyday. That’s also when Joe Joe and I started dating. So a smell she associates with our earliest days together is that of Wint-O-Green lifesavers. Well this week, some back pain sent me to the medicine cabinet, and immediately my wife’s memory went back to college. “You smell like those Lifesavers you used to eat in college!” she exclaimed, enjoying the memory and thinking I’d smuggled some American candy back. Probably disappointed to find out that I’m simply getting old. But I’m glad that my aches and pains can bring back youthful memories!

Sawyer loves his new tool set. Whenever something of his breaks (i.e. the batteries run out) he breaks out his tools and goes to work.

Our sensational friend Tracy B took some lovely family photos of us (like the one up top) recently. I'll try and post a few favorites in a day or two.

Our little ones love each other, and we love that about them.

Get in the Game

2011-11-09T16:51:00.004-05:00

Remember playing youth soccer? Did you ever sit down and start picking dandelions in the field while the rest of the team chased the ball? I’m pretty sure I did during tee-ball playing outfield. I mean, no kid ever hit the ball over the infield, and my early childhood was before the days of sunflower seeds as a dugout staple, so I had to do something to pass the time!

I think God likes sports, and competition. At least a little. We are made in His image, right? And everywhere I’ve been in the world, people love sport. It’s somewhere inside us: to run and compete. Not only the innateness of sports in our being leads me to this little theory, but God’s Word is replete with sporty examples too. Paul talks about running the race, working out, and winning a prize. Joshua meets the Captain of the Host of the Lord and his first question is “whose side are you on?” (God’s on no team’s side, by the way). And Jesus, he loooooves to talk about victory. We love to sing about it. “Oh victory, in Jesus, my savior forever!” That’s best sung while swinging arms in a jovial march-like-fashion, in case you didn’t know... digression.

Jesus perhaps sums up victory best in this simple statement: “Be brave! I have defeated the world!” (John 16:33)

Let’s put it into a sports metaphor. And then insert ourselves. I’m in Europe, so I’ll use soccer. You can use whatever sport you like to play. If you don’t like sports, stop reading and check back next week.

Imagine you’re in a massive, galactic game of soccer. And you’re on the Jesus team. During the game, you huddle up and Jesus says this: “ok guys, here’s the deal: we win. I have it covered. When the final whistle blows, I guarantee a victory. I’ve already won it. Now let’s go!”

Coming out of the timeout, you’re struck with a perplexing choice: what do you do? The victory is guaranteed. Jesus said he already took care of it. So you could sit in the corner of the field picking dandelions and counting grass blades. At some point you’d get a crazy show of Jesus whipping around the field scoring goals. But what fun would that be, sitting? And Jesus didn’t say “go wait over there while I kick butt.” He said, “let’s go!” Wouldn’t it be a lot more fun to go out and play your part, catching a mid-field pass and booting it down the field? Slide tackling the bad guys for a shocking takeaway? You’re guaranteed the victory, so what is there to lose? Yeah, you may get hurt. Sure, the other team may score on you. But who’s on your team and there to encourage when that stuff happens? Jesus is.

I’ve begun to stretch my metaphor. I need to get back to the point.

Go. Play in the game. It doesn’t matter whether we kick the goals in or Jesus does, the results will be the same (hear that Calvinists? Armenians? silly squabbles over nothing... I’m stretching again, sorry). So go be a part of the victory. It’s more than worth it.

“Be brave! I have defeated the world!” -Jesus

Mercy with the Morning

2011-11-03T07:39:00.005-04:00

"With every new morning nature offers a tribute of praise to God's mercy. The sun rises; the birds sing; the trees sway in the breeze. Shall we alone be silent and ungrateful? Shall the Christian, who has the most reasons to praise God for His mercy, be slow to acknowledge that God's mercy is renewed to him each day? Will we allow the natural creation of God alone to praise its Creator?

No matter how dark our day may appear to be, let us remember this with Jeremiah, "It is of the LORD's mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning, great is Thy faithfulness" (Lamentations 3:22-23)."
-Woodrow Kroll

Halloween 2011

2011-11-01T21:40:00.007-04:00

Here's the obligatory Trick-or-Treat post!

Somehow, in less than 3 years of life, Sawyer has experienced 2 Halloweens in the States. Not a bad deal for a little guy. Except that he doesn't really like candy yet.

Sawyer and Elsie went as big little bugs this year, a bumblebee and caterpillar.

Our warm and cozy caterpillar:

Hitting the neighborhood:

Sawyer loves his glow-in-the-dark skeleton jammies!

USA Early Observations

2011-10-23T21:24:00.003-04:00

Whenever I move to a new country, I like to make some observations after a short time. Maybe interesting, maybe they show my small-mindedness, maybe funny, maybe insightful... fresh perspective is a rare and beautiful thing, and so I observe. I have not been in the USA in 2 years, I haven’t lived here in 4 years. As such, I do feel like I have some new observations, not completely as a foreigner but a bit of an outsider. So here are my return to America observations:

-Everything is bigger in the US, at least compared to Europe. Roads, cars, farms, houses, grocery stores, hamburgers, portions, parking spaces, campuses, and people.

-Choices. So. Many. Choices. I step into a Wal-Mart and I’m awed by the choices, of mostly junk. I walk through a mall, and I’m overwhelmed by all the different ways I can throw away money on things I don’t need. So many choices. I’ve learned in France a little tip for how to find a good restaurant. In general, avoid the places with 10-page menus offering everything from French to Thai to Moroccan cuisine. Go for someplace that specializes in very few things and only offers what they do well. Coming back to the States with an overabundance of choices is a bit intimidating. Did you know that there are currently 67 varieties of Pop-Tarts?

-A tank of gas in the States costs me about $45. In France it's about $90.

-I was driving through Lexington, KY and noticed a church of some sort on nearly every street corner. All over the place. And big churches too. I started eye-balling and guessing some numbers, and I honestly think that there may be more seats in all of the local churches than there are habitants of the city. Someone should do that study. And then reteach the whole concept of “building drives.”

-The current Dodge Chargers are nice-looking cars.

-Mmmmm bacon. If anyone in southern France knows how to buy and prepare bacon in the American fashion, talk to me.

-I love the woods. National Parks. Trails. I hope our country protects them. When I talk to people about visiting the USA, I always direct them to the parks. Very much worth discovering and exploring. I also think that our country is far better visited in smaller towns and cities, local diners, and getting away from the interstate. The same is true of other countries. If you want to come to France, your visit will be infinitely richer by getting away from Paris.

-I love milkshakes. But I have to limit myself to one a day. Two is too many.

-Everyone in the US drives. That’s the way the country is set up: expansive, open, and car-dependent. It’s not bad, not better, just different. But I miss my walking and public transit European home.

-TSA. Cincinnati. Sheesh.

When Cultures Collide - Hiking in a Speedo

2011-10-21T21:16:00.001-04:00

So there I was. Hiking through the Smokey Mountains. It was hot out, so I did what any of my French friends would do (well maybe not any...): I took off my pants and hiked in my speedo briefs. Seemed natural. Made sense. Right?

Well after a short time, a group of trail riders passed us on their horses. Four in all. The leader was a 60-something mountain man in a cowboy hat with strong grip on his reins. Following him was an equally aged, equally comfortable-in-the-woods-on-a-horse woman. Then a younger couple in college t-shirts, out for a fun afternoon ride. My friends and I watched and chuckled as each of the four riders passed, looked me in the eyes, slowly gazed downward, then suddenly became infatuated with the treetops. What must they have been thinking?

About three hours later, the riders passed us again on the trail, and their musings over our peculiar hiking attire became evident. The mountain man leader greeted us with a question, “You boys been swimmin’ today?”

“No sir,” we answered, “sure haven’t.”

They passed, and the intrigue continued.

Traipsing through the Woods

2011-10-20T19:01:00.006-04:00

I am back from a 3 night backpacking extravaganza with a few of my closest guy friends. We hiked through the Smokey Mountains, slept on the ground, ate protein-packed everything, bathed in ice-cold stream water, and hoisted our food every night to keep it from the bears. On the last morning we awoke and hiked out in a downpour, a fun ending to a great trip away. My favorite bits of the whole thing were our great spiritual discussions on the trail, the complete disconnection from all technology, late-night Rook games inside a tent while winds raged outside, and the fabulous diner breakfast that followed our hike out (biscuits, hash browns, sausage, grits, eggs, and a milkshake). I desperately needed the reconnection with God that came through the beauty of meandering mountain streams and early morning quiet prayer, accompanied by the symphony of nature. The community that I desperately crave everyday of my life was fulfilled by 5 men that know and love me as I do them. Much fun.

Our second night we crossed paths with a man and his teenage daughter who were on their fourth night in, backpacking and backwoods camping. I was touched and inspired, and I can't wait to hit the trail with my own kids!

Having fun in the woods, I completely failed to take any photos. Oops.

Today, back in civilization I felt the call back to nature and took Sawyer for a hike along with his uncle. Sawyer is already a fantastic hiker, taking quickly to the trail and loving the exploration.
After our hike in the woods we came to a huge hill that ended in Kentucky Lake. Naturally, I taught my son an important skill that every little boy should know: rolling down the hill.

One last important boyhood skill: rock skipping:
Err, throwing.

Wedding, check!

2011-10-16T09:39:00.003-04:00

The wedding is in the books. It was a good one, everyone was beautiful and even the kids shaped up. Was soooo good to see a lot of family in for the event.
Now we're off to relax and enjoy some Americana. Family time. Friend time. Much good to come. But first, 4 days in the woods with some fellas. I'm going off grid. Later y'all!

Congratulations Courtney and Josh!

Pond Jumping

2011-10-10T17:06:00.005-04:00

After eating some pizza from a van we have finished packing, handed off keys and responsibility, and we're about to head to the airport. We'll be flying to the USA for a few weeks to visit family, celebrate new family at Court's wedding, and of course indulge in at least a little bit of Americano fun and goodness. We realized this evening that this will be our first ever cross-continental trip that's not accompanied by significant sadness. Usually we're saying goodbye to dear friends and family, if not forever then at least for significant life-altering amounts of time. If we aren't parting forever, we're at least leaving knowing that loved ones will not be there for major upcoming milestones. But this flight will be one of pure joy, we're going to introduce our newest family member to numerous family and friends. We're going to have little responsibility but to visit, laugh, and hopefully relax. Maybe some camping, golf, restaurants, and back-yard play will be involved. Perhaps some trick-or-treating. And we have to say "goodbye" to no one. To our dearest friends in France, of course we'll miss you. This is but a mere jaunt, back in a few weeks! À tout à l'heure (imagine that in Sawyer's voice).

Thanks Ryan, Kimberly, and Hillary for taking on some extra responsibility and keeping everything running smoothly!

All 4 of Us

2011-10-07T03:49:00.004-04:00

Full-family photos seem to be kinda rare in our case, so here's one and I thought I'd share.

Thanks to our friend Kimberly for playing amateur photographer for a few minutes!

In our household, the countdown is on. In less than a week Elsie gets to meet her American family for the first time, and Sawyer might get to hit a ball with a baseball bat instead of a spatula or funnoodle. Yet... much to do before then!

Less Members: may not be a bad thing

2011-10-03T17:49:00.003-04:00

Today I had coffee with a local pastor. He’s a good friend and someone I really respect and am having a blast getting to know. He said something simple in passing that struck me as interesting and worth sharing.

His church, a local fellowship in Marseille, has 40 members. That’s what he told me. On their little rolodex in the office somewhere, 40 members. 40 people receiving newsletters. 40 people who call themselves members of this particular church. 40 total people, not families. Not too odd. Most evangelical churches in France I would guess hover in the 20-60 range.

But you know what? They average 60+ for Sunday worship (excluding les vacances of course!). Yes, average attendance is higher than membership. It’s not that this church is suddenly on revival and growing so fast the secretary can’t keep up. That’s just how it is.

If you live in the USA and go to church, ask your pastor/secretary/record-keeper sometime the number of members of the church. For most churches, even small ones, I would guess that number to be in the thousands. Now take a visual survey of how many people are in the worship service on Sunday, and do some division. This is a total guess, but I’d say it’s maybe less than 30% of the membership (and feel free to tell me if I’m wrong).

So why does this church in France have less members than attendees when most churches in the USA have vastly more members than weekly attenders? Well in France, having your name on a membership roll doesn’t get you anything. No one would tell their neighbors they attend a church they don’t really attend. Why heap ridicule on yourself? No one identifies themselves as a Christian, especially not an evangelical church-going Christian, unless they really mean it. So in the same way, no one asks to be a member of a church unless they are truly committed in every facet of their lives.

Us in a Nutshell: If that nutshell contains random photos from August and September

2011-09-27T16:32:00.009-04:00

I have great plans for you

2011-09-24T16:39:00.003-04:00

I continue to sympathize more and more with God. Not that I’m at all on his level. Or that He needs my sympathy, or any. But I think I understand a little bit of the frustration He must feel. Grâce à mes enfants.

This morning I woke up excited. My wife and I had planned to take our little ones to an old-timey circus being put on in a local park. I’d even put my son to bed last night with a promise of a fun day ahead. He fell asleep with a smile on his face. Waking this morning however, he decided that the only thing he wanted was to watch TV. While the rest of us were getting dressed and gathering our things to go, he was throwing a fit in the floor. “Wanna watch TV, wanna watch TV!” he yelled. I knew, and had even told him, that we had something much better planned. Something he would enjoy immensely more. But he wanted what he could see right then. Immediate satisfaction, easy, comfortable. My heart broke. I thought about how all too often I have great plans for him that get cut short or tossed out the window because he’s not willing to trust in my ideas and intentions.

And then I realized, ‘wow God must feel like this 1000x stronger!’ “I know the plans I have for you,” he said. “Plans to bring about prosperity and not disaster, to give you a future and a hope.”

This verse from Jeremiah (29:11) is the most quotably relevant, but we can see throughout the Bible a common occurrence of God’s plans ignored or pushed aside by his children. Israel did it time and time again a few thousand years ago. Stands to reason that we’re not much different today, right?

How often does God have incredible plans for me - be it to use me, bless me, or simply allow me to see what He can really do - and I put selfish short-sighted simple desires in the way? How often I must throw a fit and yell at God “I don’t wanna go!” or “I wanna stay right here and do the same old stuff that I know and understand.” I’m thankful that at least a couple times in my life I’ve trusted, listened, and gone. My life on multiple continents has been an amazing blessing I would not give back for anything. My God-timed and God-delivered children have been a constant source of prosperity to my life and depth to my walk with Christ.

Speaking of Him, one Jesus Christ, I sure am thankful that He did as God asked. Every step of the way his words and his actions were of God the Father. In the last moments He cried out that He did not, in fact, want to go through with it, but trusted and did so anyway. He endured a pain that none of us will ever know, but also a joy that followed as He gave up his life and allowed for eternal communion with His followers.

My son eventually consented this morning to his parents’ plans and had a blast. Sometimes we know what we’re doing. All the time God knows.

Choose your Punishment

2011-09-20T02:21:00.002-04:00

Imagine you are the president, king, governor, or other ruler of a particular area/group of people.

Now imagine you do something detestable in the sight of God. He tells you that punishment is coming, but you must choose between three options.

1 - 3 years of famine.
2 - 3 months of being swept away before your enemies, with their swords overtaking you.
3 - 3 days of the sword of the Lord - days of plague in the land, with the angel of the Lord ravaging every part of the land and people.

What would you choose? Keep in mind this is punishment for something you did, carried out on the people you lead.

King David of Israel chose number 3. Good choice?

