3 Posts Today--don't miss the two below!

Location: Under a tree on the side of a hill overlooking the small French village where I have been staying. It is a little after 4:30pm on the French Independence Day, July 14.

Weather-wise, today has been one of the most beautiful since I arrived here; it is hot in the sun and perfect with the breeze in the shade. The plump clouds are reminders of the this morning's sprinkles; such overcast demeanor and showers in cool temperatures have been more the norm here this past week.

Not long ago, I would have fallen asleep here in the peace, except for the cow-bell tinkling below me, gravity pulling me down the hill, and a few ants in the pants. I am near some beehives, and sure enough, the beekeeper came to check on them while I was here! However, I know him, and he would not have noticed me had I not hailed him; he told me to make myself at home in this little spot under the tree. I have found that my poncho was a great purchase before I left! It has kept me dry more than once, and it makes a good seat on dirty or wet ground.

Before I walked out into the countryside, I spent some time in the church. I have found it to be a great place to sing (the echoes are really cool!), and I confess that I like to play the keyboard in there since there are no other instruments around. Today, though, I got caught! But it turned out to be good. The young man who found me, F., is the organist, and he let me play the old pipe organ! Just like everyone else in town, he is super nice, and it was a joy to converse with him.

I met another new friend this morning. My buddy, E., has been trying to convince me to take a bike out, and I have wanted to do so, but I never remember until I am halfway out into the countryside. Today Nelly suggested a bike, so off I went, not planning to ride far, but to go somewhere to write a story that was ready to burst out of my head. I had just peddled off when I crossed paths with a Belgian man who joined me. Unfortunately, the result of that was a terrible uphill climb that left us gasping for breath! It made me think of my mentor, J., back in Indiana. He is obsessed with cycling; he is jealous that I am here during the Tour de France, and he has roped me into not a few cycling endeavors. He says that the amateurs are weeded out from the veterans by the hills--a true cyclist can maintain his pace uphill. I am not a true cyclist!

Nevertheless, I enjoyed speaking with the man until I thought I was going to get sick from exertion after a full breakfast, then I could not get him to leave fast enough! But as soon as I felt better, I continued into the forest to a French military cemetery I knew of: there I found a bench and spit out my story, until the rain chased me home!

As I rode back down the hill I had crawled up, I was flying! How great it was to go downhill, my only thoughts being "watch for oncoming traffic" and "I hope my cap doesn't fly off!"

But I realized that the past week has been a beautiful downhill ride for me. I have caught up on rest and laundry and food and joy and prayer and housekeeping items. I have been blessed and cared for, far beyond normal hospitality. So it is with mixed feelings that I consider leaving this place in a couple of days. I realize there will be more uphill climbs and rain, and I will have to peddle steadily. Instead of being found out in my refuges of peace (i.e. the church building or under this tree), I will have to take the peace with me.

I used to have a professor who said that tension is necessary for growth. I believe that is true not only for me, but for God's Kingdom. Most people who are terribly oppressed by the things of this world cannot imagine that there is a good God who loves them. Most people who have a relatively good life cannot imagine a need for a relationship with that loving God--life seems fine without Him. Maybe it is only when there is tension between the seemingly good things of this world and the storms of life that people are willing to consider God and His love.

It pleased me to learn that thirty or forty people gather in the empty church here once a month for mass. It is virtually dead the rest of the time, but there is a glimmer of life inside occasionally. Like when F. was playing the organ: I could imaging people dancing and leaping with joy! That is what life is like when you realize that the God of the Universe has been asking you to join Him in His holy life since before you can remember!

Life is not always easy or fun. Do you know that I bought bread from the baker that drove through town this morning? In the same way, doctors still make house-calls in France. Why? I think it is because the sickly parts of life hit us in the midst of our normal routines, when we least expect it, even in our homes! What would happen if your routine was interrupted today? What if it was interrupted drastically? What if tragedy suddenly struck? Would you be able to keep your pace as you peddled up the mountain? Or would your voice merely echo back to you in an empty church?

