A Tale of Three Cities.

I woke up in Paris, stiff from the sleepless night train but excited to gaze once again on the city I love. Paris is different than the rest of France; it has a rhythm all its own.

Its splendor is found as much in the smoke-filled cafés with whirring espresso machines and buttery croissants as in the primped poodles leashed and parading down the promenade. Walking through Paris is akin to walking into a Renoir or Pissarro painting.

Paris is living art. Paris is art in life. Paris is the art of living.

But my goal in coming was not to see L’Arc de Triomphe or Le Tour d’Effel but to reconnect with my friend and his family.

I first met Steven at my first job in the States when I was still a zit-popping, overly opinionated, punk teenager. Since he had grown up in France as a missionary kid and I had just come back from France... we had lots to talk about. Admittedly, I did most of the talking.

Steven with his children.

He was one of the first Christians I’d ever met that I didn’t hate on the spot. His quiet and gentle witness had a powerful impact on me, and even though I would not confess Christ for several more years, I have never forgotten the ways God used him at that time in my life. Seeing him again after all this time has been a real treat.

Since I arrived on a weekday, he took the day off to show me around. But instead we spent the day eating and catching up. But just as before I did most of the talking. He is a gifted counselor, dropping jewels of wisdom into my chaos and pain. Plus, he worked two years in Africa and could truly understand the intricacies of life there. What a blessing to have such a friend!

Steven and Karine, his wife.

Later that day I got to meet his children and catch up with his wife, Karine. I’m thrilled to see how God has blessed him and to know that he is doing so well.

But the next morning I was on a train again. I slept my way through Belgium, markedly achy from my ever constant journey. Fortunately by the time I landed in Germany I was renewed. A dear friend I met in the Philippines greeted me with such warmth the blistery winter’s day seemed like summer. 

Kirsten and I laughed the night away, catching up on the details of life. Although we intended to go out and get to know her home town a bit, we ended up too engrossed in conversation to bother. Instead we talked until our eyelids drooped. What a joy to see her again!

Kirsten and me in Essen.

Early the next morning I was once again on a train --but this time heading to Berlin. Although it’s the first time I’ve visited this historic city, I wasn’t coming as a tourist. I came to meet a friend for the first time.

A while back a sweet German midwifery student named Ann-Jule contacted me on my blog. Her sweet encouragements have always been timely and Spirit filled; I needed to meet her.

When I told her I’d be coming her way, we arranged to meet in person. And although we are relative strangers, it didn’t feel that way. As we talked over a breakfast of ham, cheese, and creamy meat-salads, I was surprised to learn how similar our lives have been.

Ann-Jule and me in Berlin.

And later that evening she invited another midwifery student in her class for a classic German meal called Rollade and dumplings! We again spent the night chatting about all things birth and missions. What a blessing to make these new friends!

Now I’m on another train. This one takes me North to the city of Hamburg where I will meet up with Stefanie, a sweet friend I’ve known since my life in Spain.

Reconnecting with all these friends has been so... healing and restorative. I thank God for them.

Thank you for praying for me as I travel. My journeys are sometimes long but always worth it. I still have another three cities to visit this week. Please keep praying as God might lead. Thank you.

Night Train.

Because I am a bit of a last-minute-lucy when it comes to catching trains, I had to eat my dinner in the dining car as we chugged along from Pamplona to Paris. My toasted sandwich of Camembert and Jamón Serrano was the perfect end to a perfect stay in Spain. 

The dining car attracted other hungry, road-weary travelers; but once fed, easy laughter filled the room. A retired couple from Ireland regaled us with happy tales of their traveling woes. A young environmentalist with a lip ring joined in; her slight Spanish lisp was the only hint of her origin as we discussed the intricacies of her doctorate studies. Further down the bar, a long-haired Londoner and a timid Dutchman added their voices to the cacophony of laughter until I almost forgot to sleep.

When I returned to the cabin hours later the other ladies were already tucked in.

Before boarding the train, I had decided to indulge in a couchette (or bed) for the 13 hour trek. My previous night train experience in a reclining seat had left me exhausted.

Would a couchette provide the elusive sleep, I wondered. Well, it couldn’t hurt it.

When I first boarded the train, I met the three other ladies in my cabin --two doe-eyed American girls fresh out of University on a summer trip around Europe and a small entrepreneurial African woman from the Ivory Coast with more suitcases than space to put them.

The Americans were curiously timid; but the African was anything but! She oozed the familiar African warmth to the room, filling it to overflowing with laughter and noise. The Americans looked on her steady stream of accented French in amused confusion. They knew they were suppose to laugh but they couldn’t figure out why. What was the punch line?

I had to translate.

She repeated over and over again the outrageous misadventures of other night trains she’d endured. To her it was scandalous that the Italians allowed men and women to share cabins. It wasn’t so much the fact they were men... but when they took off their shoes you had to evacuate the room!

She attacked all topics with similar zest and humor making the small cabin large as a Broadway stage. Mixing blood-curdling tails of civic unrest in her beloved land with an uproarious re-enactment of a sleepless night due to a corpulent snorer she didn’t have the guts to kill in her sleep... although the thought crossed her mind after 8 hours of pitiless suffering.