Pascal

2011-09-15T11:34:00.006-04:00

Blaise Pascal. French mathematician, scientist, philosopher, theologian (in that order, I think). In 39 short years, dude managed to accomplish quite a bit. Ever been through basic trigonometry class and remember Pascal's Triangle? Like betting your soul and quoting Pascal's Wager? How about physics class... can you quantify SI derived units of pressure without the Pascal? Nope. Old-school programmers are familiar with Pascal, the programming language. Can a young student of hydrostatics pass first year without a basic understanding of Pascal's Law? It's absolutely necessary. Impressed so far? Me too. And it continues: contributions to probability theory, important author of the Frech Classical Period, and he said this:

"Il y a un vide en forme de Dieu dans le cœur de tout homme, un vide qu’aucune chose créée ne peut remplir sinon Dieu, le Créateur, manifesté en Jésus-Christ."

Streets of France

2011-09-11T12:04:00.007-04:00

Driving home from a young friend's birthday party today, I noticed something as our road came off of the winding hillside path and entered into our very French quarter of the city: France has pretty streets. Interesting routes too. Old roads that follow ancient walls and castles on hills, city streets that were built for people on foot and horse carriages but now accept tiny European cars, tightly squeezing by one another. Buildings and trees often border roads not at a distance, but close enough to touch out the window. Trees often overhang and form canopies. So here's some photos. Streets. Buildings. Beaches. Stuff we've seen in the past month. A picture of where we are and where we've been:

Worship Music, Culture, and Performance

2011-09-07T17:12:00.004-04:00

In case you're an American Christian living outside the US like me, or generally have your head in a hole or shielded from the North American "Christian culture" (euck, I even get a bad taste in my mouth typing those two words together), this should catch you up:

Where Rock Stars Go to Die

A well-written and fun article on worship, culture, and performance.

Up in the Trees

2011-09-04T05:24:00.011-04:00

Trees are great places to gain perspective. I've always loved trees for that reason. They can be crazy old, super tall, and often scraggly and intricate, homes to hundreds. Rainforests fascinate me, but I'd be a little terrified to go into 'em. I like Planet Earth's DVD depiction. Whenever I spend time up in a tree, I come away with new perspectives on life. Trees bear fruit too, which is pretty great. And fruit trees often seem to be some of the best to climb. I always loved picking oranges and grapefruit at my grandparents' house in Florida. Grabbing mangoes in Zambia was a lot of fun too, until a falling fruit gave me a black eye. Then I saw the Tim Burton-esque Baobab trees in central Tanzania and felt again like a kid, tiny against their mammoth trunks. I hope to one day walk through the land of giants in the redwood forests of California.

Because of this curious interest in trees, I was quite pleased to discover that throughout the provence region of France, ropes courses in the trees abound. Along with the other Americans that work in our association, we took to the trees last week. The champion of the afternoon was Sawyer, whose intensity and ability went way beyond his couple years of age. Photo and Video logged below.

Intense. And Ready.
First element. Might as well have been a sidewalk.
Mama way up in the trees.

Walkin the wire. No concept of the possibility to fall.
Our buddy Ryan, getting primal in the trees.

After tearing through the kiddie course, Sawyer headed straight for one of the adult ones. Why not?
Don't you dare tell me I'm too small!
Elsie watching, proud of her family and friends.

Another great moment in this day came when one of our new interns got stuck in the trees (she was really an all-star, had taken on the hardest courses and conquered all day long, just ran out of steam in a tough spot). She yelled for help and a rescue worker came running, and climbing. He impressed us by zipping up a zipline, then crossed trails and traversed wires in seconds that had taken us lifetimes. All the while she was proclaiming her love and gathering a small crowd of onlookers. He arrived and helped to get her back on track and to the next step. I stood about 10 feet away, 80 feet up in the air, hugging a tree and making jokes. That's chivalry.

Spiritual Journey vs Cultural Christianity

2011-08-15T17:07:00.005-04:00

A website (and event) and an article. One flies in the face of the other.

Cache Cache Expérience

Proposed dates:
2011
-September 10…a one day sampler – Paris
-October 8 – 10 – Paris
-November 12 – Sample day w/ Mosaic Tribus in Paris
2012
-March 14 – 16 – Amsterdam
-March 21 – 23 – Paris

and...

A 'Christian' Europe without Christianity

Summer Afternoon Pétanque

2011-08-12T16:35:00.003-04:00

Pétanque is the national sport/loisir/past-time of France. Everyone plays. And neither age nor sex nor physical abilities restrict the ability to play nor the effectiveness with which one plays. In some parts of the world a similar game of Boccé (or perhaps other names too?) is played, but not cherished as it is in France.

Pétanque has curious uniform silver balls. Initially shiny, you can tell a long-time pétanque officianado by his/her muted canon-ball like pétanque balls. Each set of three is marked with particular etchings to tell them apart. The game is played in teams of 2 (or 3, maybe more?), and the object is to place as many of your team’s balls as close to the marker ball as possible. Typically played on flat ground sandy courts, pétanque can really be played anywhere. And on a weekend afternoon, pretty much everyone comes out for a match. This may be the only sport best played with a glass of wine in hand, and truly accepting of all ages/types. Hooray pétanque!

Great Kids and a Tired Mind

2011-08-10T09:57:00.008-04:00

Hey there blog. I could say something like "hey readers," but it seems too presumptuous, assuming that someone, nay more than one, reads this. So I'll address the blog. It has to listen. This is sort of like addressing oneself I guess.

I've been uninspired as of late. It's sad, un-inspiration. I have hope though. My head's been buried in French studies for the past three weeks and any coherent thought is fleeting at best. So instead of a cute parole or interesting insight, I present some photos and videos. These will be kid-heavy.

Me and my baby girl.She's a bit warm here, but agreed to be cordial for the photo. Soon after, she demanded a return to her favorite rug back at home.

The captain. We took a ferry boat out to a nearby island this weekend, and Sawyer insisted on the very front of the boat. So there he is.

My boy exploring his vocal range. If you don't know already and can correctly guess the song, 3 points to you!

Elsie doing a typical afternoon workout.

No Time Like... Now!

2011-08-03T11:25:00.007-04:00

My friend Goodluck and I were in front of a tiny car battery shop on the side of the main road in Morogoro, Tanzania. My car was dead. Goodluck had helped me to negotiate a price on a good battery, and the battery had been installed. Now a group of Tanzanian men were discussing the next step in rapid Swahili. I kept hearing a recurring word that I did not know, “schtua,” and wary glances my way. Goodluck told the guys that he’d schtua my car, until one of them said that I could schtua my own car. Goodluck then asked me if I could schtua my car, to which I replied, “Sure thing, but what’s schtua mean?” Goodluck laughed nervously and climbed in the passenger seat. He didn’t answer my question.

Suddenly, the group of Tanzanian men were at the hood of my car, and they began to push! Not just push, but push me and Goodluck in my dead car backwards into actively oncoming traffic on a busy road. With seconds to think I learned the meaning of schtua: Jump-start. In this case, they were wanting me to reverse roll start, and did I mention into oncoming traffic? By the time I figured this out we were rolling at a good pace and now on the road. Goodluck’s nervous laugh had changed to a nervous wide-eyed fear as he waited for me to pop the clutch. I did. The car fired up. We reversed directions and sped into the flow of traffic. And then we drove and laughed about the schtua-ing experience. I’ll never forget that word, by the way. That’s how you learn a language.

Why did this story from a couple years ago come to mind? Because I’ve been asking myself, “why are we waiting for calm green pastures and perfect circumstances to schtua our lives?”

I constantly have a lot of those things on my “one-day” docket. As in, one day when I have the time I’ll actually truly learn the guitar. One day, I’ll start running consistently to train and get in shape. One day I’ll spend hours in creative daily prayer. One day...

I rely to much on the excuse of the near-future. In the past 5 years we’ve moved a lot. 3 continents, 7 cities, 7-10 different residences. I’m constantly thinking that if I can push off that which I want to do - that which will make me better - a day of calm is coming when I’ll have the time, space, resources, and consistency to make it all happen. In the meantime, I’m watching a piece of my life float by.

So I’m learning. I’m learning to let go of some things that aren’t really that important. And I’m learning to stop waiting. There isn’t, there will not be, a better day than today. So what if life is moving at the speed of oncoming traffic. Do it now, jump-start life and get moving.

There’s a quote attributed to Martin Luther King Jr that says, “I have so much to do today that I will spend the first 3 hours in prayer.” It makes the point that busyness doesn’t negate the things of importance but only more deeply requires them. And so I am learning, again.

Stop waiting. The traffic will never stop. By the time I find a quiet clear stretch of road to jump my battery, I may need a new catalytic converter.

French Life in 2011, Local Thoughts

2011-07-30T08:17:00.003-04:00

I’ve been sharing these as of late on Twitter, but thought they should come up here as I’m curious what others think/perceive. In recent conversations with a French national, I’ve heard some poignant and revealing statements. They are certainly sweeping generalizations and perhaps a bit on the radical side, but having been here a year and a half, I tend to agree that these are legit sentiments here. We are speaking in these conversations about French people of French descent, not the now large immigrant population in France.

Also keep in mind that these talks happened wholly in French, so I reserve the right to have poorly translated the phrasing/wording, though the point remains the same.

“In France, we are atheists. The USA doesn’t know what atheism is. I’ve met many Americans, and none of them has been a true atheist.”

Later added was that discussion of the ‘soul’ no longer exists, as that is now a word associated solely (ha) with religion. No one thinks of or speaks of that concept anymore.

Next bomb to drop was on the topic of adultery. Discussing an article that spoke of the different viewpoints of adultery between Americans and French, we were told:

“Adultery is an accident. A couple of times is no big deal. After 3 or so there may be problems in the relationship.”

And finally, a statement on the status of relationships and courtship:

“Fiancés don’t exist anymore in France. People live together, then may or may not get married.”

There are 4 local couples our age that we know fairly well. All committed and living together. 1 is married (also from non-French families), the other 3 are French and not married. We heard someone recently who has been in a committed relationship for years, has a child, say, “oh no, we’re not ready for marriage yet.”

This is where we live. Agree/disagree? How does it differ from your culture?

A Comedy of Errors

2011-07-24T03:05:00.001-04:00

You know those nights when you simply can’t catch a break? Sometimes I really should not talk.

So I met up with a friend to go to a bar to see another friend performing a concert. He had with him a traveler who was passing through for a visit, she was Italian. They were speaking in English because she does not speak French. Since her English was accented, I kept trying to speak to her in French. That didn’t work.

I’ve also discovered that it’s not a great compliment when another foreigner tells you they can understand your French better than that of French people. 'Thank you' isn’t exactly the appropriate response to “your vocabulary matches that of a five-year-old and the speed at which you speak reminds me of someone slowing down a record, except that you don’t sound all bass-like and masculine.”

We arrive to the bar and head in. We happen upon some empty chairs and grab a seat. At this point, I instinctively grab my phone. You see, my wife is my best friend. But now that we have two kids and live in a culture where a lot happens at night, we often take turns going out with friends. Yet, I want to share with her everything I experience. And being a member of the 21st century, I want to do so right now. So I usually text her the random things that go through my head when I’m out. Here’s what I send:

“So this place is kind of a dump.”
“But hey, it’s the arts district.”

This reply comes in: “Yeah, I was expecting something like that... or maybe not so much :-P”

Then something makes me laugh inside and I must share it, so I text:
“Dude sitting in front of me has way too low pants, and no discernible underwear.”

The reply comes back: “I know :), I noticed it too...”

Wait, what?! Ok, that’s creepy. And weird. And not possibly correct. Am I wearing a spy cam? Are my kids at home alone? Then I get smart, check the header of my SMS conversation and see that I’m not at all texting my wife, but rather my friend who’s sitting right next to me. Yep. I’d not thought anything of it when he pulled out his phone around the same time I sent my first text and began typing away. He grinned at me and laughed.

Later I strike up a conversation with the Italian girl in our group. Seeking common ground, I ask her where she’s from. “Sardinia,” she says. A quick scan of my brain reveals nothing... my European geography is terrible. But, thinking that Italy’s a pretty small country anyways, I say, “oh, cool! I have a family member from around there. I can’t remember the exact village, but it’s nearby.” To which I receive a couple stares that something was clearly not right.

“I don’t think so,” she says.

“Sardinia’s an island,” my French friend informs me, “you can’t be from ‘around’ there.”

Yeah, my bad.

Back to Food

2011-07-18T13:17:00.009-04:00

A friend here in France says that every long conversation with Americans eventually ends talking about food. While there are other things we miss and compare from one culture to the next, food’s perhaps the most prominent. He’s right.

Last week was American food week at Lidl, a local German-origin grocery story that rotates one aisle for different specialities from around the world every couple weeks. Once a year they send out the “Bienvenue aux États-Unis” invites and stock a shelf with an unheard-of brand of ‘American’ products. Sadly, I was out of the country when the stock went up and didn’t get there until today, finding basically nothing of worth left over. Some of the great items that can’t otherwise be easily found here were dried cranberries, marshmallows, jelly beans, and American salad dressings. Photos of some favorites from the advert are below:
American hotdogs. I’m an American. I eat hot dogs. I’ve never in my life bought hot dogs in a jar, swimming in liquid. You?
Popcorn. Usually already popped and bagged (or bucketed). More often garnished with sugar than with salt or butter. Ewww.
Muffins. YES! This is why I scour the Lidls on American week. I love muffins. And these are good. Last year I bought one box, made them, and then went back and bought the 26 that remained. As I was checking out a French lady in line asked me if they were good. There’s 26 boxes in my shopping cart. Are they good? Gee, you think? This year I found one box left.
Milkshakes. Or the German spelling of Milch-shakes as they are listed here. This is a rant of mine. Sorry France, I love you but your milkshakes stink. 3 parts milk, 1 part ice, 1 part flavoring, and 1 miniscule part ice cream does not make a milkshake. And $6-7 for that? These are cheaper, spelled in German, and advertised as American, maybe there’s a chance.
Sauces. These make me chuckle. I have no idea what the ‘Sandwich Sauce’ is. ‘Ketchup BBQ’? No thanks. And then ‘Hot Dog Ketchup’, which is funny because every supermarket in France sells Heinz Ketchup. That is what we put on hot dogs, so...

I have another friend who is French but preparing for a move to the USA in the near future. He recently told me the things that he will miss most from France: coffee, wine, olives, and cheese. And he’s right... the US cheese selection is totally different, wines too. The olives will be different. And the coffee one is interesting, because there are about 5 billions coffees available in every US suburb, most of them better quality than the typical French coffee. But it’s different. Here coffee is an experience, a conversation centerpiece, a cultural norm; not a product.

What about you? Imagine moving away from the USA or whatever country you live in. What food items would you miss the most? For me, it’s buffalo wings, mexican food, Dr Pepper, Mt Dew, and Reese’s. And Pop-Tarts. And muffins.

6 Places to See Before Your Last Breath

2011-07-10T14:46:00.007-04:00

(based on my experiences)

Our neighbors all over Europe are gearing up for the summer holidays - vacations - that basically everyone takes and travels all over the place. Since I'm not really going much of anywhere, I instead reflected back on some of the best travels my wife and I have taken. Here's a list of my top 6, places I think should be on everyone's list if you can make it!

1 - Victoria FallsWow. Simply wow. I love waterfalls. And this is hands-down the best I’ve ever seen. And it’s one of only two waterfalls in the world boasting a moonbow (I’ve been to the other one too!). Plus, if you’re adventurous, there’s a ton to do around the falls.

*Travel Tip - Know when the high and low water seasons are. High-water season makes the falls a wall of water that is unbelievably powerful and impressive. You’ll take on mist that makes the viewing a physical experience but also renders photography nearly impossible. Low water season looks drastically different but more clear to see and the white water rafting on the Zambezi below the falls is among the wildest rides in the world.

