Jennie Goutet's Blog: A Lady in France, page 28

The Viscount – Chapter Twenty-One

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“She’s here,” Chastity said, jumping up from the couch and running over to the Intercom. “This should be fun,” her mother said, patting Tommy’s back gently. She was still wary of any movement that might jostle him or cause one of the tension headaches he was now prone to. Her grandson didn’t answer, but continued to push a small car over the tiny hills in his blanket.

Chastity opened the door, and turned the lights on in the hallway just before the elevator pinged open. The slim, sturdy form of a woman of uncertain age exited the elevator, hidden under coats, scarves and hats. Her teeth was very bright against her dark skin.

“Bonjour Madel,” Chastity shook her hand, smiling back at her. “Thank you for coming a little early for my first day back.”

“It’s my pleasure,” the woman responded pleasantly. “We can make sure Thomas has everything he needs before you leave.”

“My mother is still here, but I think if there is anything you two need to communicate to each other, Thomas should be able to translate it.”

“We’ll be just fine,” Madel reassured her. “Bonjour Madame.” She nodded her head towards the older woman as she unwound her scarf and removed her coat. “Bonjour Thomas,” she directed towards her unresponsive protégé.

“Would you like some of that fruit tea with honey?” Chastity had gone into the kitchen and returned with the box in hand. But when Madel nodded, it was her mother who took it from her and headed towards the electric water kettle. “You take care of seeing that Tommy has everything he needs, my dear.”

Chastity sat down on the large square footrest that extended, but was separated, from the couch where Thomas was sitting. Madel had pulled up a chair from the dining room table and was sitting next to him with a notepad, marking some elementary observations. Chastity waited for her to finish writing.

“Well, Thomas. How are you feeling today?” He just shrugged. After waiting a minute without receiving further clarification, she asked him, “Where does it hurt today?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” was the sulky reply. “But I feel irritated.”

“Well that’s nothing new, is it then? We’re going to do our usual routine today, but change some of the memory games and stretches. You’ll get plenty of chance to rest in between. Do you feel up for it?” Thomas shrugged again, but nodded his head.

“Great!” Madel clapped her hands on her lap with one of her sunny smiles, adding with a wink,”I also brought you a new movie that I think you will like.” And turning to Chastity, asked, “Has he been to the osteopath this week?”

“Yes, twice,” she answered. “He feels like he’s making some progress, and I do think Tommy is sleeping better.”

“That is just what I had hoped to hear. Osteopaths work wonders, and I’m glad you’re getting coverage for his. Well Thomas, shall we let your mom get to work?” Chastity’s mother had come to stand in the doorway at this point, and though she didn’t understand the conversation, she could see that Chastity was standing with her coat and purse in her arms. Thomas didn’t answer, so she went over to take her daughter’s place at his side.

Chastity tried to keep her voice steady as she addressed her son in English. “Well sweetie. Grandma’s here and so is Madel. Is there anything you want for when I get back from school?”

“I want to visit the stables like that guy promised.”

 “What guy?” Her mind flashed back to Deauville. Could he be remembering that incident? His mind didn’t often stretch to things beyond what was currently happening – at least not in any way that he communicated. That would be a good sign.

“When we saw Mickey.”

So it was the encounter in Deauville he was remembering. She couldn’t forget such a name, or such a large animal. “It won’t be today, honey,” was the only thing she could think of to say. She was almost starting to feel comfortable enough to ask the Viscount if they could visit his stables, but she was not quite there yet. And it was too cold anyway, and he was still too unwell to venture such a visit. Her son didn’t say anything else in response, so she kissed him gently on the forehead, and then went over to hug her mom.

“I’m nervous,” she whispered, as her mom squeezed her tight.

“But you’re doing the right thing,” her mom said in answer. “I’ll still be here for another week, and by then it will be routine for everyone. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

* * *

Camille stomped along the muddy path next to the houses that had no sidewalks, and without warning, he slipped and landed right in the mud. Blood rushed to his cheeks, and he felt fury take hold of him as he reached over to grab his bag and get himself into an upright position. The fact that no one was there to see his humiliation, apart from an old lady in a housedress who was in the process of opening her shutters, did nothing to calm his rage.

First it was his dad. He chose today! – the day when Camille had planned on ending things with Jean and Jerôme and the whole drug scene to read him a lecture on the dangers of drugs and getting in over his head. As if he were a child that needed to be told what to do. He wasn’t even done with breakfast when his dad started in on him.

“ … and when I get back from London, we’re going to have more of a regular schedule together to see how you’re doing and start taking a look at some of your homework.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Papa,” he flashed back.