Did any of us snore she asked?

We laughed politely and exchanged glances. Unsure if she was capable of killing us in our sleep if we dared to admit to such a crime, we quickly assured her that we were in a no-snore-zone. 

She wasn’t the only one to sigh of relief at the happy news.

So later that night when I climbed into bed, I was rocked to sleep with only the sound of wheels grinding steel rails.

Admittedly, I did not find the sleep I hoped for... but at least it wasn’t due to any snorers.

What Accent?

My time in France was short but wonderful. But then again, it’s always wonderful to be in a country that values cheese so much.

Tome de chèvre! Gruyère! Roquefort!
        -- Delicious.

But more than anything it’s a country and a people that are dear to my heart. I love their wild hair and ‘go-get-stuffed’ attitude. I admire their passion for food, friends, and foreign policy --typically in that order. I chuckle as I hear them ‘râlent’ (pronounced rah-LE) at the smallest inconvenience; it’s the soundtrack of France.

France understands me... never mind the accent!

And despite my foreign passport a few years back, dear friends made me a little bit more French by naming me “maraine” (aka: godmother) of their brown-eyed babe.

My dear friends, Luc & Estelle with my godson, Manoh!

He’s also dear to my heart and I had to go see him... and them, of course! This took me on a quick stop to the French Riviera.

Le Côte D’Azur (as the French call it) is miles of stoney beaches lined in pink plastered hotels selling beach chairs and overpriced lobsters. Year round beautiful people come to walk the promenade and gaze upon other beautiful people.

Basically it’s a mini-California... but with really great cheese!

Honestly Le Côte hasn’t changed much over the years. There is still a delicate taste of salt in the air and unseasonably warm breezes that envelop you in whiffs of bougainvillea and rosemary.

I remember this smell well as I lived on the coast almost 10 years ago while working with a church called Calvary Chapel Nice. Although I stayed just 9 months, they are months of powerful memories and experiences.

Pastors of CCNice, Pierre and Nancy Petrignani

And this weekend I was able to go back and reconnect with many of them. What a blessing to see all that God has been doing in and through them. It was startling to see how much had changed... but also what has not.

What a blessing to have been able to catch up with such great friends... and reminisce!

If you want the translation, look up Revelation 8:4

Next stop... Spain.

A glimpse of Heaven~

One of the last outings together in France, my French Parents and I strapped on hiking boots and packed a sac lunch for a walk in the woods. They live in the Pre-Alps region of south-western France and have the luck of being a ten-minutes-drive from some of the most jaw-dropping, rustic views.

We decided to go on a 10 kilometer hike around one of the mountain peaks, right outside the village of Beauregard (which in French means ‘beautiful view’). It’s a fairly simple trek once you make it up the 400 meter incline!

I had to stop more than once to catch my breath... but once on top, it took my breath away!

This time of year in France is magic.

Spring, in all her glory, bursts on the scene with lime-greened nuanced buds intermingled with emerald boughs and leafy jades. The freshness of her youth, accentuated by the pinks and yellows of bloom, takes you by storm and forces you to gawk in scintillated delight.

The well worn path we trekked took us through peaks and valleys.

The peaks, with rugged, scraggy edges, pushed their stoney teeth skyward in worship. The grass, laced in dandelions and wild violets, bounced back undaunted by our steps. The gentle afternoon light of Spring, back lit the scene, casting purple shadows and white highlights on all it touched -- even us. 

Alone in this valley of dandelioned-dotted paradise we marched on and on -- giggling, snapping pictures left and right, and marveling at God’s astounding artistry!

It was so much more than a breath of fresh air... it was a glimpse of heaven.

Thank God for afternoon walks in the French countryside!


One of my favorite pictures I took that day is this one... my French Mom and I giggled like school girls while catching our silhouettes on film.    -- a very sweet memory.

Une Vie de Reve!

Years ago, I came to France to study a year abroad. The first family to receive me didn’t work out, and by Christmas I was packing my bags to go home. However, the student exchange directors encouraged me to give it a second chance. They told me about a kind couple who lived in the South. Would I consider meeting them before hopping on that plane?

Having nothing to lose but a few weeks, I told them I’d give it a chance.

The week I spent with them was a bit tense. I thought they’d be just like the first family (who considered me a nanny/house help), but they surprised me.

The couple was also a bit leery; they were so disappointed in their first exchange student. Later they would tell me that they were looking at me in suspicion, as well. Would I rebel or cause trouble like the last one?

After our allotted week, we had a conversation.
“Do you want to stay?” they asked.
Shrugging my shoulders in teenage nonchalance: “Why not?’” Then a bit more hesitantly, I asked in turn: “Do you want me to stay?”
They looked at each other and nodded.        
            -- I guess it was settled.

At that moment, something clicked inside. We had only 6 months together, but we all fell in love. In that short time, they spoiled me like nobodies business, we traveled extensively all over Europe on my school breaks, and I continued my studies.

That was 17 years ago.

I won’t bore you with the details.... suffice it to know, they are more than friends. They are my ‘French Parents’. I’m never a guest in their home. When I’m with them, it’s family.