2 - Ruaha National ParkKilimanjaro is impressive, Ngorongoro’s like a zoo without cages. But if you want raw, rugged, beautiful, wild Africa, there’s nothing that beats the scenery and animals of Ruaha National Park. It’s a little bit more travel, as it’ll be a 6-9hr car/bus ride from Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania. But the drive provides some great scenery along the way, and the time spent in Ruaha will make you feel like a kid on an adventure of discovery. Ditch the paved roads and touristy sights of the easy access parks and take an adventure to Ruaha.

*Travel Tip - Connect with Riverside Campsite for inexpensive, cultural, personable safari planning and a fun place to stay. But you’ll have to get yourself to Iringa.

3 - Mont Saint MichelStunning, beautiful, and a lot of stairs. Loved our visit here and will go back. Amazing to imagine in a former time. Hoping the gov’t pulls through and ditches the built-up causeway for a bridge and brings back the bay. If still offered, the bay hikes at low-tide are a lot of fun.

*Travel Tip - Stay at least one night near MSM, but better to do so off of the island at a nearby B&B with a view than on. You’ll want to see it lit up at night. This is the second most visited site in France, so expect crowds.

4 - ZanzibarNow this is an island paradise!
Resorts are rustic, if you can call them resorts. The people are warm. The history is painful, as Zanzibar was once the center of East-African slave trade.

*Travel Tip - Flights from Dar are often just as cheap as the ferry, if you don’t mind tiny planes. Stay at least one night in or near Stone Town, even if your plan is to relax on the east side of the island. Tour the city, check out the doors, and don’t miss the nightly grill out on the beach! Try a Zanzibar pizza and all the fish skewers you can eat.

5 - (for the Americans) American Cemetery, Normandy, FranceThe history is surreal. Standing on the beach and imagining what went down is a spiritual event. Reading the stories and watching the videos in the museum absolutely made me proud to be an American, perhaps more than ever before. Walking the cemetery grounds is like being in Washington DC on foreign soil.

*Travel Tip - Combine with trip to MSM, as both are in the same route from Paris.

6 - Niagara Falls
Powerful. A lot of water. Worth a visit, and there’s plenty to do around the falls too.

*Travel Tip - Go in the winter. It’s cold, but the crowds and prices are about half of those in the summer. And seeing the falls surrounded by snow is beautiful and not something many people see. And stay on the Canada side. US side view is very limited.

Jesus Dancing at the Tomb

2011-07-07T04:45:00.004-04:00

I’m going to invite you inside my curious goofball little mind. Sometimes I get these images that I can’t shake. Last night was one of those times,

I was sitting in a group that was reading and re-telling the story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. It’s a quite interesting story full of theology, miracles, emotions, and dynamic characters. Jesus wept. You know, everyone’s favorite memory verse? It’s in there. And what’s interesting is that he weeps moments before raising his friend from the grave. Overcome with emotion, even though he knows it’s all about the change. Fascinating.

But here’s what happened last night. We’re reading the build up. Talking about Mary and Martha and their dejection that their brother died. “If only you’d been here!” they both tell Jesus, “he would not have died.” Jesus says he’ll raise him up, but the gals don’t get it and think he’s being all consolatory telling them that in the end they’ll be together. A big crowd is gathered and they are amazed at how deeply moved Jesus is by everything. Deeply moved. And my mind starts to wander...

Then comes the climax. Jesus prays this out-loud prayer that seems odd at the outset (God I know you listen, so I say these words so they will hear and understand...), but put in the context and re-worded I can see it being pretty big-time. And then, BAM! Jesus calls in and Lazarus comes out. A guy who’d been dead for days comes walking out of a grave he’d been laying in four days. And collectively, everyone goes, “Whaaaaaat?!”

And when we read this part, a sudden image jumped into my head that I couldn’t shake. Still can’t. But that’s ok, I like it. Let me put on my movie director cap for a moment:
Scene: Dark skies, solemn crowd around grieving. Large cave-like grave with a rock closing it up, Jesus standing in front, crowd behind him.

Action: Crowd quietly sobbing but watching with curiosity, Jesus prays and then commands the stone to be moved. Tension builds and then out comes Lazarus, dead guy walking, still wrapped in mummy stuff. But he’s alive! Crowd can’t believe it, and start toward their lost brother/son/friend...

PAUSE!

Spotlight from heavens stage right snaps on. Then spotlight from heavens stage left on. Both converge on Jesus who moonwalks across the field, then launches into a celebration dance somewhere between a Michael Jackson moonwalk/thriller and a Steve Carrell “Happy Dance” from Evan Almighty. He does this as the crowd rushes past him to Lazarus. He keeps going.

No longer a time of weeping, it’s a time to celebrate! Jesus was deeply moved, after all.

That’s how I imagine it all going down.

June's Moving Pictures

2011-07-03T12:07:00.003-04:00

Gone Fishin':

Raising the Volets:

French Lessons with Sawyer:

The only video I took a this year's fête de la musique, and it's a good one:

This was actually in May, but had to get our baby girl in here:

Spinning 'round and 'round:

Cheesecake and the Psalms

2011-06-29T15:52:00.003-04:00

Cheesecake and the Psalms are both wonderful things. I really do love them. Cheesecake is among my favorite desserts, and the Psalms among my favorite books of the Bible. Why do I have them linked together here? Because they are both things I should not like. But I do.

I have a texture issue with food. If I eat it with utensils/hands, I like my food to be of a solid nature. I’m not that big a fan of ice-cream or most soups; I despise cool whip, meringue, and flan. I just prefer my food be solid and my drinks liquid. But that weird in-between light and fluffy consistency? It creeps me out. I make an exception for cheesecake. It’s soooo good, how can I not?

The Psalms are another anomaly to me. I’m a logical, rational person. I am not emotional. I think through options, weigh them, and make the logical choice. I use rational arguments, and I expect thought processes to make deductive sense. So I should love the letters of Paul, right? Meh. Not that I don’t like Paul, I do, he’s great. But nothing excites me, impassions me, energizes me like the raw emotion of David’s words in the Psalms.

So I’ve decided to combine the two. When I’m out about town and not on a tight schedule and if I see a café that carries cheesecake I go in and get a slice. As I gently cut into its deliciousness, I pull out my Bible and read some Psalms. And I thank God for his creation... even cheesecake.

(and I must mention that the best cheesecakes in the world come from The Blue Pinky Bakery, formerly Sunny’s Cheesecake Emporium... I hope to snag one in the not-too-distant future!!)

Natural vs Formal Faith

2011-06-27T05:21:00.000-04:00

Not too long ago I attended a sort of faith conference for a national church denomination. Many people spoke and presented throughout, but I remember two extremes being present.

Faith in life that is natural is beautiful, captivating, desirable.

Faith that’s separate from life, that’s rigid and formal... it’s awkward, off-putting.

There’s a definite difference.

Maybe being in my second language made the two stand out even more. When I heard run-on prayers that were formal and seemingly separate from life, I tended to look around for an exit, or daydream, or check my phone for messages that may have arrived in the last 10 seconds. But then a couple of times people got up to share or pray, made a joke, looked to the sky and praised God for the sunny day, and naturally slid into prayers or encouragement that actually fit right in, like they were a part of the conversation and the day.

Think through life. Have you known people for whom prayer comes naturally, and feels simple and relevant? Or contrasted, how many prayers have you heard that are lengthy, wordy, formulated, and simply... not natural?

First Smile

2011-06-26T02:44:00.003-04:00

Elsie has just begun smiling. We love her smile, when she chooses to grace us with it. Often the smiles come just before an expulsion of gas. Sometimes in response to our playing. We'll take what we can get.
For comparison's sake, here's one of her big brother's first photographed smiles.

11 Awkward Kisses (in France)

2011-06-18T04:39:00.007-04:00

Kissing in France. It’s an art. Also a joy, a nightmare, and an everyday part of life. Don’t reverse it and make ‘French’ the adjective to the active noun ‘kiss’, that would be missing the point entirely. I’m talking about les bisous, the everyday cheek-to-cheek and make a kissy sound manner of greeting one another.

In France, women greet women with les bisous (hereafter referred to by the short-hand ‘biz’). Men greet women with biz. And men sometimes greet men with biz. Usually, you go from one cheek to the other making two kisses for a single greeting. But sometimes, depending on the region and the friendship, it could be three or even four (or more?). Clear as mud? What’s interesting to me is that the whole idea of kissing each others’ cheeks is physically impossible. Grab whoever’s sitting next to you right now and see if you can successfully simultaneously plant a kiss on the cheek. Not happening, at least not without an uncalled for amount of mashed skin.

When I first arrived in France, I always struggled with the specifics of les biz. If I’m sitting down, do I need to stand up to biz? Where do I position my body? Do I step into the biz or lean into it? What do I do with my hands? Limp to the sides? That seems impersonal. Hands on their shoulders? Too dominant. Grab forearms? Maybe natural for women, but not me. Which side do I go to first? Eventually, this all worked itself out as I became accustomed to life here.

Today I had on of those “Ah! That explains it!!” moments. My friend Tiffany told me that people in Paris biz starting on the opposite side than people in Marseille. You see, I lived in Paris for a year then moved to Marseille. I remember one of my first days down here, I visited a good friend that I hadn’t seen in many months. I walked up to him smiling and knew there’d be a “so good to see you” biz involved. Problem though... I went left and he went right, which placed us nose to nose puckering up. Then he went left and I went right, still puckering, still directly face-to-face. There was a moment of awkward tension and I held my ground as he pulled back to the right to make it happen. Then we had a good laugh. And then in the weeks following that happened again, and again. I’d never thought about which side to go for, it had always been learned muscle memory. But a change of regions totally toyed with that muscle memory and left me missing cheeks entirely.

With that story, I present to you 11 Awkward Bisous
1. The Bearded Biz - I always feel bad when it comes time to greet someone and I haven’t shaved in a couple days. I can’t help but shudder at the poor soul’s fate of having to brush up against my stubble and how that must feel: unwanted, uninvited, uncomfortable. Thus I tense up and rush the biz.
2. The How Many? Biz - You are usually safe to go with two. But in a new region you can’t be sure. And sometimes a good friend might be ready to move the relationship up the the 3 or 4 level. If you pull back after 2 and they’re not done, discomfiture will follow.
3. The Talk in Between Biz - Sometimes you are greeted with a word or a question and then a lean in for the kiss. But you haven’t responded yet! Yet you feel obliged to respond, it would be rude to put it off, right? Thus it goes like this: *kiss* “I’m fine, thanks” *kiss*, or “Hi I’m Élodie,” *kiss* “Michael” *kiss*. Inevitably the words come out as your mouths are inches apart. And then you wonder how long it’s been since you brushed your teeth.
4. The Handshake Biz - Not sure whether to shake or biz, you thrust out your hand as the other person leans in. Not unlike the handshake/hug dilemma in the US, but a step up on the embarrassing meter thanks to the kiss involved.
5. The Beware the Glasses Biz - When the other person’s wearing glasses, a tingling of terror shoots up my spine. This all stems back to an incident in Paris where I went in for a biz and knocked a girl’s glasses clear off her face.
6. The Do I Know You? Biz - Not unlike the handshake biz, the ‘Do I Know You?’ Biz takes the flip side error into play. There have been times when I’ve made the move and leaned in for the kiss, only to have the other party give me a look of “I don’t have any idea who you are nor why you’re kissing my cheeks.” After which I drop my head, tuck my tail, and sulk away to hide in a corner. Or pretend I’m important and hip.
7. The Nose Collision Biz - When moving from one side of the next, be sure to pull back enough without exaggerating. Eskimo kisses may be cute in Alaska; here they’re gauchely.
8. The Right, Left, or Oh No, Not the Middle! Biz - Covered in my story above, if you’ve recently moved or are unsure of which side... be patient and let the other person make the first move!
9. The Sweaty Biz - I’m self-conscious enough to avoid the situation entirely or lie about being sick if I just finished some wind-sprints have a face full of sweat. But not all have the same inclination. I have a good friend who’s a pastor, and approaching him after a hearty sermon in the lights will leave me pulling away with a glistening layer of second-hand sweat.
10. The Interrupt the Conversation Biz - Greetings are extremely important in France. If you walk into a social event, it is absolutely necessary to greet individually everyone involved. Usually this is done immediately on entering. But what if you are engrossed in conversation and someone approaches for a greeting biz? Or vice-versa, you enter and persons #4 and #5 are excitedly discussing the state of elections in the latest hard-fought PTA race? The always uncomfortable Interrupt the Conversation Biz ensues.
11. The Can’t Turn Back Now Biz - This one fascinates me, and I love watching them happen. Imagine walking into a crowded bar or restaurant. You’re joining a table of colleagues, but across the establishment you see a friend. Eye contact is made and movement begins to come together for the greeting. But obstacles abound... chairs are back-to-back and people have to scoot in, a plant in the way must be maneuvered around, and quickly the prospect of actually coming face-to-face seems hopeless. But you’ve begun, you’re into the journey, and you simply can’t turn back now!

Optional 12th (for the guys): The You’re Another Dude, So... Biz - As mentioned earlier, man-to-man kissing can be ambiguous. That ambiguity can lead to the Handshake Biz, the Do I Know You That Well? Biz, and the frightening Double Bearded Biz. In a similar category would be the situation of approaching another American in the presence of French. Do you kiss the American too? Will they be ready for it?

With this list you should be prepared to step right into socially awkward situations in France with as much clumsiness as this American who’s lived here for a couple years.

The 3 best fruits and veggies

2011-06-16T09:11:00.003-04:00

In urban France, fruits and vegetables from all over the world are available year-round. I find it rather interesting that when it comes to produce anything can be bought anytime. Yet non-consumables, like patio furniture, water bottles, and outdoor toys can literally only be found in the season prior to and into their normal time of use. Want to buy some luggage? You’d better be shopping within a month or two of les vacances! Or you find a super-specialized luggage shop. A water bottle in the winter? Don’t even think about it.

We try to eat somewhat seasonally and use local farmers markets and watch prices for local products that help us to do so. Living that cycle of the earth simply feels right, and adds a nice annual variety to our palettes.

Moving on from the seasonal aside... yesterday I was in a supermarket and gazed over tables and baskets of fresh produce. Bananas from the Ivory Coast, pineapples from Costa Rica, avocados from Kenya, and even the rare sweet potatoes from the USA. Then I started thinking about the ones I really like. My mind spanned from picking up a nectarine and biting into it (I believe the greatest fruit for monkeys; colorful, juicy, and simply bite and enjoy!), to chopping celery for salads, seasonings, and garnitures. I thought back to one of the greatest explosion of tastes I ever had the pleasure to enjoy, a fresh pineapple in Tanzania during pineapple season (when we paid about 50 cents per). I then tried to list my favorite fruits and vegetables, based on what’s important to me (flavor, versatility, etc...). Here’s what I came up with:

Veggies:
1 - Onions
2 - Avocados
3 - Potatoes (are they vegetables? if not, I’ll go broccoli)

I may be one of very few people to list onions at number 1, but without them my life would be lacking. In my opinion, any meal tastes better with the addition of onions. Pizza is not pizza without onions. Same for burgers, sandwiches, salads. And a bloomin’ onion?!? Now I’m coveting that which my neighbors across the pond can enjoy, and I must move on.