As I look out over this quaint village that seems so peaceful, I remember that all but two of its houses were destroyed during the first World War. It has since been rebuilt.

Our lives can be rebuilt, too. It is naive to think that nothing bad will ever happen to us. We live in a corrupted world, among a crooked and twisted generation. Bad things happen. So let's use the downhill ride to prepare. Let's rest up and pray in advance. Let's take shelter under the protective "wing" of our loving God; let's get know Him personally long before we have to run to Him in an emergency. Because when it is time to climb that hill, a cross will not help you. Neither will a panicked recitation of the Lord's Prayer, nor a fish sticker on your car, nor the fact that you dropped change in the Salvation Army's Christmas bucket. When the storms of life come, it is the Name of the Lord that is the strong tower, the refuge and shelter from the storm. It is the Calmer of the Storms who walks on water and pulls you out when you are drowning. And as His Kingdom grows in you, it will be almost impossible to keep from dancing and leaping in joy!

In the Breeze

If you close your eyes and listen carefully, you can hear her humming as the melody peeks out from behind the steady percussion of her garden hoe. It is the same melody she hummed this morning as she left her sleeping family in the dim hut; it is the same melody she sang as a lullaby to her grandchildren when she nestled them under their blankets last night. Her daughter would join her in the garden soon, but for now she would be tending the fire and making breakfast before taking the laundry to the river. Thus, in the clear morning sun, she hummed to herself as she enjoyed the solitude of her travail.

Had you asked her, you would not have learned much. She spoke only a few local languages; thus she would not have been able to tell you in which African country she lived. But like her kin, she displayed her native beauty. Her maternal frame was not heavy, but toughened from long days and years of labor. Her strength revealed itself in her proud neck as she balanced enormous bundles on her head, and in her swaying hips when she held them between her hunched shoulder blades. Her stamina and power rivaled that of many men, yet she displayed it in a gentle grace that could only be described with words that define a woman: full of feeling, lovely, delicate, nurturing, mysterious, quiet, wise. Her Maker had sculpted her beauty masterfully; it was a simple beauty, practical but exquisite and matchless.

She leaned on her hoe, not feeling her years but rather the sun's warm touch on her perspiring brow. She smiled into the gentle breeze that cooled her, then turned, as if watching to see where it went.

If her eyes could have followed that invisible stream of air, they would have seen it curl and dance across the northern part of the continent, through jungle and over desert, teasing the waves of the Mediterranean before sightseeing among the ruins of Ancient Greece and Rome, and trying to lose itself in the deep woods of Europe. It tickled pine needles and deciduous leaves alike, making the trees and flowers ripple with laughter. As the tallest trees swayed like a choir high above the carpeted turf, there stood one tree unlike the others. Tucked into the shadows of the magnificent conifers, it stood humbly, unnoticed by any passerby who found his way so far into the wood. Even an expert would have struggled to identify this specimen. Gorgeous, with softly colored jewels for buds that never blossomed into arrogant flowers, it seemed somehow very simple and appropriate to its environs. Nothing proclaimed its richness, yet its leaves were inviting and branches healthy. Its roots had carefully laced themselves into the soil, spreading like a skirt in circular pattern beneath the garden of rocks and moss. Bees and other winged creatures hummed around it, echoing an almost African melody. What gentle grace it exuded, not caring if any came to marvel at it!

The swirling zephyr suddenly upset the sailing clouds, driving them into a churning mass. The treetops whipped in agony, feeling sharp pain in the air. It could be traced back to that garden, where the grandmother had just felt inside her a stab of tragedy, confirmed all to soon by a young boy who ran to summon her back to her mourning family. As she raced across uneven ground, the hoe forgotten, she recalled the many other unexpected storms of life she had weathered. Her hum turned to a wail as she arrived home, joining in the grief of her loved ones.