“That’s not what I meant – ” His dad had looked hurt, but he shoved that out of his mind. Served him right. He had no right to meddle now when for years he had been too busy to take more than a passing interest in him. All those years when Camille was on his own and had no one to talk to besides Paltier and Olivier – the gardener before Martin. Olivier had been teaching Camille how to tend some of the vegetables in the hothouse before he announced that he needed to move down South to care for his ageing father.

And then his interview with Jean had not gone at all like he expected. He thought that he could end things cleanly and move on with his life, but he now saw that it was not going to be quite that easy.

“I brought you something,” Jean had said, tossing a bag of weed on his lap by way of greeting. “It’s a freebie. To thank you for your service these last couple of months. And there’s more where that came from if you continue to pull in the same amount of orders.” He seemed more cheerful than he had any right to be.

“Thanks,” Camille mumbled, stuffing the marijuana in his bag. There was no reason to say no to something that was free. “But I need to talk to you about that. I want out.”

Camille was startled by the gaze that Jean turned on him. He had never seen his eyes look so hard. Jean stared at him intently for a moment, and then suddenly turned away, and in a voice that was deceptively casual, “Where’s the money you owe me Camille?”

Camille could feel a sweat break out, though the late February air was chilly. “I’ll get it to you. I just need some time.”

“You shouldn’t need time. It’s a simple process that even an idiot can do. You give the goods, you get the money, you give it to me. Are you stealing from me?”

“No! No!” His voice cracked. “But someone stole from me twice after I made the drop. Both times it happened at the party. I think I was drugged –”

 “Oh please. That’s a likely excuse. You were drugged on the stuff that I gave you – the stuff that you got on heavy discount because I trusted you to bring in more clients.” Jean’s voice got louder. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with kid.”

Camille stood up suddenly from the park bench. He looked around, but the quiet town brought no welcome sight of joggers, or anyone that could lend him a hand. “I promised I’d get it and I will. It’s just that getting robbed twice … the amount is getting too big. I’m not sure how …”  Camille cast about in his mind for something to say that would get this guy off his back. “Didn’t you mention that I could do you a … a favor? Instead of paying you back?”

Jean had stood up by this point as well. “Yeah, well that favor was for the first couple a’ thousands.” He suddenly grabbed Camille’s prep school tie and pulled it tight. He could feel the pressure on his throat. “Do not. Mess. With me,” he growled.

And then, just as suddenly, he stepped back and laughed, patting a shaking Camille on the back. “Alright I’ll call in that favor,” he said loudly, and Camille looked around and saw two middle-aged men jogging by. They were talking about planting spring bulbs, which seemed like such a ridiculous subject at such a moment. He wanted to call out to them, but he had no idea what to say, and he wasn’t sure he could find his voice.

The two of them were silent until the men were out of sight, but Jean seemed to have relaxed. In any case, he made no more threats. “Alright Camille. Here’s what I want you to do. My uncle worked as a gardener years ago at the château where you live. It would have been when your dad was young and you were not yet born. He had a set of gardening tools, wrapped in a leather pouch with a handle and they had been passed down in the family. My uncle disappeared and no one knows what happened to him. But I want the tools, which are still in the château. They belong to my family anyway.”

Jean paused, and Camille waited for more. But when no further communication was forthcoming, he said perplexedly, “But … what makes you think the tools are still there? The shed is a mess, but the gardeners tend to know where everything is. Those tools would have been thrown out or put to use years ago.”

“They’re not in the shed. In fact, they’re not outdoors at all. They’re in the basement.”

Camille thought about the basement in the château, which, to a young boy had rather been a disappointment. It was more barren and open and light-filled than a boy with a good imagination could have liked. There was a most decided dearth of any dungeon-like aspect to it. Ever since he had outgrown such fancies, he had barely set foot down there.

“How do you know?” he finally managed.

“My aunt told me. There’s a stretch of stone corridor near the wine cellar where it’s not very well-lit. When you walk towards the cellar, you’ll pass through an archway that has a ledge cut into the stone just above your head – it’s where there used to be an iron gate that rolled up into it. The tools will be there towards the back of the ledge. You’ll probably need a stick to reach it.”

Questions swirled through Camille’s mind, but he settled on one. “Why didn’t your aunt just ask for the tools? I’m sure my grandfather would have given them to her.”

“Yes, but then you wouldn’t have a way out of your own fix, would you?” was the quick retort. But then Jean lit a cigarette and added, “when my uncle disappeared, the tools were the least of her worries. Now she’s getting old, and I would like to get them back for her.”

“If they’re still there,” Camille said with some belligerence.

“They had better be, or you and I still have a problem,” was Jean’s calm response that left Camille with more disquiet than he had felt at the open menace.