Fruits:
1 - Limes
2 - Strawberries
3 - Grapefruit

This one was tougher. And I’m not really sure those are my top 3. I feel good about lime in the 1 spot. Put ‘lime’ in front of anything on a menu and I’ll probably order it. Add lime to a smoothie and that’s the one I’ll choose. Why did Coca-cola stop making coke with lime and limit it to diet coke only? No matter, I’d rather drop an actual lime in the coke anyhow. In my cheap college and early married days, JJ and I would go to Qdoba and gather up a bunch of limes from the drink station along with sugar and our water to make limeades. Mmmmm... And yeah, I’ll eat a lime straight. I like ‘em that much. Other fruit getting honorable mentions from me are passion fruit, oranges, and maybe even grapes. Living in a country that doesn’t produce nor consume seedless grapes has made their allure diminish a bit. And oranges dropped off for me when living in East Africa, where the oranges were only mediocre but we were surrounded by the best, juiciest pineapples, passion fruit, and mangoes on the planet. But they’re coming back, especially when I have memories of Florida oranges, and juice! Still, few things beat a grapefruit in the morning, strawberry milkshakes, and of course, strawberry limeades!

Where have I gone wrong?

What are your 3 favorite fruits and/or veggies?

I love these kind of games!!

Pomplamoose... can't get enough

2011-06-14T06:35:00.005-04:00

I do love a good pomplemousse in the morning, but this post isn't about grapefruit in France.

Do you ever wonder what all goes into the making of each sound in a recorded song?

Check out these VideoSongs, pure genius.

Quiet Moments

2011-06-11T15:15:00.002-04:00

In the past couple weeks, my wife and I have spontaneously fallen into a routine in which one of us hops up at the break of dawn with our two children (we have early risers) and herds them to the kitchen for breakfast. After closing bedroom and hallway doors, one of us is left alone in the bedroom. While kids eat on the far side of the apartment, and the hour is too early for construction or busy workday traffic, our bedroom is engulfed in silence. These moments are precious. It’s almost magical how 30 minutes can feel like hours, and yet slip away much too quickly.

I don’t remember ever before cherishing silence like I do now. I’m not really the introvert type that needs quiet aloneness to ‘recharge my batteries.’ I’d rather be on the go, moving, living, experiencing... In fact, when I have had times of quiet stillness in life, I’ve normally been quick to eradicate the silence. I’d turn on or play music. I’d desperately seek out a friend. Or I’d pray- a rather wordy, busy, me (&others)-filled prayer.

Now though, something’s changed. Could it be having two kids under the age of three? I love these quiet moments. Instead of chasing away the silence like my son runs off the pigeons in a park, I hoard it. And I listen. Not a word or a thought from me. I simply listen.

I feel that in (almost) 30 years, I’ve gone through the entirety of Elijah’s 3-verse experience in 1 Kings 19:11-13: “A great and strong wind was rending the mountains and breaking in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind. And after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of a gentle blowing. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood in the entrance of the cave. And behold, a voice came to him.”

The Bible talks about peace a lot, promises peace. Isaiah 32:17 says, “And the work of righteousness will be peace, and the service of righteousness, quietness and confidence forever.”

For now, I will embrace silence when I find myself in it. And I will listen.

What about you?
What do you do during quiet moments?
How do you create/find these times of silence in a noisy world?

Into June Images

2011-06-06T09:58:00.007-04:00

Proof that God doesn’t answer prayers... now

2011-06-05T09:21:00.001-04:00

This morning I attended a church in town that has been without a pastor for 4 years. Also without a building in which to meet for 9 months. This was their second meeting back in their building. Someone pointed out that 9 months is the same amount of incubation time needed for the coming of new life. I like that image.

Does it ever bother you when God doesn’t answer immediately? It does me.

Maybe it wasn’t meant so, but I’ve always taken quite literally Paul’s charge in Ephesians: “do not let the sun go down on your anger,” (4:26). I can’t stand leaving something unresolved. There have been nights in our marriage where I would not let my poor wife sleep because I had to unload (or patch-up) something. There have been nights I’ve sat awake typing, writing, calling, or praying, because a part of me was not at peace, it was unresolved. I love it when music is left discordant, unresolved; that’s part of the beauty of jazz. But I can’t easily accept the same discordance in life.

And so I pray. And I do so faithfully. I know God will answer, that’s why I ask. But then what happens when He doesn’t, at least not now? I don’t know.

Today’s culture demands immediate response to everything. We live in the era of 4G, on-demand movies, pizza delivery, and internet answers. In my neighborhood, you can even call up a supermarket and have groceries delivered same-day. So when we pray, we expect the same of God.

Joseph’s family spent over 20 years thinking him dead, gone. For 40 years Israel wondered in the wilderness. The Jews were exiled away from their temple, home, and everything they knew for some 50 or more years. From the prophets of the OT to the coming of Jesus, 400 years of silence from God passed.

Back to the church from this morning. 4 years without a pastor is a long time. 9 months out of their building (at no fault of their own) is a long time. In that time, the church has struggled, dwindled, questioned God, and waited. I could tell you that in that time they’ve learned and grown as a core body. I could tell you that the pastor who is coming in September is arriving at a perfect time that intricately lines up with the coming and going of others and the state of the city. I could say that the 4yrs/9mos of waiting has been timed for great blessings. But if I said any of that, I’d be making it up. Some of it may turn out to be true, but we don’t know yet.

What we do know is that God took a *long* time to answer the prayers that were sent His way.

It wasn’t the first time. And it won’t be the last.

Mexicench Buffet

2011-05-28T16:47:00.001-04:00

I remember a few years ago two words were guaranteed to light up my face and elicit an immediate response of “I’m in!” They were ‘Mexican Buffet.’ Living in the US, I knew the comings and goings of every all-you-can-eat Mexican buffet in our city. Oh those were the days.

Now I hear the words ‘Mexican Buffet’ and I’m, well, let’s say intrigued. While on our short Alps vacation, our hotel’s restaurant put on a Mexican dinner buffet. The dinner was included with our room, and I was legitimately excited about it. My excitement grew when I saw a sign by the resto listing the per-person price at almost $65 (which is funny, since with the internet deal on our room we’d paid less than that for a room, dinner, and breakfast). I’m not gonna lie, secretly, I was expecting a bombshell dinner.

The first ones in line, we had our pick of the buffet from the start. It would turn out that the things we wanted were barely touched by the rest of the patrons. From a distance, it was a good start indeed. The display was impressive: multiple platters on differing tiers of a table full of decorations, plants, fruits, and food. Then out came the staff. They looked amusingly ridiculous in their brightly-covered woven rugs-turned cape coveralls and giant sombreros. They came and explained to us basically what a buffet was, pointed out the wine selection (a nice rose was suggested with the Mexican buffet, really?), and then released us to attack the mountain of food.

But as we approached said mountain, the excitement faded a bit. Just behind us poured in some French folk and a large group of Italian tourists. We ate burrito-ish things while they filled up on cold tomato soup (that’s spanish, not mexican), potato/olive salad (greek, maybe?), fish, cauliflower, and other French foods. I did get excited when I saw a green mush and pile of Doritos. But the green mush was basically avocado puree, not exactly guacamole. For my main dish I went for the labeled “Chile Con Carne.” It turned out to be beef tips that were in a sauce of some sort, and about as spicy as a Wendy’s frosty.

After the appetizer came the wonderful Mexican cheese spread (that’s a joke, I’m 99% sure that there’s no cheese course in Mexico, especially not one with soft and moldy cheeses from the far reaches of France). Seriously, we had a cheese course. And then dessert. You know, stuff like chocolate mousse, strawberry tarts, and chocolate cake. Real mexi-like. Ironically, I don’t remember seeing flan, which I think is the one dessert eaten in both Mexico and France. It is also one that I’ll never touch, so maybe it was there and I ignored it.

Mmmm Mexican buffet. Thanks France. Nice try. Can you stop now?

The next day as we were checking out I saw the sign go up for that night’s buffet: Italian. And less than 2 hours from the Italian border. I think we drew the short straw on dinner buffets.

Ze Alps

2011-05-25T15:54:00.015-04:00

Thanks to a deal online, we took a 2-day family vacation to the French Alps. 5 of us (my sister's here visiting) packed into a small room decorated for ski season but a perfect launch pad for a summer of mountain viewing. We spent our days outside hiking, picnicking, swimming, and exploring. God's creation is a great place to go.

A fun part of the trip came when a very nice couple, err family (2 adults and their pet bird... they were close), from Monaco wandered by our picnic while they were shooting photos. They asked for some help in their 'family' shots and then offered to do the same for us. Immediately, they were infatuated with Sawyer. They talked to him, they laughed when he did, and they asked that he be included in some of their pictures. Then they could barely tear themselves away from him and his emphatic "au revoir"s on their departure. The obsession with him ran so deep that this (following) was the first photo they took of our family. Hey man, you see me up here!?

In Defense of Cities (why I’m not a hippie)

2011-05-21T04:44:00.004-04:00

There are a lot of reasons to love where I live. Marseille is a big city - the second largest in France (shush Lyon!). It is alive, wild, beautiful, and rough all at the same time. It’s an active and quite old port city. It has plenty of darkness and ugliness. With the port comes trade, and it’s not all wine and cheese. There’s trafficking of drugs, contraband, humans, and sex. But the city also has plenty of redeeming qualities. Millions live in relative harmony. Sports, hobbies, and warm air bring people outside and mesh nationalities and cultures together. Daily open-air markets encourage the buying of fresh (often local) produce. Life is laid-back, communal. A small minority Christian community which spans cultures and languages is alive, rumbling, growing and learning to live, love and work together.

An then one of the most obvious reasons to quickly fall in love with this city: Marseille is surrounded by natural beauty. The Mediterranean Sea, gorges and beaches, national parks, mountains... to me it’s a near-perfect combination. I get the living organic wilderness of the city and the (quiet) living organic wildness of nature within steps of each other.

I often wonder what God intended for the Earth. How would He have us to live here? The tree-hugger argument is a pretty easy one. Nature as created is perfect, don’t screw it up, live in harmony with it. I get that, and I can see through nomadic people groups past and present a definite upward focus: an almost required spirituality due to their way of life. I’m not saying these groups got it right, but when you rely on the land for life, you can’t help but worship a creator God. He gives life and He takes it away. He is ever-present and ever-evident. This sounds like a good thing. John the Baptist obviously thought so, he “was clothed with camel’s hair and wore a leather belt around his waist, and his diet was locusts and wild honey” (Mark 1:6) while living in the wilderness.

Yet I still wonder. Is that what God wanted for us, humans, His chosen race of creatures? Is that all He intended?

Isaiah 45:18 points out that God the Creator “is the God who formed the earth and made it, He established it and did not create it a waste place, but formed it to be inhabited.”

He created this world “to be inhabited,” but I still don’t know what that means.

He did command Israel to build the temple, and He even instructed the raising of OT cities, right? And Jesus spent plenty of time in the city...

What does He think of our cities today?

I’ve always loved nature as it was created.
Get out there, as far as you can go, and spend more than a few hours. It’s impossible not to fall in love.

But I’m starting to fall in love with cities too. It’s a love I’ve only recently discovered, and I don’t think I’ll ever shake it. There’s something alive, organic (dare I say... natural?) and redeeming about them.

Double the Fun

2011-05-17T15:49:00.010-04:00

A few more phun photos until I catch up on rest and schedules and start writing again.
Now that I've joined the man-purse world, Sawyer feels he must imitate. It is difficult to leave the house without him packing a couple essentials into some sort of bag and trying to carry it along. This time, his essentials were a bottle of water and a sippy cup of juice in a plastic bag. Does this mean I need to get my 2-yr-old son a purse too?
Hello world!! Tomorrow we apply for a passport for our little one. Yesterday we went to have some passport photos made. For a passport photo her head must be straight and alined with both eyes open. She decided not to cooperate. Many photos were taken and three spliced together to get two open eyes and a straight head. It's interesting. I sure hope they take it. And then my daughter will look like a baby alien in her passport until she's 5.
Yeah, that thing is spinning. Yeah, he's not holding on. Yeah, he's actively eating his picnic lunch. His mom and aunt cringed. I love it.
These two are inseparable now. It's really fun when child #1 wakes up at 6:30am and throws a fit until he can see and hug child #2 who would happily sleep until 8am.
Really though, as much fun as parenting one of these little ones is, two are even better.

Does it get any better than this?

2011-05-14T15:09:00.003-04:00

Responses and We're Home!

2011-05-13T15:53:00.009-04:00

Today we finally escaped from the hospital. In typical French fashion, the whole ordeal was a little overblown and took way too much time. Thursday night the pediatrician, midwife, OBGYN, and everyone else associated with our child's birth cleared us to go home. Mama and baby were both healthy, so on you go! Except that by the time we were cleared, the administrative staff had already left for the day. So we'd have to stay the night. And besides, she'd never been measured (height and head circumference), so that would have to be done in the morning after her bath.

Morning came. We were first in line for a bath. I hit up the admin offices when they opened. "Oh you don't have any paperwork to do, and no bill," I was told, "we'll be mailing it to you when it's ready, then you can come in to pay." 9:30 am, we're ready to go. But the pediatric doctor has yet to give us the Carnet de Santé, without which nothing medical can happen for the rest of Elsie's life. Thus we sat and waited. Till about noon. Argh.

But we're home now! Hooray! The first hour home - reunited as a family - truly was priceless. Here's a few images of siblings at play:

I also want to share some of the things that made me smile from the past week. You all sent some great emails and notes of encouragement, and some like these below (inputs outside of the blog comments):

Nick- My favorite part of the story is that it happened in France. You have no doubt caused many people in France to believe that in America husbands delivering babies for their wives is about as common as buying a loaf of bread. "Universal health care? No, thanks. I can handle this."

Sean- You’re like Chuck Norris meets Dr Green... Nice work on the delivery, can you write up a Wikipedia page on emergency home delivery?

Ryan- I know that [your insurance company] is trying to save money anywhere it can, but I applaud you for taking it to an entirely new level. You probably saved them 5000-10000 dollars by doing it yourself. Great job!

Kevin- I'm a little disappointed that you were not also out of gas in your car....would've been a nice dramatic touch.

David- ...we were only imaging your face, thoughts, and desire/need to wipe your hands during this ordeal.

via twitter:
@pc1oad1letter “The front seat looks like someone had been murdered in it.” @goodbyeharan is my hero. #childbirthinacar

Then came my friend Paul, who was already having a fabulous day. It began when he took his truck to the dealer because of the sudden appearance of a rust spot on the frame. His truck he'd had for 10 years was suddenly being bought back by the dealer for $500 less than he'd paid (10 years ago). His sister beautifully and appropriately described his not-so-abnormal start to the day like this:
Pretty much most situations: "Paul, it looks like we have an obscene amount of compensation to give you today."
Paul: "Really? Are you sure? All I did was wake up this morning."
Them: "Looks like we owe you some chocolate dipped rainbows, unicorns, a new car and this pile of cash that we've been tripping over all day."
That evening he took a phone call from my sister with a quick run-down of our story, and he was left near-speechless. When speech returned, he declared May 6, 2011 to be the greatest day of his life.

A few days later

2011-05-10T07:47:00.009-04:00

The outpouring of love and encouragement from everyone has been incredible. Our story is ours not because we made it that way, but because God designed it, carried it out, and then we retold it. It's an honor and a privilege to tell this, yet another story of His provision and love. There's more than a few other stories throughout history in which God provides and God shows his powerful and perfect love. Often in a far crazier way. Start in Genesis, go through Revelation. And then pull out thousands of books, letters, interviews, blogs, and family-held generational stories and His love proves itself over and over. We are equally privileged to share those additional stories as well, anytime someone wants to listen!