In the forest, the storm wailed in full force now. The winding winds had become straight-blasting gales, streaming mercilessly toward the helpless trees, rooted in panic. The tall trees with stout girths bent until they snapped, sheared as though a meteor had crashed through them. Logs tumbled from above like hailstones, ripping into the undergrowth and sending squealing creatures to hurriedly find better cover. A few moments of such wind devastated the mighty forest!

Yet amid the falling splinters and foliage, the roots of a nameless tree clung to her earth. Her supple trunk stretched in the wind; half her leaves blew free, several of her branches torn off. She writhed in pain as only a tree can do, dizzy amid the horrendous confusion. Her brethren, slaughtered by the storm, no longer seemed so mighty, so haughty.

Suddenly it became still; the storm had passed. Amid the wrecked stood a tough little tree, beaten and weathered, but no less alive; no less beautiful. The weeks passed, the tree flourished. On another continent, a woman returned to her garden, to her work. She, too, lived vibrantly, bending in the storms of life and often crying as the wind tore at her and those she loved, bending in the garden or under a heavy load when there was work to be done, but not breaking. The tear stains would dry and crinkle into laugh lines. When the sun rose again, she would stand tall, scarred perhaps, scared sometimes, but welcoming with a smile the new day and the joy that comes with the morning.

And in the stillness of the forest, a wanderer pausing beneath a lovely little tree in a sunlit clearing faintly heard a woman humming . . . .

Ephesians 6:19--My Prayer Request for the Next Few Days

Pray also for me, that whenever I open my mouth, words may be given me so that I will fearlessly make known the mystery of the gospel...

72 New Photos!

Location: Living Room Couch, a little after 7pm on the 13th of July (which marks 2 months in Europe!)

Thanks to E., there are now 72 photos of this village for you to enjoy on my picasa site! I spent the day with him and his wife yesterday, going to a couple of "brocands," which are basically whole-village yardsales. I also spent a good part of today and yesterday with them, working on getting their computer working the way we want it to. Then last night, I had the privilege of speaking with a friend of my who told me some things I needed to hear. I hope you have a friend like that! Today was a lot of "housekeeping" work for me, a haircut, train-tickets, backing up my computer, etc. I plan to do more of it tonight instead of writing on the blog; enjoy the photos!

In the Morning...

Location: In my bedroom overlooking the quiet French village just before 5:00am on the 12 of July.

It is my favorite time of day. I love these wee morning hours when the world is still, the birds are finishing their dreams before they begin their songs, and the sun is stretching and warming up before rising for its daily race across the sky.

I am thankful for last night's headache, because it sent me to bed early so I could enjoy this morning. Yet I am grateful that the headache is gone; I have had two in the last few days after having none for quite some time. Thank you for your prayers.

There are many things I could tell you, but I have nothing to say, really. Friday was a fun day of hanging out with the American couple across the street. E. and I worked on his computer a little (we have more work to do!), and in the afternoon they took me along when they went to pick cherries! (By the way, E. really wants me to post this picture of the woodpile near the cherry trees, overlooking the village. That should be enough fuel for the winter, woodn't you think?!) That evening, my hostess, N., and I went to Verdun to have dinner with the octogenarian whose yard I had worked in last week. While N. ran some errands before dinner, I sat and watched the locals play "boules," a tradional French game of lawn bowling. Then we stopped by the house of N.'s aunt--she is 101 year old! When I told her I wanted to take a picture of me with a century of France, she said I was too tall and hurried to grab a stool and climb up on it so we would be the same size! Later that evening, I also managed to use the Bluetooth function on my laptop to transfer N.'s photos from her cell phone to her computer. You know this is a small village when I am the computer expert!!!