Camille trudged along, now on the street away from the muddy path. His pants were wet and dirty, and so were his hands. He had nothing to wipe them on, and everything about this stupid day was going wrong. He didn’t like it, but he was going to have to take something from his house and give it to Jean. It wasn’t stealing, precisely, but it made him very uneasy. And there were too many questions. Why were these tools worth so much money? Why did the gardener hide them? Because there would be no other reason to stash them there. And did Jean target him? Was that the reason he had approached him in the first place? Despite the unanswered questions and uneasiness, it was the only solution he could see.

The school was in sight, and he saw a group of kids a year older than him walking from the outlying buildings towards the main gate. He stopped on the street corner, the tall bare trees and parked cars giving some feeling of protection. He dropped the book bag from his shoulder, and reached into the pocket for his wallet. There was still some cigarette paper left in there. He looked around before taking the bag of marijuana from his backpack and pinching a large amount into the cigarette paper. He licked the edge and lit the end, inhaling greedily, hungrily, as if he couldn’t fill his lungs with the acrid smoke, his brain with mind-numbing hilarity fast enough.

He breathed in, holding each hit as long as he could. Everything’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay, he repeated to himself. And after several hits, he was starting to believe it. Another group of students came into view from his left, heading for the school across the street. A petite brunette glanced over, and when she saw Camille, she said something to the group in a soft singsong voice and walked over to where he was standing. But her smile faltered as soon as she got close enough.

Camille stood holding the joint slightly behind his right leg and waved at her with his left hand. He knew he looked guilty. “Aw, Camille,” was all she said, but it was not easy to miss the disappointment in those words. Defiantly, he took another hit from the stub and threw it on the ground. “Are you going over?” he asked with false bravado.

She seemed to struggle within herself, but then noticed his pants. “You’re all muddy. Did you fall?”

“Yeah. It was stupid. I was walking on the muddy path and I slipped.”

She just looked at him, her face unreadable. “Alright, let’s go. History starts in 5 minutes.”

Chastity was losing steam by the end of lunch hour. There had been so many emotions – fear of leaving Thomas, guilt over throwing her mother together with Madel when the two of them couldn’t communicate, excitement at being back in school, exhaustion as she tried to act as if everything were normal in front of her students. Only over lunch was she able to pour her feelings into Maude’s sympathetic ear. It had relieved some pressure, but she was still eager to get through the three remaining periods and head home.

She stood against the wall as a flurry of students walked past her, blocking her from entering her classroom. Suddenly she caught sight of Camille’s curly head, and before she had time to think, her heart leapt at the connection with his father. I wonder what he thinks of me. I wonder when I will see his father again. I wonder if his father has mentioned me to him. She blushed, thankful that no one could read her mind.

“Welcome back Ms Whitmore!” a cheerful voice called out to her. It was Eloise Prynne. She smiled at the young lady walking next to Camille. And as soon as they got closer, her heart sank. Camille passed in front of her without even looking at her, but his red eyes and the heavy sour smell of marijuana were impossible to miss.

Chastity groaned inwardly. “Oh Camille,” she thought.

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Life, Love and Sarcasm in Paris

That’s Paris is out!

And I’m in it!

See that?

Oh là là  is right!

This book is the brainchild of Velvet Morning Press, and all proceeds will go to charity! Woot! Woot! (I love that part).  The details about the charity are quoted from the VMP website:

Author proceeds from anthology sales will be donated to Room to Read, a charity that partners with communities in the developing world to promote literacy and gender equality in education.

Room to Read seeks to transform the lives of millions of children in Asia and Africa by focusing on literacy and gender equality in education. Working in collaboration with local communities, partner organizations and governments, we develop literacy skills and a habit of reading among primary school children and ensure girls have the skills and support needed to complete their secondary education. Learn more at www.roomtoread.org.

My submission about the hair-tugging process of getting a French driver’s license is in distinguished company. Stephen Clarke, author of A Year in the Merde, writes the forward, and I recognise bloggers from the list such as Lisa Webb from Canadian Expat Mom and Emily from Tomato Kumato. I also know Vicki Lesage, Amazon best-selling author of Confessions of a Paris Party Girl. And then the rest of the contributors, listed here, are (amazingly) script-writers and moms, astronomers and chefs, adventurers and tax lawyers, self-sufficient farmers and political ghost-writers, stylists and corporate execs …and the list goes on.

I mean these are some really cool people.

I hope you will buy the book and support the charity and do all the stuff authors love (which is to leave reviews on Amazon and Goodreads and tell others about the book and all that fun stuff).

But I also want to offer a copy of That’s Paris to someone who wants it. If you want to win, do leave me a comment below and let me know. And perhaps you could also mention the book launch on Facebook or Twitter (or G+ or Pinterest) just to spread the love?