Because some of the responses have been fun (I would want it no other way), I'll try and share a few of them on here in a day or two. If a part of our story mad you laugh, say so, I'd love to have more.
Some photos after a few days in the hospital.
JJ and Elsie are still full-time residents at the clinic (odd, since we didn’t even deliver there). Some elevated infection indicators have caused Elsie to take on a few rounds of antibiotics. Until they are down she and Mama will stay while the boys (and my sister) go back and forth. For some reason all of these ‘medical’ people think that my method and chosen location of baby delivery wasn’t ‘sterile’. Not too sure what that’s all about. I wiped my hands on my jeans before and after I caught her.
We’ve enjoyed some great family time at the hospital. Sawyer loves his new sister. And some new toys and treats from home (thanks family/friends via Courtney) don’t hurt either. This moment was really special to one of these two, can you guess which one?Elsie is beginning to come alive and proving to us that she is her own person. Absolutely nothing like her brother, Elsie enjoys to sit quietly in our arms and look around. Contentment is constantly all over her face. We love it. We hope it stays.In other ‘craziest event of our life’ follow-up, my car came back from the crime scene clean-up guy. Our passenger seat no longer looks like someone was shot and bled out. But it does look like someone spilled an entire Big Gulps of coke on it. Dark red coke. We apparently only contracted him for the fabric of the seats though, because there’s still blood streaks on the plastic and metal portions of the door and running boards.

Happy Mothers' Day!

2011-05-08T08:38:00.002-04:00

Today's post is intended for an audience of two (but all are welcome to look in). Mom H and Mom S, we love you. We would never have become the family that we are without you two. You molded JJ and I into the adults that we are, and because of that we fit together and we've created our own crazy little family in a molded, mutated image of you. Enjoy some footage of your grandchildren below. We hate that we're not together today, or very often at all. We know of two little ones who would love nothing more than shower you in love and make you laugh. I hope we captured some of that on video.

This one was supposed to be a picture, thus a 2 second accidental video. But it still made the list and I think you'll see why:
And a still of baby Elsie-
Happy Mothers' Day!!

Elsie Joy - The Story

2011-05-07T09:29:00.007-04:00

My last post labeling my wife an incredible woman: it doesn’t even scratch the surface.
Elsie Joy. 7.7lbs of beautiful baby girl. She and Mama are healthy, and she is truly a blessing from God.

Throughout this pregnancy, I’ve sort of felt bad for our daughter. Her brother was born in Africa. We drove 13 hours on washboard dirt roads to get him to the city in which he’d be born. He spent his first six months sleeping in a mosquito net. Being born in the middle of a mega-city in France just couldn’t compete with that.

Oh, but it did. And I’d say her story wins hands-down.

Wanna read more? I’d recommend it.

I wrote 3 weeks ago that I should forget about hospitals and start reading “Where There is No Doctor.” I should have taken my own advice.

At 6:25pm (Friday May 6) JJ was sitting down and talking on the phone. Sawyer and I were making pizza, our usual Friday night family ritual. During her conversation I noticed a grimace on her face for about 30 seconds, an obvious contraction. No surprise there, nearly every night for the past week she’s had runs of contractions that always went away. I smiled, mouthed “I love you,” and went back to making pizza. Before her phone conversation another contraction hit. She hung up and said she’d had two fairly quickly, but not so bad.

Then the third came, and I started a timer. This one she said was different. Very much so. It hurt. So I slow danced with her and helped with the pain. It lasted over a minute. Less than three minutes later another began, just as bad. “We’d better make some calls,” she said, “this is it.”

So I called our friend who had planned to come watch Sawyer when the big day came. She said she’d come right away, but was 30/40 minutes out with travel. I asked her to hurry. I then called another friend and asked if she could come over so we could get a jump start to the hospital. Sure thing, 10/15 minutes out. Then a knock on the door. Another friend was standing there, he’d stopped by to borrow something from us. He stepped inside and heard a loud groan from the bedroom. The look I threw his way combined with an astute understanding of the situation was all it took. “Go,” he said, “I’ll stay.”

It was 7:03pm.

At this point, the contractions were lasting about a minute and a half, with the same amount of time (or less) between.

I yelled bye to Sawyer, who happily yelled the same back and then returned to his pizza. I helped JJ up and grabbed our bag. Just outside our door she said, “I don’t think we can make it to the hospital.”

Knowing the primary role of the husband in childbirth, I did what I was supposed to and calmly reassured her, “of course we will Sweetie, it’s only 7 minutes away, you’re doing great!”

I don’t think she was convinced. I wasn’t either. But she kept walking.

We got on the elevator to go down to our garage where the car awaited. On the elevator she told me the contractions were strong, and not like the usual ones.

Outside the garage she was visibly shaken, but also calm. I helped her into the passenger seat. The moment she sat, she said, “I can’t sit, if I sit, I feel like I have to push.”

Push. Wait, what?! Did you say push?!? Whoa, slow down... I don’t like that word. Not one bit.

“Let me take a look,” I said.

Holy schnikies! That’s the head of a baby. I see it. Oh boy. What’s going on? This is not right! I can see why they call it crowning, it kinda looks like... Wait, we’re in our car, 2 floors below ground in our garage. There’s no one else here! No cell service down here, I can’t call for help! I could run upstairs. No, I can’t leave her. Am I about to deliver a baby? What? No way. I had told her I didn’t even want to cut the cord. Encourage, back rub, talk in French, encourage some more. That’s my job. Not... this. OH NO!! “Our daughter has hair,” is what I said.

Once I realized that we were on our own, no help coming, and that we weren’t moving till this baby came out, a wave of calm washed over and through me and I became... someone else. I was actually ok, level-headed, ready.

I grabbed a pillow from the backseat and put it over the stick shift. I told her to lean back and pull her knees. I then pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and laid it under her (yeah, it was laughable).

“Next contraction you breathe, relax and breathe, don’t push. I pray,” I said. “Then the second, you take two deep breaths, and then push and we are going to do this right here, right now.”

And that’s what we did.

7:10 pm - That baby girl shot right out. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what she looked like in that moment. I caught her. I handed her up to her Mama who held her to her chest, and I walked around to the driver’s side.

Every little boy (and a lot of big boys) dream about one day being the hero. Or at least doing something heroic. I know I have, and do, often. But my dreams never included delivering a baby. Never. What they did include though, was driving like a controlled maniac through a city of 2 million to make record time when clutch driving was needed. Now this I was ready for.

I sped out of the garage, always careful to keep it smooth, and I rounded the corner cutting off cars and popping my hand up when I needed to. I ran some lights, pulled right in front of some people before lights turned. I dared a cop to stop me, “Do you see what I have in the passenger seat? That’s a Mama, and a baby. They are still attached to each other! Do you know what that means?! Legggooooo!”

Pulling up to the hospital at 7:15pm, I ran in and the first person I saw was a security guard. “Open the gate, I’m pulling up to the front door. We need some help, my wife just gave birth IN THE CAR.”

“Go” he waved and grabbed his radio. Moments after I turned off the engine a small gaggle of wide-eyed midwives came running out of the hospital. The took our daughter, cut the cord, and tended to my wife. I followed the baby, JJ smiled and said “I’m fine, and I love you.”

They checked out. They’re both in perfect health. We’re now the celebrities of the hospital. Booyah.

Later that evening my wonderful servant-hearted friend Daniel came to take our car and clean it a little. The front seat looks like someone has been murdered in it. I handed him the keys and said, “don’t get pulled over, or you’ll have some fun explaining to do!”

He soaked up a lot of blood and did all he could, but the car still looks like, well, you know. So my amazing friend Tiffany started making phone calls. She found one person/company who said he could clean our car. He says his job is to “clean up after something sinister has taken place”. Nice. Real nice.

That’s my story. No, that’s Elsie’s story. And it’s a doozy.
Welcome to the world baby girl!!

An Incredible Girl

2011-05-05T05:26:00.003-04:00

My wife is something else. That’s an expression, ‘something else’. Looking at it now, I don’t think I understand it. But what I mean to say is that she’s an incredible girl. 1 Peter 3:7 tells me to “show her honor.” This is one feeble attempt at doing so. I think you should know what she’s been through and done for our family.

In September we found out about our pregnancy with child #2. We were in the midst of finishing language school, which meant hours everyday on wooden chairs spinning our brains to keep up with all that français. Early months of pregnancy are exciting, hopeful, and fun. There was sickness, but she didn’t complain, even when her head was in the toilet everyday. It would pass, and it was worth it to usher in our baby girl. At least that’s what she said.

In December the craziness began. We packed to move, from Paris to Marseille. We didn’t own a lot and had been living in a furnished apartment, but it was still a chore. A night spent in the emergency room a week before our move didn’t help. Asthma and pregnancy don’t mix, and finnicky doctors refusing to prescribe anything helpful = ER breathing treatments.

In January we arrived to our new place. An empty apartment was furnished by a toddler bed, toy chest, and futon left to us by some departing expats. Painting, installing cabinets, and much more occupied my time. JJ graciously took care of our son, fixed dinners, managed everything medical, and did everything she could to help me relax and recuperate (manual labor’s not my thing). And she kept on being pregnant.

Next the world turned upside down. A routine doctor visit sent her to the hospital for a 48-hour stay. Then another a couple weeks later. It may have been overcaution, it may have been necessary, we’ll never know. But what we do know is that a nearly two month period of her life was stripped away as she was placed on strict bed rest. That futon became the only thing she saw 24/7 for a month until our real bed arrived. Then it was the bed. Weeks and weeks of no movement and isolation isn’t good on the body, or the mind, or the soul. But she did it: she held out. And when the day came that she was allowed to live again - albeit 9 months pregnant - live she has, prepping for the coming of our baby girl, getting out as a family, not shying away from work and establishing meaningful relationships with some ladies nearby.

But through it all, do you know what I love? She didn’t stop living. She took the opportunity of being stuck in bed to build her relationship with our son. They played together, they colored, they read book after book. Now Sawyer can barely start his day without a reading from his “Jesus Book” by Mommy. She planned healthy meals that were simple for me to fix [or so she claims]. In so doing, she planned out grocery lists to minimize my time away from home shopping. And perhaps the most meaningful: she prayed for our family, our friends, and our city.

Now we’re waiting for this baby girl to arrive, and anyone who’s been there knows the final days of pregnancy aren’t easy. Yet my wife is doing it with grace. She waits, she wants this baby to come, and still she loves her family. She talks through her thoughts and fears with me. When she sees something off in me, she asks, pulls in out even. We’re across the world from our family and life-long friends, so we desperately have to rely on each other. In my case, there’s no one I’d rather have by my side.

JJ, I love you. You are a truly incredible girl. This life of ours would be impossible without you as the caring wife, nurturing mother, and relentless lover that you are. Now let’s go have a baby!

Mine?

2011-05-03T10:26:00.006-04:00

This water bottle lost its battle with the dishwasher. Early in the morning Sawyer and I pulled it out as we were putting away dishes and panic set in to his mind.

“Water bottle?” He said, his words laced with concern. “Not working? Not working!”
Then his thoughts turned quickly to the owner of the bottle, fearing the same fate may have befallen her.
“Mama! Mama ok?!” The worry was obvious this time.
What if Mama’s not ok? Her water bottle clearly isn’t. As Mama’s water bottle goes, so goes Mama?

Why does everything in man’s life have to be owned? It’s an old worldview conflict we talked about in grade school between the American settlers and the Native Americans. The settlers would parcel out and take ownership of land, while the Native Americans insisted land was not something to be owned, nor anything that the earth produced, only used. While I love the concept of the Native Americans and really do agree with and want to agree with it, I’m starting to have a hard time believing they truly lived the way the history books tell it. I don’t have any historical reason, only what I see in the heart of an ‘innocent’ child.

From day 1, we’ve made every effort to avoid the word “mine” and the concept of ownership with our son. It’s an ugly word, especially amongst other children. He’s 2 now, and in 2 years this concept we’ve tried to avoid has already permeated every thought he has. There have been times we’ve slipped up or ownership was nearly unavoidable (‘no Sawyer, Daddy’s shoes are too big, you need to wear yours’). But in general, we’ve always shied away from such words.

Even without our teaching, Sawyer has felt the necessity to label not just some things, but everything in the house. To be honest, it is cute to be reading a book and see a vacuum cleaner which he quickly labels as “Daddy’s”, or to pull out a tea cup (Mommy’s) and a glass (Daddy’s) to the names of the person most often using them. Still, it’s frustrating that we’ve tried so hard to avoid possession and yet it’s become a large part of his every thought.

So why does everything have to be owned? Is there some innate part of our brain that insists on possession? Do we have a natural need to categorize in that way? In my head and my heart, I know that I am living within God’s Kingdom, on this earth. And He is a good King. He promises to take care of me, my every need and beyond. He owns everything and everything is His. I’m simply using it. And yet I hang on tightly to the few euros in my bank account. I guard the walls of my home and my time with my family, sometimes insisting that our comfort is ‘ours’. I love our nomadic type of life that’s had us in 3 continents over 3 years, yet I cling to certain possessions that I won’t part with, and now that we’ve unpacked into a long-term home, I can’t help but really set up our little camp, our corner of the globe that belongs to us. Ugh, why can’t I escape it? I know better, this stuff, this place, this world and everything in it belongs to my God. He chooses where to put us and what to give us, shouldn’t that be enough!?

The Changing Nature of Relationships

2011-04-30T16:32:00.003-04:00

First babies are fun. Nothing can replace the feeling of giving birth to your first child (I’m speaking not as someone who ever has nor will physically give birth to a baby, but as someone who floated on air down the hospital halls of my firstborn’s birthing room and someone who will do that again very soon). Every tiny change along the way of pregnancy, feeling that first kick, reading books to a bulging stomach; the first time around it’s brand new and magical. When the baby finally arrives, it’s an incredible culmination of those firsts that then switches to a “what do we do with this?” sort of feeling.

Second babies are different. We’re far from old pros at this thing called childbirth (and child-raising). And it’s still every bit as exciting... I absolutely cannot wait to meet my baby girl. Yet it’s different. I fret less over the tiny physical changes or possible complications, and more over my wife’s heart, my son’s reactions, and trying to ascertain the personality of our newest incoming family member. I think more about and am fascinated by how this little girl will totally change the dynamic of our family. Our focus shifts from one little goofball to a family of four. We will begin to rely on each other more. We will find camaraderie with the same people that daily drive us crazy. I feel like our focus will shift from a triangle of one-on-one relationships to that of a family unit. Parenting rules will change, because previous norms from #1 won’t always fit with the totally different life, different sins, and different heart of #2.

Just before baby #1, there was a deep and difficult realization that our life as two would never be the same. We couldn’t go back to being college kids or newlyweds or full-speed-ahead world travelers. Now we’re here in the final days before baby #2 and the realization is just as deep as last time. Our lives as three will never be the same. Our son will have someone else to occupy his time and energy (yay!). Our daughter will have someone else to help her grow and learn. There will come a day and a moment when our kids run to each other for help with a pain or struggle instead of their Mama and I. I wonder if in that moment I’ll rejoice at the step in my children’s relationship or hurt at the loss in ours.

Change is always the same. But different. In general, I’m the rare type of person that loves changes. I fully expect that this time will be no different. Come on baby girl!

Insert Countryman Short Joke

2011-04-30T15:02:00.003-04:00

While waiting in line at a corner convenience store, an old fella behind the counter kept looking at me in an odd way. After the third funny look my way, he turned to a lady and said something to the effect of “they just keep getting taller, every generation bigger than the next!” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my Americanness makes me much taller than everyone else in the store moreso than my (not so) young age. Then when it was my turn to open my mouth, I made every effort to keep it a secret!

Last night, a French friend joined us for dinner and during our conversation he mentioned that when antibiotics were introduced to France, there was a marked jump in the size of people thereafter. Interesting theory. I wondered if people here were oompa loompas before that.

Someone needs to get some antibodies to our 5’5” French president, Mr. Sarkozy:

Easter. And we wait.