Yesterday was fine, too. I visited with the Americans a little before heading to the town of Vauquois for a two-hour tour of the four-year battle zone from World War I (in fact, most of the big-name Americans in WWII found themselves there during WWI, such as Patton and Truman). The majority of the tour is underground, as both the Germans and the French dug tunnels and galleries under the town on the hill, setting explosives there. The Germans had an entire town underground and actually lived there. It was certainly interesting, and hopefully the one photo I took turns out so I can post it. However, I could not take more, because there is a certain oppressive horror that settled around me as I thought about all the ways we come up with to kill each other. I hate it. Later in the afternoon, I spent several hours playing with my hostess' seven-year-old grandniece and some neighborhood kids, and I had to chide one of them who was playing dangerously with a knife. Why are we humans so fascinated with violence?

The over-arching theme for yesterday, then, was a siege of thinking. Even before I visited the historical site, I was extremely pensive and prayerful. In fact, I wanted to get away from everyone so I could think, but I also wanted to get away from my thoughts. I did spend a time in the empty church yesterday, playing the old keyboard in there and singing praises. The echo is magnificent!

What was I thinking about? I was thinking about the people for whom I have been praying, interceding. Many people I know and love--many of you--are going through great struggles and growth. I was thinking about the rest of this summer as I prepare to move on soon, wondering what the LORD has in store for me. I was thinking about what God is doing in Romania and what my friends there have been doing and feeling. I was thinking about my friendships from the past several years that have both sustained me and challenged me, sometimes hurting a lot, sometimes bringing great joy--sometimes both simultaneously. I was thinking further into the future, about the end of my European summer, what that might mean, when that might be, the different opportunities I have. I was imagining different lifestyles, depending on where I end up residing, whether I have a family or not, what "home" might mean for a free-spirit like me.

Even as I type, knowing that this barely uncovers a glimpse of my musings, tears come to my eyes and a little light comes to the morning skies. I love the LORD Jesus. That is all there is to it.

Most people here cannot begin to understand that, because they think so much in terms of religion and tradition that they cannot imagine relationship when it comes to God. But most people in the States do not get it either. I know that because things would be a lot different if they did. I can assure you from my experience that a life of living full-throttle with the LORD, of following Him no matter the cost, of adventuring with Him at every moment, of surrendering to His Spirit daily...that life is matchless! Pain, burdens, responsibilities, obstacles, lessons, and goodbyes come with it. But so do countless blessings, joys, rewards, love, and a parent-child intimacy with the Living God! Oh, how I wish the people here knew Him! Oh, how I hope you know Him! Look beyond this world's broken Church, through the denominations and doctrines, past the traditions and religious histories and seek the LORD while He may be found--call upon Him while He was near! You will find Him when you seek Him with your whole heart! He is so merciful that He has even allowed Himself to be found by those that did not seek Him!

Friend, you may think me a fool. You may look with disdain upon my spontaenous wanderings across a European continent that often end up with me washing dishes. You may consider me some sort of religious fanatic who vomits his writing onto a long-winded blog. But, Friend, look at the world around you. Look at the things the world esteems to be of value, to be holy. Look at our fixation with violence and death and evil. Look at the lifestyles that hold us prisoner, forcing so many people to pretend they are happy during year upon year of misery. Look at all that and ask yourself if it may not be worth looking into what this fool is talking about . . .

Eat, Sleep, Think and Pray

Location: Near the bedroom window overlooking the small French village (a little before 8:00am on Friday, July 10)

Certainly the past weeks of my journey have been exhausting; I can tell because I rested well for a long time last night, yet I could easily return to dreamland for a little while. I am catching up from all the busy adventures. What a respite this week has been! Yes, I did get to help with firewood yesterday, and I have helped make dinner and weed flower beds, not to mention several opportunities of nice kitchen pace (now kitchen paix). But I have been able to rest, to catch up on emails and laundry, to walk in the countryside, to visit area monuments, and to converse with neighbors over meals. It has been a much needed period of recovery, and I am very happy here.