So in coming to France for my break, in essence, I was coming home. Sigh.

It has been a whirlwind of AM-AZ-ING food, laughter, reminiscing, and hugs. I cannot tell you how delightful it has been.

In this short week, I’ve gorged myself on ‘all things culture’. We’ve listened to opera practically non-stop while discussing the finer qualities of Verdi, Donazetti, and Puccini.

We visited two fabulous museums and delighted ourselves in modern dance productions, movies, and monuments. We’ve talked of Mozart, Chopin, Chagal and Soulange while nibbling chocolate and sipping espresso. (There is no pretense in France, this is really how they live!)          -- I loved it!

Years of ‘cultural drought’ have brought a ‘renaissance’ of desire. I want to write poetry, sing opera, dance ballet, and paint the walls in yellows and reds!

Oh... and the food! I don’t think I can describe the array of culinary delights without making you all so very jealous, that you refuse to read on! Suffice it to know, I’ve gained a few well deserved kilos... and loved every bite! 

It’s been heaven!

However, one of the finest moments came not in activity but silence. As I sprawled out on the lawn and breathed in the aromas of spring, I could feel the garden yawn beneath me. Stretching out each flower laden branch of pinks and whites, it stirred languidly from its wintery slumber, intoxicating me with scents of honey and wet earth.



Tenderly caressing my skin, the westerly sun lulled me to sleep where I dreamed of nothing-- absolutely nothing. Distant lands of harsh winds and blistering suns, were so far away as to seem unimaginable; my brain strained to remember them.

Unbelievable even to me, my memories seemed foreign. Could there really be a land of spear-carrying giants that spit? Or did I dream it?

Succumbing to my lotus-eating ways, I forgot everything and slept. Divine!

Sigh.

However, my ‘French Dream’ has come to a bleary-eyed end; I rub my eyes and stretch as I slowly wake. Although sad to say goodbye, I’m excited for what’s to come.

Today, I’m off to Switzerland. During this last half of my trip, I’ll be able to catch up with family and friends in the land of chocolate and cheese!     --Woohoo!

Who knows, I might even get to see the Matterhorn this time.

A girl can hope, right?

Baffling Silence.

For those who are part of my newsletter list or friends on Facebook, my silence has not come as a surprise. However, for those who only know me by this blog, my silence must have been a bit baffling. Sorry for that.

I’m new to blogging. I wasn’t aware of what my silence would do to my faithful readers. I get that now. Please forgive my blunder and let me explain.

The work I do in Sudan is taxing. It is 24/7 of unrelenting pouring out. In wisdom and concern, my directors told me before coming, I’d need to leave Sudan every 3 to 4 months for a little R&R.

After 12 years of living and working in Sudan, they knew that taking a break would help me maintain perspective. At first, I thought it was a bit excessive, but now I see the wisdom of it all.

Living in the Sticks doesn’t facilitate a weekend away. In order to get the needed rest, I have to fly to Kenya (our base country). But since there is only one flight in and out each month, I often have to leave for a month at a time.

My first R&R was last September. I spent my time getting used to my new setting and meeting other missionaries in the area. It was refreshing but VERY expensive.

When I complain to my Kenyan friends that Nairobi is expensive, they often try to disagree with me. For Kenyans Nairobi is pricy but not exorbitant, but for Mozungus, it’s outrageous.

Perhaps my reference points were all twisted during my time in the Philippines (where you can eat a meal for 50 cents), but I find Kenya to be a tourist trap of outrageous price-gorging and luxury.

Sigh.

So, as my second R&R approached, I felt conflicted. I knew I needed to rest --- my brain was fuzzy with fatigue-- but I also dreaded the idea of spending so much money in Kenya’s capital.

Sharing my dilemma with friends in Europe, they instantly suggested I come to spend my time with them.

At first I laughed. There would be no way I could go to Europe for cheaper than staying in Kenya. But when I looked into it, I was surprised to find out I could.

That is how I’ve found my way to Europe.

As I sit in this chilly cafe, techno music drowning out the espresso machine, I can’t tell you how far away Africa feels.

Was it all a dream to which I’ve woken with a start?

As I shake off the sleepy confusion of these crowded few weeks in Europe, I find myself trapped in a mire of culture shock. Sigh.

I’ve never felt more disoriented. I’ve never felt more unnatural. I’ve never felt more at home.

An illegal alien, but one adept in dissimulation and mimicry, I’ve slipped into my European cloak. No one suspects me for the intruder I am.

Here, I’m not a Mozungu. Here, no one calls me Kowaja. Here I’m a faceless number in the crowd-- a short smile that passes by in scarf and jeans, unworthy of note.

It has been a time of forgetfulness and escape. I’ve lost myself in this crowd. It’s been oddly comforting.

Thank you for praying for me to have this restful break. Thank you for making this trip possible. Thank you for loving me so well and caring for me so dearly. I’m unwinding... but there are still a few persistent knots.

Please pray with me as I slowly unravel them. They are tricky knots soaked in tears and confusion. Please also pray for my personal Bible study time, it’s more of a chore then ever to read His precious words. Pray I can take my knots to Him and find rest. Thanks.