2011-04-27T16:03:00.007-04:00

Sunday was Easter. What a day! I've been thinking about how my appreciation for Easter Sunday has grown exponentially since I've begun to really take Good Friday as a serious day of solemnity. It hit me especially hard this past Friday as I read the story of the crucifixion of Christ from my son's Jesus Storybook Bible. Here's a segment:

"Papa?" Jesus cried, frantically searching the sky. "Papa? Where are you? Don't leave me!"
And for the first time - and the last - when he spoke, nothing happened. Just a horrible, endless silence. God didn't answer. He turned away from his Boy.

Reading that, reflecting on the story, and really making Friday a solemn day brings me even greater joy in the celebration of Christ's resurrection three days after his death. And that makes me happy. But on to pictures of other things that make me happy:

Sawyer's first Easter Egg Hunt:

In France, Easter is a holiday celebrated by a massive family lunch. Everyone goes to be with extended family and they share some sort of big, fancy, French meal, probably replete with foods that I would avoid at all costs. Those of us without local family to hang with banded together and met for an international Easter party. We gathered around a table with folks from all over Europe plus a few other Americans. The language dynamic was kind of funny. Since almost all of the adults were expat transplants to southern France, the best common language was English, thus we conversed mostly in English. But the kids - largely in the 2-6 age range - having grown up in France, all talked with one another in French.
Sawyer caught on to the Easter Egg Hunt quickly and had fun walking about the yard saying "egg, egg, egg..." He loved finding the eggs, he didn't so much like crawling through the dirt to pick them up. But he was determined and always found a way to get his egg.
The spoils. Not sure how a car got in there. Too bad he doesn't like chocolate. I guess that's what parents are for.
In other news, we're about to have a baby. We have two more weeks until the due date, but JJ's doctor told her today that he can't believe the baby's still in there, as her body seems to be ready to let her out. So he's betting we don't make the weekend. We think he may be off a bit in that guess, so we're still making dinner plans this week. I can only think of one person (well, 3 in 1) who actually knows. The rest of us will sit tight and wait.

This is a picture I took at a park on Monday. It's quite French. I like it:

A Sunny Bike Ride

2011-04-24T09:24:00.002-04:00

Let's watch the big game! Again.

2011-04-23T15:26:00.002-04:00

DVR has apparently not yet come to France. Yesterday I saw a big sign on the window of a local restaurant that said “Ecran Géant, Retransmission de l'OM v. Montpellier, Samedi 23 Avril”. So there’s to be a soccer game on TV today, and the resto’s busting out their big screen. Cool. I’m all about being a fan of the local team, so this morning I checked the tv guide and geared up for the big game. Sure enough, at 8:30pm Marseille (OM) against Montpellier. Some side note said something about some sort of cup. Later in the day that struck my curiosity, so I asked my wife to check it out. I still haven’t figured out all of he different leagues and tournaments in European soccer outside of the big ones, but I want to be a constant learning.

“Uhh, that game was last weekend.”
“That’s impossible, the TV guide says it’s on tonight.”
“I’d put a strong bet on Marseille winning 2-1”

Then it hit us - that little ‘re’ in retransmission that I was quick to ignore. It’s not a live game on tonight, it’s a replay of last week’s game. On primetime, on the main channel. And the local restaurants aren’t only airing it, they are advertising and setting up projectors. Really?

I guess this is the local version of DVR? It’s certainly more social. But I refuse to believe that anyone will watch not knowing the outcome. It’s the biggest team in the biggest sport in the home city.

And so I’m at home now. To be French, and Marseillais, I’m watching the game. It’s 0-0 right now. At least I can watch this one and know it won’t end in a scoreless tie...

***UPDATE
As is often the case, my interpretation of the facts in front of me was way off, and I was totally wrong. I realized this when last night's game did not end in a 2-1 victory, but rather a 1-0 victory. Seems it was not a replay on tv, but an actual rematch? And they got a trophy out of it too. So, uh, good job Marseille!

Baseball in France

2011-04-21T16:39:00.007-04:00

Nice form! Those would be the American kids.

Some of our friends and coworkers in Marseille play on a local recreation league baseball team. The team is 90% French with a couple of American ‘ringers’. Last weekend we grabbed the sunscreen and a blanket and went to check out a game. After the game, our kids ran the bases and played in the trees near one of the fields.

Even though I’m not a huge baseball fan, actually being at a game makes me feel very American and at home. Only I wish I could have had some hot-dogs and frosty malts. And maybe a Mountain Dew. But I digress. Even in such an American setting, at times we had to shake our heads and say, “what”? Take this part of the event, for instance...

During the game, one of the players with a big lead-off on first had a ball thrown his way. He dove back into the base moments before the ball arrived. In so doing, he dislocated his shoulder. He laid there - motionless - for minutes. Then hours (not kidding). Here’s why:
While the team gathered around, someone called for the waiting ambulance. The game was being played at a small sports complex with three fields. A rugby game was going on behind us and an American football game to our left. The ambulance drove out on the field and the medical personnel took over. But still he lay there. Eventually, the medics cut off his jersey with the medical t-shirt-cutting jaws of life. And then he laid there shirtless. What were we waiting for? Another ambulance. You see, this one couldn’t leave the area, because it had to stay in case of a medical need. What did we have on our hands? A medica... blah.

I find this picture funny, because just before this, Sawyer had scaled the wall about 7 times alone. Then the other kids saw him and ran over to help. Ever had that feeling of “wow, I wish you would leave me alone to do this myself”? Yeah, I think he had that.

Update on my Med Problem

2011-04-19T17:08:00.003-04:00

I'm fine. Two days removed from the headache that started it all and a day after my ER debacle, I'm almost back to normal (minus the usual appetite). Turns out, I probably shouldn't have taken a rather strong migraine pill on a 15-hour empty stomach. I probably also shouldn't have taken that pill (manufactured in India, bought in East Africa) 19 months after its expiration date. But who can read a label with a splitting headache? Ok, maaaaybe I should have thrown away those pills awhile ago. But now that I know all I can get here is a double-dose of tylenol, those last two old super-pills seem kind of valuable.

Next time I have a problem, I'll probably avoid the ER. I may open up our old Where There is No Doctor book and rely on its always-fun pencil drawings of contusions and homemade operating techniques. I just hope I don't die of dysentery on the Oregon Trail.

The worst part of all of this is that Sunday when my headache was starting to fade and my stomach pains were coming on strong, I ate a bowl of guacamole. Now I can't imagine wanting to eat guacamole. What am I going to do with the other 7 avocados I bought at the market?

Five hours at the ER

2011-04-18T16:35:00.001-04:00

Don’t think from the title that anything serious happened. Quite the opposite. Totally anti-climactic. So I’ll use my afternoon of staring at hospital ceiling lights as an opportunity to delve a bit into the French medical system.

It started with a headache yesterday that morphed into stomach pains which continued today. An oddity for me, as medical struggles are few and far between (my last actual doctor visit was in Jan 2009 in Kenya). So my wife grabbed the phone and a list of doctors nearby and started calling. One after another responded with “no appointments available.” Some said the offices were close for vacation. Some said the doctors simply weren’t taking new patients today. All told her to send me to the ER. Not for an emergency, but because they knew the ER would be the only way I’d see a doctor today.

So off I went. I took a book. Should have taken two.

I checked in and found a seat in the waiting room. I read my book to pass the time and chuckled as a lady screamed in Italian at the secretary something about the absurd wait and then demanded in French if this was truly an “urgence” (as they’re called here) or simply a place to wait. The staff snapped back at her and she got worked up even more, telling them in a fully-breathed voice that she couldn’t breathe and may not live through the wait. Finally she was told that the wait was 2 hours and that’s just all there was to it. An hour later she was called back and suddenly forgot how to walk... she hobbled to a waiting hospital bed. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but the whole interaction made me smile.

I waited for about an hour and was then called in to explain my symptoms and immediately handed 4 huge pills. I stared in fright and took a swig of water to ingest the 1st (I’m not so good with pills). As it went down I noticed a sweet fruity taste to it. Odd. So I asked if the pills are chewable. “Oh yes,” said the nurse, “you put them on your tongue, don’t swallow them with water!” Oops. Then she asked me if I’d had a fever. I messed up my conversion from Fahrenheit to Celsius and told her a number that widened her eyes with concern and added some compassion to her responses. My fever was never actually over 100. I think I told her something around 105/106.

Back to the waiting room.

In nearly perfect timing, I finished the book that I’d brought as I was called back into the ER. I had no idea that the wait was only beginning.

After a completed blood test, urine test, and xray - between each one I was wheeled about the hospital in a wheelchair, though I tried insisting that I was completely capable of walking - the doctor came in for a conversation. He quickly mentioned that I was a perfect picture of health, and so he wrote me a prescription for a spasm-reducing medicine (my wife tells me they really like this medicine here... she’s been given it throughout her pregnancy too). Then he told me that his life dream is to visit New York and LA, and he asked me if I know when the iPhone 5 will come out in the US. I asked him for a new prescription for my migraine headaches, and he wrote up one for extra strength tylenol. Gee thanks.

What’s the deal with NY and LA? This may be a post for another time, but I swear every French person I’ve ever met either has been to or wants to go to NY and LA.

With that I was sent on my way. No one knew what to do with me for payment since I’m a foreigner and not on France’s social system, so they told me they’d mail a bill and waved me out the door. At the last minute I was also given a phone number for an ultra-sound tech. Am I pregnant now too?

Ready for a Murse

2011-04-16T07:43:00.001-04:00

So I’ve been contemplating the whole man purse thing. From across an ocean, it seems quite absurd and irrational. From here, it’s amazing I’ve held out this long. Everybody’s doing it.

I can give you a full list of reasons... Pants too tight for wallets. Walking culture = no car to keep random junk in. ID cards and checkbooks much bigger than a typical wallet/pocket. Cargo pants out of style. Smart-phones are getting bigger by the day. Need somewhere to keep documents, USB devices, and phone chargers. It’s France.

My problem with them has not just been refusal to carry a purse, but also the fact that all of the ones I see simply look ridiculous. Like a long thin camera bag with leather straps. Seen the new iPad carrybags (which might bring the manpurse to the US)? They’re like those, but smaller and less hipster. I’ve seen a couple here and there that I could live with, but then can never find them in the stores. Well to be honest, I’d not yet gone into a store looking for one, but still.

Recently though, I saw a bag and I fell in love. It was navy blue leatherish material, shaped like a messenger bag but smaller. A cream shoulder strap, and this picture imprinted on the bag:
Now that would make me smile every time I pick it up. I love the A-Team. And when I’m home during the day, I can watch reruns in French anytime I want.

** An update, since writing this, I bought a man purse. Was out with my family buying something else when I saw a sac on a mannequin, said “I could live with that one,” and moments later my wife had found them on a rack. She pointed out the surprisingly good price, and I crumbled with no excuse ready. So I’m the proud new owner of a murse. Maybe someday I’ll put up a photo of it. It looks a little more masculine than the usual, but the problem is that inside it’s all purse. I can’t in good conscious call it anything else. There’s a spot for a cell phone, change, a checkbook... ugh. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Cakes and Cookies

2011-04-13T11:30:00.010-04:00

This post is long overdue. Today's surprise arrival in the mail sparked me to do it. Hooray for Easter packages! Half wonderful goodies: like M&Ms, Reese's Eggs, coloring books, Mint Oreos. Half ridicularity: like singing sheep, bunnies that poop jelly beans, and Marshmallow animals (does anyone eat those things?). But the reminder came in the form of these fantastic home-cooked cookies:
JJ's sisters have a cake-making talent. Once a hobby, word started to leak out with this masterpiece (our wedding cake): Beautiful and incredibly tasty.

This year for mine and Sawyer's birthdays, they decided to bake, package, and mail cakes to France. We were skeptical, but it came out great! With a little assembly required (luckily my wife is generally talented as well, and in the blood line), our cakes made it out of the box, onto the table, and into our tummies. And they were fantastic. Take a gander. Thanks sisters!

Check out their other creations on their facebook page at Sunny's Cheesecake Emporium.

Again? Sure...

2011-04-12T07:29:00.001-04:00

Hooray for trips to the prefecture! That’s all sarcasm, by the way.

Living in France, we have to apply annually for the proper paperwork to legally live here and work here as foreigners. Something like the green cards in the States. Assuming it’s even half as difficult there, I now have sooooo much sympathy for people that have to deal with the same thing in my own country of citizenship. It’s funny here that we have to apply annually, since the process seems to take almost a year to complete.

After sending in our initial paperwork late last year, we moved. So we had to request a transfer... which amounted to reapplying and resubmitting everything. Then one day we received this little piece of paper with my wife’s name and photo telling us that the application was close to complete. Odd to get something back for her and nothing for myself, since we sent the two in together, in the same envelope. But we shrugged and waited. A month passed and nothing else came. We’re a few months past the expiration of our visas, so I went to the prefecture today to see what’s going on.

Pulling up our files in the system, the lady there told me that jj’s file was essentially complete, but mine appeared to be non-existent. As if it had never been submitted to begin with. I told her that the two were mailed in together (they have to be mailed, hand-submission is unacceptable), so it’s sort of impossible for them to have my wife’s and not mine. She sighed some French sayings for “yeah, it’s impossible and those people are _____ (insert insult),” then handed me a new form and said I should fill out a new submission with all of the supporting documents and come back tomorrow.

I’ve learned my lesson. Make copies. Even if it is 100 pages long. I will have to resubmit it. Again. And again. And then again next year.

A bump on the chin

2011-04-09T17:02:00.006-04:00

A week after the first time out of the apartment on his two-wheel ride, Sawyer today accompanied me on a trip to the store for milk. I walked alongside as he rode up the hill and then down the sidewalk, around the corner and across a few crosswalks. As is his custom, he walked through the small grocery we frequent and helped me pick up our milk and strawberries. He grinned at the girl working the cash register, acted shy till the last moment, then beamed a big smile and a loud "au revoir!" On our way home he pushed a few steps ahead, and picked up some speed on approach to the sidewalk that would lead to our apartment. I cringed as I saw what he didn't: a small curb just large enough to grab the front tire of his bike and stop it cold. Sawyer's momentum continued though as he launched himself over the handlebars. A faceplant on the concrete begat a pretty red spot on his chin (I was actually surprised when he hopped up that his whole face wasn't torn apart).

Mother's intuition proved itself legitimate as less than 2 minutes later my phone rang, JJ on the line, "How are you guys? I'm just worried about you out on the streets. Everything ok?" No idea how she knew, but I told her to go ahead and get out the alcohol wipes and band-aids. It was time for some mommying when we arrived.

In typical boy fashion, Sawyer screamed far more through the cleaning and bandaging of the wound than the actual receiving of it. But by the end of the day I think he was at least a little proud of the scar. I'm quite sure he'll be ready to hop on his bike again tomorrow.

A Philosophical Discussion

2011-04-07T17:54:00.000-04:00

9 strangers meet in a brasserie. Salutations. Drink orders. Reshuffling of chairs. A Thomas Hobbes quote is lobbed into the circle and discussion ensues. Is man a wolf to man? Would we destroy one another without societal structures (government, religion, taught morality) in place? Is there a place for every human on the earth? What role do wars, rebellions, colonizations play into it? What can we learn from the savage vs civilized man?

After a long and energetic banter of French debate (that I can’t quite keep up with), the question is posed: Did God create man, or did man create God? Immediately the answer is given than man created God. Around the table 7 heads nod in agreement, adding their own reasons for the simple response. I nod for the opposition, and another inquisitive mind asks questions like “who is God to you?” and “don’t we all have our gods whether we create them or they choose us?”

Later, the question is raised of why a creator God would make things like jungle parasites that do nothing but feast, kill, and destroy. I admittedly have often wondered about why God had to make mosquitos, I can’t stand those things; do they do anything good? One man shares that when he was 13 he left the church after dissatisfaction with his priest’s answer to the question of why God allows suffering and disasters. The table generally agrees that the notion of God is outdated, silly, and insufficient.