For example, yesterday morning I meandered through the village and sat in the empty church while it rained. After lunch and some kitchen paix, I took a long walk in the countryside among the cows and beehives. Then my hostess, N., took me to see the World War I American Cemetery (the largest in Europe), as well as a couple other American war memorials. Then I helped load and unload firewood, and I had dinner next door, getting beat in Connect 4 by a seven-year-old. (Check out the photos--more to come--not bad for a broken camera, eh?)

This has given me lots of time to pray and to think. Here are some of my thoughts:

While I am being blessed with peace, I dare not lessen my intercession for those near and dear to me. Please join me in praying for M., the nephew of my hostess who was suddenly admitted to the hospital yesterday with an odd inflammation of a gland in his abdomen. Please pray for T., a young boy and friend of mine in Indiana who had beat cancer a year or two ago, only to have a brain tumor found last week and surgery on the 4th of July. Please continue to pray for God's work in Romania as this week's wheelchair distribution wraps up having gone well, but also having exhausting the team's energy, patience, and resources.

Just before I came to this village, I stained my light-khaki shorts with yellow curry. We have tried and tried to remove the stain, with no success. Soon I think we are going to try dying them. It makes me think about the little sins that we so often let creep into our lives. We do not think too much of them, and at some point we try to remove them ourselves. We only make things worse, and the stains remain. Finally, we decide that since we cannot remove them, we should try to cover them up. Concerning short pants, that might be okay. Concerning sins, I am glad we have a Savior who died that we might be forgiven.

The Lord not only provides, but He protects. He is a shield about me. How can I be afraid?

I love this village, and except for a couple things, I really think I could live here. We will see what the LORD has in store. Whatever His plans, they will be wonderful! I am praying about the coming months, because I am guessing that if I decide to change my September plane ticket, I should do so soon; there are some other things I would like to do here. Yet without a visa, I would be unable to legally stay in this part of Europe much longer. Soon I will be working at a camp, and I have been making some tentative plans to meet up with friends during some free weeks.

Just as I was surprised at how well I was able to communicate in Romanian, I am pleased with how quickly my French has returned, and how easy it is to switch back and forth between that and English.

Produce straight from the garden, eggs straight from the chickens, cherries straight from the trees always taste better than any other kind of food, especially when the former is prepared in a French village kitchen!

Would you be amazed if I told you that the baker comes through each day to sell bread in this village? That gives a new meaning to "Give us this day our daily bread..." Other services are sold here, too, like the butcher or the milkman. The school meets in the same building as the courthouse and has probably twenty kids through fifth grade. Though most people in town have cars, there is a bus that comes through, and the neighbors help each other out when they do not have transportation. I discovered yesterday that the population here is technically 199--so for now, I am number 200!

I bless you in the Name of Jesus, the Bread of Life who gives us our daily bread and removes our stains!

A Short Piece of Fiction

I am sitting behind a church graveyard in a small village in France, a village that was rebuilt after the war. The bird songs decorate the general peace that grows here, covering the heartaches and tears that visit every life now and then.

The setting reminds me of a conversation I had with two elderly French mesdames not so long ago. Seated side-by-side on a bench outside their residence, one obviously enjoyed the dancing aromas while the other glared at the shadows and the insects. Needing to rest my wear feet, I approached with a soft smile and bid them "Bonjour, Mesdames." Soon I was seated cross-legged before them on the grassy carpet, our conversation half lost in the tangle of breeze that drifted past.

When I say "our" conversation, I refer to my exchange with the lady on my right, the one whose face glowed with the embers of a life well-lived. The other apparently ignored us, her frown sculpted permanently where she had set it. Silence. Or at least, until it happened.

What happened? I am not sure I know. But all of a sudden, the lady to my left cracked her plaster mask and, with no less frown, began speaking, almost continuing the conversation that had recently died out into a pleasant calm. Her words took no note of us, softly and sadly rippling down like a steam crashing into rocks on the side of a mountain. But she knew we were listening.