The discussion eventually moves to the topic of old age, disease, and death. Should we be able to choose our time to leave this world behind? Is it better to give up than to endure oncoming sufferings? Does the medical community have a responsibility to save lives, ease suffering, or follow patients’ wishes? Finally a topic with disagreement... but the depressive nature of the topic is too heavy and the group starts to dissipate as the bar closes down.

This is the world in which we live. And right now, there’s no place I’d rather be.

About town on a bike

2011-04-07T03:27:00.007-04:00

With Mama's new freedom to leave the apartment and walk, we picked up a helmet and hit the streets and sidewalks of Marseille with Sawyer on his bike. To us, it was a walk to the pharmacy and bakery. But to him, much much more.
First taste of free outdoor air on his bike and he took to it like a fish in water. A little boy on his bike in France reminded me of watching sea turtles hatch and head into the Indian ocean a couple years ago. I'm not gonna say that God designed little boys to ride bikes... but I won't say it's impossible either!
All smiles. Let's do this!

No surprise to us, the girls came running. That's pretty much what always happens when the cute blonde kid gets let loose out of the house. His reactions vary though. This time, he dismounted, smiled back, and then started running in large sweeping circles while yelling at the air. Man of mystery, I tell you.

And then there's this. Ham.

Dr visit that made me smile

2011-04-04T15:29:00.000-04:00

This morning I accompanied my wife to her OBGYN doctor’s appointment. It was a good day, as the 35th week of her pregnancy and a good report marks no more bed rest! But the best moment of the appointment came when the doctor’s cell phone rang. After a brief pocket vibration, the ringtone cut brutally into the silent air with the sweet sound of the BeeGees:

“Well you can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk.”

Nice. Real nice. I’m still grinning thinking about it.

Today’s appointment went well. In addition to the no-walking/cooking/working/sitting/thinking-too-hard restriction being lifted, our doctor showed us some abnormal care and interest. To be honest, he’s always seemed a little aloof. And though the French medical system is super-thorough and over-protective to a fault, it can also seem impersonal. Like looking at our file and past prescriptions each week as if he’d never seen us. Or listening to our concerns and preferences and giving 0 response. We know the way things are, and there’s a few things we’d like different. We’re a family that likes a little freedom (can you tell?). So when this week he told us that he’d contacted the hospital and talked to them and they agreed to quite a few of our requests, I was a little shocked, and appreciative. I assumed I’d have to fight our battles in the heat of the moment. Another fun part of the French system is that everything’s separate. Yeah, we have a doctor, but it’s really the hospital, the nurses, and the midwives who do all of the delivery and post-natal care (though he says he’ll come by for the birth, “unless I’m on vacation”). So what we say to our doctor may or may not ever translate to the delivery at the hospital.

Back home now, we have a list of about 50 things the hospital requires us to bring for the delivery. It’s worse than the first day of school. Like our own thermometers, 6 long-sleeve onesies+socks+pajamas+hats+blankets (all for the baby, and we’re told one of each to be worn at the same time), towels, and adult cotton mesh underwear (we have no idea why).
Experience tells us we’d better bring pillows and any snacks we want that’s not cheese and coffee.

First thing to do off bed rest: shopping. 2nd thing: clearing trunk space for the luggage.

And there’s a baby room to put together.

One man's trash...

2011-04-04T02:27:00.001-04:00

There’s an evening phenomenon in Marseille that I don’t quite understand, and I’m beginning to dislike. It’s the dumpster divers. I’m amazed everyday at what I see. Literally every evening in which trash is put out for pick-up, across the city hundreds (thousands?) of people will walk their route and dig through the trash of every container out there.

We’re on the first floor of our apartment building (2nd floor in American counting), and thus our building’s garbage bins sit not too far from our living room window when they go out to the curb. Twice a week at dusk I watch the odd ritual go down. Someone walks up to our dumpsters, pops them open, and then goes through the trash, bag by bag. Each bag is ripped open and scattered, pieces looked through and rarely something pocketed. But here’s the part I don’t get: the people who go through the trash don’t typically have the lowest socio-economic look about them. I know some of the homeless folks in Marseille, and it’s not them going through our trash. The trash diggers are usually guys in their 20s/30s, often wearing designer jeans and manpurses with decent haircuts.

The part that irritates me is that they open up all of the trash bags and make a total mess. Every night trash gets scattered on the ground (not in the dumpsters) and is never picked back up. Then the giant man-eating rats come out to play. Is it wrong that I’m contemplating dropping the refuse of my son’s diaper open in our trash bags rather than in our toilets? And opening all containers of molded food before tossing? Perhaps such a surprise gift on the tearing open of a trash bag is needed. Maybe that’s not nice. But neither is scattering trash all over our city!

Either way, I’d better get a shredder.

L'Assaut

2011-03-30T17:39:00.003-04:00

On December 24, 1994, Flight 8969 from Algiers to Paris was boarded and readying for takeoff when some Algerian Presidential Guards boarded the plane and began checking passports. Minutes later it was revealed that the men were not guards at all, but hijackers taking the Air France flight hostage. 220 passengers, crew, and a rather large plane became their property for the next two and a half days. Algerian negotiators begged the hijackers to release hostages (even to the point of bringing in the mother of the head-hijacker) while French leaders demanded entry into the situation. Both failed. When hostages began losing their lives, the Algerians agreed to let the plane take off on a flight plan to Marseille, France, where refueling would be necessary before continuation to Paris. During that flight, two significant things happened in France: (1) A GIGN assault team was readied for a possible raid on the plane, and (2) French intelligence learned that the hijackers' plan was to detonate the plane as a fireball just above the Eiffel Tower and thousands of tourists/citizens. The decision was made that the plane would not under any circumstances leave Marseille. What ensued was a wild shoot out inside the grounded aircraft, watched by a nation. In the end, it was considered one of the more successful raids in mass hostage situation history. We now know this day to have been a sort of predecessor to 9/11.

I know this because I went and saw a movie that depicts the story. It's a French movie. In French. So it was sort of a milestone for me. A year ago when I was barely into baby speak in my French learning, I set a goal to be able to watch and comprehend a French movie. My attempt at realizing this goal began in the Marseille metro when I saw a movie poster. The poster had the viewer staring down the barrel of an assault rifle into the goggles of a black-clad SWAT looking fellow, and the movie title "L'Assaut" (wait for it... "The Assault") written in bold letters. Since many American movies are shown in France, I thought, "Ooh, that's a fun-looking new movie, I'll have to check it out."
Then I read the subtitle: 24 Decembre, 1994. Marignane.
"Who sets a fictional action movie in the past?" I thought, "That doesn't make sense. Waaaait a second, Marignane is the Marseille airport, no way!"
Then I read the list of actors: "Vincent, Jean-_____, Jacques _____, I don't know any of these guys... oh, it's a French movie! Huh. Wait, I wonder if it's not fictional, but something real that happened. At our airport? That's creepy."

So a bit of toying around on the internet and asking some French friends taught me that the story was indeed true, and a movie had just been made to bring life again to a monumental day in the recent history of this country. After reading the news about it, I was hooked and wanted to go see it (plus, having a true story which I read up on would give me a significant advantage in understanding the movie!). I talked a couple of French friends into going along, and we checked it out. I was quite impressed, as were they. They couldn't believe that a French movie had done action that well. I had read that the GIGN (kind of like SWAT in the US I guess) had worked with the movie directors to reenact and properly portray the events. The movie directors did a good job of giving the movie a captivating storyline without diverting from the real story, and the manner in which they intertwined the actual news footage from 1994 was pretty cool.

If you speak/understand some French or like foreign films, I recommend this one. If you're really into that sort of history and hijackings and the like, I recommend it too, or read the wikipedia story about the events and how they unfolded on Christmas 1994. it's a pretty fascinating story, and one I'm glad I saw in my new language on the big screen!

Lil' Handyman

2011-03-24T11:31:00.006-04:00

Kids like to imitate. Like yesterday, when riding in the car with a bunch of other guys, Sawyer conversed by repetition. His conversations went something like this:
"Hey Sawyer, how's it going?"
"Going."
That's great pal. I see you have a stuffed animal, what animal is that?"
"Animal."
"I know it's an animal, is it a dog?"
"Dog."
"Hmm, cool, does the dog have a name?"
"Name."
And thus it continued.

While irritating, the repetition is also really fun and produces great moments like this one:
Can you tell we've been doing a lot of handy work around our apartment to make it a home? Yep.

America vs Europe

2011-03-20T09:43:00.007-04:00

Around a table over coffee I was having a discussion with some French folks. As an American living in France, I was asked to describe the biggest differences between life in the USA and in France/Europe. Here’s the list I came up with:

1. New vs. Old
Everything in America is new. This is something I’d never noticed nor thought about until I came to Europe. The USA is only 235 years old. That’s miniscule in the scope of our world. Travel around Europe and you see chateaus, castles, walled cities, and palaces nearly as old as the written word. In America, the oldest thing I can ever remember seeing was a log cabin in my home town that dated a mere 100+ years. What age does exist in America is natural and God-created, not man-made (i.e. Grand Canyon, Redwood Forest).

2. Big vs. Small
This one is a derivation of the first. Where America’s known for its vast plains, ranches, highways, backyards, and Super Wal-Marts, Europe’s characterized by tight streets and passageways, closet-sized apartments (our place - large by Marseille standards - can be vacuumed completely without ever unplugging the vacuum), mopeds, fruit stands, and elevators that would terrify even a mild claustrophobic. Because of the age of things, they are smaller in Europe. City streets weren’t built when cars were on the scene. The doorways that I have to duck to walk through were constructed at a different time, when 6’+ was a height not thought of. Most cities have been around for centuries, so we can’t go back and plan them to be built around modern inventions like cars and elevators.

3. Airplanes/Automobiles vs Trains/Walking
Also a derivation of the first. In America, you can’t really live without a car. Imagine going to work, doing all of your shopping, and going to visit family without a car. Stateside, nearly impossible. In Europe, if you don’t have a car that makes you normal. Here, we walk to get groceries, we hop the metro to go out to eat, and if we want to visit friends in another city, we take a train. In the States, for vacation or business, there’s cars and planes. Flights around the country are pretty common. We live in the second largest city in France, and our airport compares to that of a domestic airport of a minor city in an average state. Why? Because few people fly here, they take trains instead (easier, cheaper, more comfortable, and when you factor in check-in and waiting for bags... faster, plus no ear-popping).

4. Theism vs Apathy
If you ask a random person on the street in the States what it takes to get to heaven, you may get a trip through the Romans road, an admonishment to follow the 10 commandments, a “live a good life” answer, or even an honest “I don’t know.” Ask the same question in Europe and you’re likely to get ignored, or simply told that the question is dumb/irrelevant, as heaven doesn’t exist.

We also talked about smaller differences, like the number of cheeses in France vs the number of cereals in the States, but these were the big ones that stood out to me. So what did I leave out?

Ever travelled? Read a book? Seen a movie? Have a European/American friend? What do you see as the big differences between two western worlds?

Mr Clean the Banker

2011-03-16T03:05:00.001-04:00

I actually enjoy going to our little bank down the road in Marseille.

In Paris, our nearest bank branch was pretty big and professional. I often would dress up in one of my old work suits and fancy myself an international businessman when I had to go set up or change accounts. I like to think it helped. Mostly it just gave me an excuse to still own a couple of suits.

But here in Marseille, I take the opposite approach. It’s laid-back, and our local bank branch fits the bill. I could have gone a few blocks away to a bigger one where they speak English, but I chose this one for its charm. As I walk in, dodging doors and the one chair that sits inside, I am always greeted by one of my favorite people. I call him (in my mind) Monsieur Clean. I swear he could be Mr. Clean’s French cousin. No earring, but he does have stylish glasses that compliment his shining bald head, is always standing, about 50 years old, could probably bench press a smartcar, and he wears the same thing everyday: gray dress pants and a tight black t-shirt. But my favorite part is that I’m not convinced he actually does anything. He stands behind the desk as if he is a teller there to help, but each time I’ve tried to ask a question of him, he tells me to sit and wait until someone else can come. The someone elses are the two other people that work there. A woman I’ve yet to meet, and a younger guy who likes the phone (very un-french) and loves New York. He always seems happy to see me, helpful, and fairly efficient. He doesn’t understand how I could prefer American food to French, but always raves about his visits to New York, from the taxi rides to the hotels to the people he meets.

The entire bank branch could fit in our old American living room (or our African living room for that matter), and I feel like I’m stepping into a janitor’s closet when I walk around the half-glass wall to my friend’s ‘office’. I’m pretty sure this branch has no pull whatsoever on the actual bank’s inner-workings. I don’t really know that anything ever gets done when I go. But I do enjoy my visits there. I always leave with a smile, and that’s not easy to do from anyplace here that doesn’t give you fresh bread.

Linda's Photo Journal

2011-03-11T14:33:00.008-05:00

Here's a few shots from around our new home, courtesy of our friend Linda (who was a wonderful house-guest for a week, taking GREAT care of us while here).

Believe it or not, this is our street in southern France, not an urban passage in a war-torn north African country. We find it charming. One of the hazards of living on a new construction block.

Our sweet view from our window. Used to be something. No immediate future plans. Currently it's where the neighborhood dogs go to poop.

Welcome to the Vieux-Port fish market. You can buy anything you want here, as long as someone caught it that morning.

A typical French eatery.
And a couple of bird's eye views of the city:

Hooray (our) Stuff!

2011-03-05T16:41:00.014-05:00

This post may appear anti-me. I'm normally against most all stuff. Can't stand stuff. My friend Kevin once eloquently pointed out the problem with typical American Dream finances. We save up enough money to buy a nice house in which to put all our stuff. Then we keep saving to get a bigger house. More space means we can get more stuff. But soon we have to get a bigger place for all our new stuff. Then comes the need for more stuff to really fill out our house. And thus the spiral continues. Not a good one if you ask me.

But, this stuff is that which will make our lives easier, a bit better - we hope. There's probably more than we need, and we already have a few boxes ready to cart off, but what remains is special to us, at least for now. We've had this box of stuff that's ours but out of reach. Like money in a CD or savings bond that you simply can't get to, our things have sat in a wooden box in Houston for over a year. Then two months at sea. Then delivered to our door. After 16 months, a couple of fellas with crow bars cracked that baby open.
And voilà! It's our stuff!

Most important to us (and my wife who's been on bedrest for a month in an old futon, no end in sight), our bed! It's our bed! And it barely fits in our room. A California King you ask? Nope, just a Full. Welcome to urban Europe.

A kitchen with our cookware! How exciting. Our 2 plastic light my fire sporks served us well for a long time, but it's awfully nice to have real utensils again. And we learned a bunch of things that we could cook on our European Green Pan, but pots and lids and pans and knives sure do open up a world of possibilities!

Gold Star Chili Bengals glasses, now we're ready for football season! If we have a quarterback that is. And receivers. And a coach. And an NFL. Also pictured are a brand new set of knives, purchased thanks to a Day-after-Thanksgiving sale in 2009.

Ah, our living room. The place where we will live (inside). Pictured is some new furniture. The first new furniture we'd ever bought. Brand-new yet unopened for a year and a half. Let me just tell you, after a couple months of sitting on a plastic trunk, it's super-comfy!.

Thanks to our friend Linda, who's here now unpacking and organizing with - for - us. This could not have possibly come together so quickly without her! (And our other friends in-country who were here on unpacking day 1 to help, thanks guys!)

A Father's Joy

2011-02-27T09:30:00.002-05:00

I absolutely love the family unit. One of the biggest reasons is that it’s a model God created for a definite reason. He shows himself to us in family, he created us to be in family. The greatest thing about being a parent is that I learn through it the heart of God. He describes himself as our heavenly Father, and we as (his) children. Thus, I believe that in watching my own children, I will learn the heart of the Father. What warms my heart as a father can’t be far off from what warms His heart. We’re created in his image, right?