Evidently, painful years ago, the lady had been a young girl, recently moved into a new town with her sister and their family, a town in which they were lost, not speaking the local language. One fateful day, the sisters and their beloved mother took a train to the nearest city; their father stayed behind, needing to bring in the harvest. Less than an hour into their trip, she had become angry with her mother; no longer could she even recall the reason. Impulsively, she stomped to the back of the train, hardly arriving their before she was flung against the wall. The train had derailed after hitting a tractor! Screeches and cries disappeared into black smoke and sobs. Naturally, she sought her mother's protective arms, but, alas, she was pinned beneath some hulk of metal.

She tried so hard to forget the nightmare that followed that she succeeded in large part and can no longer describe the events that followed. Somehow, she ended up in a hospital bed, her grieving father next to her, beginning a recovery that never healed the deep wound inside, left there when her mother was wrenched from her life. Her father was not a bad man, but he never clearly conveyed his love through his rough exterior. Her mother, on the other hand, seemed to her an angel, seemed to her perfect, seemed to her the original definition of mother.

They carried her to the funeral of her mother and sister, and thus began her weekly tradition. As soon as she could again walk, she would hike up the rise to the cloistered churchyard, bringing flowers she carefully gathered along the way. Every Sunday she came, tending the grave site. Were their no flowers, she would decorated it in any way she could, with ribbons and lace or icicles or buttons and beads. She would cry, or occasionally chuckle in memories that eventually led to more sobs, as she relived the cherished moments of their life that ended in her mother's death.

As they had only just relocated to the town, they knew no one well. As she lay recovering in the home of a gentle neighbor, her father ranged the countryside, unwilling to accept his bride's death. He was gone three month, searching every village, but loosing hope everyday. He finally returned to find his daughter suffering, as he was, from their traumatic loss.

Her father remarried, driving a wedge into their already aloof rapport. Now she had no one, and she had refused to learn the language, instead choosing to seclude herself from the threatening world around her. The turning seasons found her in the same routine. Each day she would say prayers for the deceased, each Sunday she trekked to the tombstone, easily remarked among those left untended.

If someone had asked, she would have told them she was happy; she thought she was. She knew no different. She told herself that everyone carries such burdens, and her sister, and especially her mother, deserved it. They would have done the same for her. She carried her chin set proudly. She would have been beautiful if the look in her eye had not been so dull and exhausted. She would have been pleasant company if she ever allowed her emotions out of the box in which she had locked them. But instead of courting a handsome young man, she appeased Death, living in the loss of her mother, growing old before ever letting her youth live. All who saw her knew her, that holy woman who dressed in rigid garb and pious look, shuffling toward the church each Sunday to honor one who had died.

As she told this tale, I watched her face. Her demeanor leaked regret, and I noticed her companion sink into a borrowed sadness.

The years had passed like this. Nearly seventy years. I dare not say that life passed, for she was not living, it seemed. She was writhing in the rut of her lifeless, joyless traditions.

One snowy Sunday as she hobbled upward, she was noticed by a beautiful lady in the street. This lady, in fact, had lived as many years or even more than she, but somehow was youthful and alive. This beauty had a tender heart, and watching the shuddering silhouette before her, she moved to aid the woman in her ascent. Only then looking up, the gnarled woman gave a cry, seeing a face not so different from her own; she recognized her sister!

For a moment at least, it was a happy reunion. But her sister confirmed that their mother was dead. Our storyteller than began her tale, labouring to spin the yarn of their father's second marriage and eventual death, of her many faithful years tending the grave and praying to a God that seemed oblivious to her tears. As she spoke, she led her vibrant sister to the site, proudly showing how much she cared for their mother. The sister watched in awe as she pointed out decorations and candles, as she explained the weekly treks, the blisters, the inclement weather, the work needed to clean the stone, the prayers, and the rest of her ritual.
Suddenly, she who listened, who displayed such a joy and beauty about her, burst into muffled sobs. Unable to listen anymore, she interrupted her sister, who had not given her a chance to say much of anything, so great was her pride in her years of holy labour.

"My dear Sister!" she cried. "But if you only knew! It is true that Mother died, and oh! I miss her! But neither did she die on that train! She died only one month ago! For decades you have honored her as a dead saint, as a dimming memory. You have been faithful to her, you have loved who she was when you lost her! But, alas! If only you had known her! For those same decades, I lived with her! Everyday we spoke, sometimes even singing together. She smiled over my wedding! She helped me raise children! She gave me advice when I needed it, comfort when I lacked it, encouragement when I was ready to give up! She rejoiced with me when I rejoiced, wanting to here from me the slightest of details! Yes, she often thought wistfully of you, wishing you were close, hoping you would find her! You loved her, and her memory . . . but I was blessed to love her and be loved by her!"

At this, I remembered where we were. As I leapt back into reality, I noticed that the gloom of regret had once more quenched the words of the lady. Her sister, with sad eyes, finished the tale. She explained that they had been taken to a hospital further away for special treatment and were unable to get word to their family. When they were able to return finally to the town, they were too late, it seemed. The house was empty, and with the language barrier, they had been unable to locate their husband and father, or their daughter and sister. Having no other choice, they returned to their former home, among a people they knew, and rebuilt their life. Now, finally reunited with her sister, her only remaining family member, it grieved her to watch her sister churn the regret of missing years of life with their beloved mother.

I could tell that both woman had lived through much turmoil, but how different the result! One lived forever in hellish guilt, reliving the days of dogmatic conversation with a tombstone that could have been instead warm embraces of a loving mother. The other could not contain the contagious joy of a happy life, and it was only shrouded now and then by her empathetic, endless love for her sister beside her. She would never leave her now that she had found her! Their relationship was more important than anything else life had to offer! It had been the same with her mother. Now her mother lived in her, loving the faithful sister who had been dead for so many years . . . .

Resting in Peace

Location: Sitting in bed in the small French village, across the street from the house where the Americans live (7:30am on July the 9th)

So where did I leave off?

Oh yeah, the unloading of the wood never happened--maybe today?

I told you I am in paradise. I was told that it would be peaceful--just me and the cows! There was even a gigantic doilie (how do you spell the fancy lace-like decorations that polka-dot the parlors in grandmothers houses?) covering my bed! I am being hosted by a retired lady; in the other half of the house lives her retired brother and his wife, and for the moment, their seven year old granddaughter. There is a barn between the two halves. Two retired Americans live across the street.

The village was in the middle of the war zone in World War II. All but two houses were destroyed. There are still trenches in the forests, and it is illegal to have fires in the forests because of bombs that may be laying around. There are craters the remain from the aerial attacks, and they keep finding new tunnels that were dug by both the Germans and the French. There are also little stone buildings that were used to provide cover for the soldiers.

Two nights ago, we went for a drive looking for deer (we saw several, and a fox). But we passed many of the war monuments, cemetaries, trenches, tunnels, and so on. It is a bizarre feeling and sobering to be surround by such sad history while observing such beauty in God's creation. We passed through several neighboring villages, and in the last we stopped, entered a cow pasture, and ate cherries straight off the tree. They told me that they always taste best right off the tree! But even there, with the cattle standing as sentries, there is a French graveyard full of military crosses right next to the cherry trees. You cannot escape the history here.
I already mentioned the helicopter that made me feel a bit like James Bond... Two fighter jets streaked past us later that day, too; there is a military base not far from here. We passed one yesterday, too, which might have been it or a different one.