One of the things that makes my wife the happiest is seeing our son be creative. Whether it’s wearing a bucket on his head like a hat, stacking boxes to create a BMX obstacle course, or using something in an
unconventional way with an end-goal in mind, she absolutely loves to see his creative mind at work. Today he pulled out his mega-blocks, and instead of building the usual tower, he placed them on their sides, connected in a line, and then slid another piece over it, thus creating a train on its tracks. It was beautiful, both of us beamed from above.

For me, I relish in his joy. When my son is giggling, laughing, and skipping around the room saying “happy, happy, happy,” I am at my most content. I love to see him enjoy his life. I love to see him take what’s in front of him, the many good gifts of a secure household, loving family, and tools for growth, and simply love it. His joy shoots mine through the roof.

And then both of us can say without a doubt we loooove when he wants to spend time with us. Not so much when he wants to take over our time (like sit on the computer when we’re working on financials), but when he simply wants to be with us. Playing quietly by mama’s side on the bed, or reading in daddy’s lap, or waling down the street, laughing at all of the beautiful sights and sounds in the world.

I believe that God is no different from us in these ways. He loves to see our creativity. He relishes in our joy. He covets our time together.

How have you made God smile today? Is creative expression, abundant joy, and simple abiding time a part of your life, your daily routine?

How do your kids (or friends, nieces/nephews, grandkids, pets?) most warm your heart?

Hey Man... Bye Bye!

2011-02-25T10:23:00.002-05:00

No So Progressive

2011-02-24T02:37:00.002-05:00

My wife used to be known as the "queen hippie" within a circle of our friends. A stretch and a joke, it started with her conservatism of all resources: "turn off the water! unplug that when you're not using it! don't throw away those carrot peals/chicken bones/pepper cores/etc". Then add to that buying mostly all-natural stuff, reusable everything, her old thick-rimmed glasses, and the fact that every time we went camping she made and brought along fire starters of old toilet paper rolls. dryer lint and candle wax (and is a much better fire builder than myself), and she made a name for herself. Last night she exclaimed out of nowhere, "See, that's proof I'm no queen hippie!" What was she talking about? This list from Rachel Held Evans of 13 Things That Make Me a Lousy Progressive. She agrees with almost every one of them. A good and funny read.

Back-linking, we also read her 13 Things That Make Me a Lousy Evangelical, and laughed while realizing that we line up with about 9 of the 13 [won't say which :)].

So I guess we'll continue our Christian life in limbo, following this crazy guy named Jesus wherever he takes us!

Les Muffins Américaine

2011-02-23T07:49:00.008-05:00

From time to time we find American food items in some of our local supermarkets. Usually not legitimate American brands, but some sort of international "American" brand complete with stars, stripes, and a statue of liberty. You pick it up, think "this looks pretty good, and normal, I'll take some home" (I usually buy one, and if it's good return the next day to buy out the store). Take these muffins for instance:

American muffin mix, mmmm. If you know me, you know I love muffins. In college they used to be my daily midnight snack (the "just add milk/water" version). Sadly, those mixes don't usually exist outside the US. My wife is a wonderful cook who can do anything from scratch, but she's on forced medical bed-rest right now. So I'm on my own. These puppies are a nice treat. Notice all the English on the front of the box? Mix for 12 Muffins, Chocolate with icing, cake cases included. Sweet!

Open it up and we have our baking mixture:

Now for the directions. Turn to the back:

Wait a second... where's the directions in English? I see French, German, Italian, Dutch, and there's Spanish and Portuguese on the side. But no English?! Seriously?! What, if an American picks up this American product are we supposed to innately know how to prepare it (metric conversions included)? Why is the cover in English but the directions in everything but? Oddly enough, this seems to be a pretty common occurrence.

Thankfully, the muffins still came out well and tasted great!

They're gone from the stores now though. Maybe again next fall!

Alone in a Cave

2011-02-14T09:51:00.003-05:00

I went for a hike. It had been awhile, and boy did it feel good. Through a forest, up and over a ridge with some great views, and back down the rock face to a cave in the rock. This cave dates back to the fifth century as a place of worship*. That’s a long time ago. Now it’s a monastery. Has been since at least 1295*.

Here’s a bit from what I wrote while there:

Inside the cave, complete with alter and benches, I hear nothing but the drip of water on the rock floor. I feel the cold, but it’s still, comforting even. The moment I stepped inside, me breath became a pulsating cloud in front of my face. I see the lit candles - plenty more are available for purchase - and I know that I’m not the first in here today. Statues, plaques, and an alter surround me. So say this is a holy place (the French Pope in the early 800’s officially appointed it as such*). Can a place really be holy? Especially an empty place? And yet, there’s something about it... not holiness, but clarity. The Bible says that the gate to life is narrow and few find it [Matthew 7:13-14]. When did we trick ourselves into thinking it wide? Maybe some of our massive (mostly American) gatherings are less “feeling the presence of God” and more feeling the presence of a whole lot of people. Maybe.

It hurts my heart every time I walk into the numerous upon numerous empty cathedrals, and yet something about it almost feels right. It’s all rather doomsdayish - to be alone in a dark chapel in a cave, village, or mountaintop - but also right. God is fully surrounding me and within me, He hems me in. When I’m here, alone, quiet, clarity is in the air. I listen, and I don’t feel so alone.

*All dating information presented was according to the sign that I read. It was in French. I reserve the right to say that any of this info could be wrong. But I think it’s close to correct.

A browse through this week's...

2011-02-12T05:49:00.009-05:00

...French supermarket advert.

What does this look like? Yeah, I thought so too. No I don't want any.

A box of M&M's, on sale for a mere $15.18 (as of Saturday's exchange rate). What a steal! That's 25% off regular price. Ugh.

Grocery list:
Milk - check!
Bananas - check!
Chicken - check!
Zucchini - check!
9 day/7 night trip to Cuba - check!

This valentine's day, why not pick up this beautiful "Love Bites" (amour à croquer) pendant? Hey, it's in French, so it's romantic.

And finally, the obligatory Foie Gras page. Only in France is foie gras cheaper than M&Ms.

Time is short, what should I do?

2011-02-08T15:31:00.002-05:00

In a short couple of weeks, I'll be celebrating a birthday: my 29th. Ahh! It just hit me. That means I have only a year left before I'm that scary old age of 30.

In realizing this, I had one and only one sudden thought: I need a bucket list. I mean, with only a year left of 20's, I need to go out and live before my time is up!

So, what should go on my 20's bucket list? What must I accomplish before the years of taking Aleeve before a round of golf, afternoon naps, being totally outdated and clueless with current technology, fighting urges for donuts and seconds, being the big sweaty guy in rec basketball, and catching the buffet before the price changes at 430pm? Ok, maybe the last one isn't a 30's reference. What should 2011/2012 - my last year of 20's - hold?

Malawi to Ban Farting?

2011-02-07T07:06:00.004-05:00

I'm going to meander back to my days in East Africa to bring up a current events topic that elicits a good snicker.

When we were in Tanzania learning Swahili, I managed to stumble onto all of the words for passing gas. Even though many Swahili words which come from English simply add an "i" to the end (like baiskeli for bicycle), it turns out that you can't discuss your footwear by saying "shoesi", as shuzi means "flatulence". Learning this did not stop me however from saying it, rather encouraging me all the more. I loved telling Tanzanian youth that because I have big feet I also have big shuzis.

Another favorite of mine was that a simple change of one vowel changed the typical greeting (root word Jambo, hujamo, sijambo, hatujambo etc) from "how are you/do you have any problems?" to "are you farting?" So when I saw unsuspecting tourists on safari who thought they'd picked up some of the local language, I would always greet them with a smile, "hujambi?" and receive a warm "si jambi!" (no breaking wind here!) in response.

But all this language silliness brings us to a serious issue. It seems that Malawi is currently trying to pass legislation that may ban farting in public. Seriously. Well sortof. Read the article. It may or may not be an intended application of the law, but it's the one the media's grabbed ahold of.

I remember a time in language school where I let one fly... My classmates laughed, my wife cringed and blushed, and my teacher shook his head with a smirk, "Bwana Michael, you can do that here, hamna shida, but in public, this you should not do."

I guess we really shouldn't do it in Malawi.

But then again, the last sentence of the article tells me that it's much ado about nothing. "When asked whether it could be enforced, he said it would be similar to laws banning urinating in public." If you've ever been to that part of the world, you know that no one has anything to worry about if that's the standard.

How to move into a minuscule apartment

2011-02-01T15:05:00.003-05:00

I think I’ve mentioned it here before, but everything is smaller in Europe. Compared to the USA that is. I can’t speak for the rest of the world. And really, all I know is urban life in France. But it’s a lot smaller. Cars, apartments, grocery aisles, meal portions, just about everything except prices.

One of the first things that all friends and family who come to visit notice is the tiny size of elevators here. In the cities (both Paris and Marseille), elevators are not built with the claustrophobic in mind. Many elevators are built for 2-3 people. And I don’t mean just in weight, but literally you’re not squishing more than 3 people in there. There’s certainly no attendant, and elevator music is out of the question. Pure functionality to get you from the bottom to the top or vice-versa. One elevator I rode in (which takes the cake for smallest to date) I backed into and was immediately touching all 3 walls, the back and both sides. As the door closed and the smell of cold steel hit my nose, I realized that had I done a few more pushups that day (ok, maybe any at all), I’d be touching all 4 walls for the ride up. I took the stairs down.

We have yet to move any furniture into an apartment (still waiting on that crate in the ocean...). Because of the minute elevators and equally small stairwells, we’ve often wondered about how people move furniture into their apartments. Ever joked about tossing a mattress through a second story window? We joke no more. A couple days ago I walked out onto our street and saw a moving van parked in front of the next building. Next to the moving van was a pickup truck with a fancy little contraption in it. It was like an extendable ladder conveyor belt. It shot up to the fourth floor, where it was hooked onto a balcony railing, and furniture rode right up. Amazing! I want one of those! Was the first time I’d seen anything like it, and I mostly thought it a novelty.

Then tonight as I read with my son before bed, I opened a book of his that has pages of different life scenes with questions and vocabulary accompanying (all in French, which puts us on about the same reading level). The scene we opened to was a typical city block: roundabout with flowers, garbage truck completing pickups, pizzas being sold out of the back of a van, dog doing his business on the sidewalk, and... a crane hoisting a couch up through a third floor window! It really is the only way to get furniture into an apartment, and the children’s book proves it. So simple, so practical. Or, you know, they could just put in bigger elevators and doors...

A trip out to explore

2011-01-31T08:24:00.007-05:00

Here's some sights from around our new home.
Marseille. This is standing in the Vieux Port ('Old Port') area and looking around. A great place to spend a day.

Our home! That's the apartment building where we live. It's a new building and seems to be about half or more full. We have neighbors above us and down the hall, but not across the hall or next door.

A look down the main road a few blocks from our apartment.

Las Tortillas. Yep, there's a Mexican restaurant less than 100 yards from our door. How cool is that? Only problem: in a month's time, we've yet to see them open once. And we pass it at least twice a day!

Au revoir from Super-Sawyer!

When Machines Go On Strike

2011-01-28T08:54:00.002-05:00

Today I drove across town to a friend’s house. Throughout Marseille, there is available parallel parking (often on sidewalks), when you can find a spot, marked “payant”. This means that you must pay for parking. After wiggling your car into a spot that’s probably too small, bumping the car in front of and behind you a few times, and wishing for a second you had a smartcar (then remembering just how ridiculous they are), you must find a meter to pay for parking. Every block or so there’s a machine marked with a blue P where one can deposit coins and retrieve a small piece of paper authorizing parking for a specified amount of time. That paper, once deposited on your dash, assures you will not be towed. Unless of course there’s a market about to take over the sidewalk.

Back to today’s story...
I parked and I walked to the machine. But when I tried to put coins in, they wouldn’t go. Curious, I pushed a button. Up on the digital screen popped the words en grève. I laughed. The parking meter had just told me that it’s on strike. It could have said en panne, meaning ‘out of order/broken’, but instead it chose ‘on strike’.

What exactly prompts a parking meter to go on strike? Not enough vacation time? Are working conditions not up to par? The 2-hour lunch break not sufficiently long? Too much dog poo nearby?

Chivalry, Potty Humor

2011-01-23T07:17:00.001-05:00

Realizing that it’s a pretty lame parental trait to constantly write/talk about your kids, I will ask your forgiveness and do it anyways.

This morning we were having a family worship time in our bedroom. Me playing guitar and singing some songs, JJ reading some verses and sharing life application, and Sawyer spinning and dancing around the room, with occasional attempts at singing combined with gutteral yells for the fun of it. During one of his widest spins, Sawyer knocked over a humidifier that sat in the corner, spilling water on the floor. He immediately said “sowwy” and came over to ask for forgiveness. We forgave him but told him that his saying sorry didn’t change the fact of what he’d done and he needed to learn not to continue making the same mistake. He then looked around the room for a moment. Settling his gaze on the water spot, he took off the jacket he was wearing and walked over to the spill, dropped to his knees, and used his jacket to wipe it up. Even though four piles of laundry sat around the room (we bought a washing machine two weeks ago, expected delivery Tuesday!) and a towel rested near the humidifier, he chose to use his own jacket for the cleanup. And they say chivalry is dead!

For added fun...

-Yesterday I heard our son call out with delight “Shower!” That was followed by my wife calmly saying, “No Sawyer, that’s not a shower, that’s the toilet.” Moments later I heard her cry out, “Sawyer, get your head out of the toilet!”

-Our kid is far far far from the most well-behaved on the block, but one thing he does pretty well is put things away. After playing with a particular toy, he’ll box it up. After finishing a book reading, back on the shelf it goes. Earlier he picked up a half roll of toilet paper that had been used for noses and said “away”. Off he ran. When we went to look, we found him in the bathroom tearing off short strips and dropping them into the toilet. Our toilet was quite full of clean strips of pink toilet paper (they like their pink toilet paper here).
Maybe he’s saying that he’s ready for potty training, or maybe I just need to close the door when I go.

When in Rome

2011-01-20T17:13:00.003-05:00

Paul said "I have become all things to all men so that I may by all means save some" (1 Cor 9:22). Or he at least wrote something in Greek that basically means that. He might have said it too. Maybe even in Hebrew or Aramaic. But probably not in English.

To be honest, this has little to do with living a missional life and more to do with trying to fit it and avoid the funny looks, the broken English, and the constant conversations about KFC and someone's cousin in Minneapolis.

Living in France, I daily try pretty hard to fit in with the culture around me. It's not all that different, but I do consciously change the way I dress, stand, walk, and act when I'm in public, and I try verrry hard to get my pronunciation and phrases in French right. Sometimes I can go totally unnoticed as a foreigner in a crowded place, and sometimes even a few short responses into a conversation.

I've decided today though that in one facet of my life I'm okay with being an overt foreigner. Grocery shopping. As I walked to the checkout line this afternoon with a loaded down cart I prepped myself with a few key phrases and mentally practiced my pronunciation. I pulled out my wallet, looked up with half a smile and a "bonjour" at the right time and had even myself going. But then I realized that it was somewhat futile, as the moment my purchases passed the scanner, the check-out lady would easily recognize me as not French. My load was lacking in stinky cheeses, bags of breakfast breads and coffees, kiddy cookies, patés, sardines, and assorted sausages and salmons. And I had multiple packages of tortillas (not "tex-mex burrito kits"), fresh milk, black beans, a liter of caffeine-free coke, and cinnamon. Obviously not French. And you know what? I'm ok with that.