You know, last time I was here, it was not very popular to be American, because the USA was invading Iraq. Surely you remember the "Freedom Fries" the Americans were eating in order to insult the French. The Americans and the French have an interesting relationship. As I spoke with a French man the other day, we were joking around about what we thought of each other. When I told him what Americans thought of the French, he joked back, saying that it was not true, because Americans do not even know where France is! (Sadly, there is a lot of truth in that statement.) But he sobered up quickly, and he said something I will never forget. He said, "Wait a minute. I will speak frankly. During the war, Americans came here and died so that I could still be French. They did not know where France was even then, but I have the utmost respect and appreciation for them. We must never forget that! But now, they still do not know where France is!"

Yes, things are certainly different between the two cultures. For example, you probably have no idea how much the French loved Michael Jackson. We joked about it last time I lived here, that the French could name all of his relatives and songs and more! So this week, they have been amazed that I did not care to watch the funeral (which was live on at least two channels!). It has been the talk of the country, and I was even in Romania when he initially died!

So now, I am truly in France. One lady told me that everyone thinks "Paris" when they think France, but Paris is just like any other big city, in most ways! Now I am seeing France, and I have to admit I love it. I have always struggled to enjoy France, but this small village is changing my mind!

Yesterday, we took a trip to Reims to see the famous cathedral there. It actually turned into a shopping spree, as I was with three women and a little lady! But I survived and was consoled by the cat we brought back with us; it chose my lap as the first-class seat for the hour and a half car ride back!

Have you seen the animated film "Ratatouille"? We had ratatouille for lunch yesterday!

Before I wrap up and go find some breakfast, you are probably wondering why God has me here. I do not know all the reasons, but I know that God is a God of relationship. This town has no Church; it has a church, but so few people come to the local mass here and in the neighboring villages that the priests must rotate. And there is no other Church. Unfortunately, like in the United States, most people in France do not understand that God is relational.

In Romania, must people were Greek Orthodox. In France, most are Catholic. But very few in either place know God. They go on Sundays to try to find Him hiding in an ornate building that is hideous the rest of the week. (Yesterday, my hostess said I was welcome to pray in the cathedral, and I told her thanks anyway, because God is hard to find in cathedrals. He does not dwell in houses built by men, but in the hearts of men.) Very recently, a French woman staunchly argued religion with me. She explained how it was insane to believe that Adam and Eve were more than a metaphor to explain the problem of evil, that surely the loaves and fishes miracle never happened. But she agreed that the definition of Christianity rested in the incarnation of God, becoming man to dwell among our sufferings and to offer us a living hope.

Tragically, even the demons believe that, and shudder. If you know that God revealed Himself to us in the form of a man through His Son, Jesus, who died on a cross and rose again to give us eternal life, you know the textbook definition of Christianity. But if you do not KNOW that Jesus, nothing else matters.

Perhaps you have millons of prayers memorized and you offer alms or keep the Sabbath holy. If you do not KNOW the God who is our Father, our Abba, our Papa, it does not matter.

Maybe you know that God loves us. Great! But if you do not love and KNOW that God, your knowledge is useless.

Yes! God loves you!

Yes! God clothed Himself as a man (Jesus) who died on a cross for your sins!

Yes! Jesus conquered death and offers us eternal life!

Yes! The Spirit has been sent into our world to help us!

BUT ALL THIS IS FUTILE, USELESS, WORTHLESS, IF YOU DO NOT KNOW THAT GOD. He is a person with whom we can be in relationship, like our father, mother, brother, friend, teacher, etc. What is more: that is what He wants! That is WHY Jesus came to die--to make that possible.

Friend, I have written a lot today. Do not take my word for it. If you want to argue about metaphors with me, I will not be insulted--just email me. But take a look at the Bible. Read it through the eyes of relationship. Look at how, since the beginning of time, God has intended for His people to be in relationship with Him.
But do not just read; enter into that relationship with Him. It is so much better than any church service of any kind. It is so much better than memorized prayers or Easter clothes.

A relationship with the living God--now that is adventure!