Whenever I do a giveaway, I usually pull a name out of the hat because I’m high-tech like that. And I’ll announce the winner on Monday, February 9th.

I just know you’re gonna to love it.

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Household Stuff

I’m sort of out of commission this week. Remember that walking pneumonia or bronchitis thing I had a couple of months ago – right along with the UTI, burglary, rat in the toilet, and having to give up our dog?

Well, I have it again, and I’m not at all comfortable. I’ve canceled the teaching gigs for this week, but I can’t foist my own kids on anyone else – I’ve tried – so I’m not completely off the hook.

And there’s something else that puts me under – if the bronchitis and cold gloomy drizzle hadn’t already done the trick. And this is something I just can’t properly preface or find the right words for.

My friend’s little 3-year old girl, Taylor, died yesterday. Yes, I know. I cried. I prayed. I cried some more. Her mom and I are friends from New York – not bosom friends because we were separated a bit by age and activities at that time, but we were in the same ministry in NY together. She moved to Atlanta and met her husband before moving on to Texas. And right when they got there, her little girl was diagnosed with cancer. She endured a life-threatening surgery with people praying for her all over the globe, came through miraculously, danced and sang Frozen with her adorable little bald head, asked for Chick-Fil-A as soon as she could eat fried foods again …

And then, and then … an accident? A minor routine surgery gone wrong? I don’t even know the details … but this horrible accident – unrelated to her cancer – left her on life support with no brain activity. Yesterday morning’s tests showed that she had definitely gone, so they had to unhook her support. And her heart beat its last.

I had been praying for an 11th hour miracle, along with hundreds – even thousands – others. But as many of you already know, sometimes God says no. Sometimes he says the loving thing in this particular case is not to bring her back. And no one understands it. But her parents trust, and so I will too.

It turns out our 3 and a half yrs with her, was our miracle.

Since I can’t say anything that can properly do justice to earth’s incredible loss and heaven’s glorious gain, I’m going to tell you about household stuff – mundane, routine, stupid household stuff. For me, it’s an act of worship to keep going, and keep living, and keep investing rather than giving in to despair. I began in a very prosaic way today. By cleaning.

We also have curtains now, which is new.

It was the sale season and I’ve waited for 6 years to have them.

They look horribly gloomy in this weather, but at night with the lights on they are cozy, and they are pretty when the sun streams through in the daytime as well.

The only thing is, I felt like it was a lot of white, and I was starting to feel a bit mental. So I got some red daisies to add a splash of colour.

And then, Matthieu is helping a guy from church with something every Tuesday night, so I cook for them as well, knowing how valuable a hot meal is to a single guy. And last night he brought me yellow roses. So I have been blessed with even more colour!

My husband is in the process of installing a second-hand bed right now. It’s from people in the English-speaking group, so not exactly complete strangers. Our old bed was 14 years old, and this bed is just 7 years and was in a spare room, with infrequent use. It’s also a Sealy’s Posturepedic. We don’t have the means for a brand new bed, but couldn’t resist this 75€ deal. Perhaps it’s not too late for our ageing backs to recover with the right support.

And to continue my flighty ramble, I’ve wanted to show you this cute little teapot my husband gave me for Christmas. I was afraid the boiling water would break it, but I’ve been using it every day, and it holds fast. So I feel like I’m surrounded with cheerful little things, and I’m determined to enjoy them.

So it’s just household stuff, you know – inconsequential material stuff. But sometimes that’s the only stuff you have words for when the important things leave you speechless.

Bye, sweet Taylor.

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How to Keep a Spiritual Fervour

I try to keep a spiritual fervour – I do. My husband and I fast, and I’m filled with joy. I prepare meals for guests, I stay up late to study the Bible with someone, I get up early to pray, I run my children to this event or that, and I brush off any feelings of overwhelm. I rejoice in all the blessings God has given me.

And then. One morning – usually after I’ve been giving a lot, no matter how joyfully, I wake up tired.

It might be because my husband has been swamped with work and not as available. Or my children might be particularly loud and needy. Perhaps I was too tired to clear the supper dishes and they greet me in the morning when I woke up too late to have a quiet time and now must run out the door to teach. Forget my resolve to wake up early to exercise on top of it all. I’m tired and grouchy.

David is one of my favourite people in the Bible. He has all the reason to be proud – strong, brave, handsome, chosen royalty. He has all the reasons to boast of his spiritual fervour, but instead views himself only in relationship to God. He sees himself as God’s servant, and humbly accepts things like wandering around the desert for years and years. He flees from Saul who has lost God’s stamp of approval as king and has handed it to David. He refuses to take what is rightfully his, and calls himself a ‘dead dog’, ‘a flea’ when addressing himself to Saul, whom he terms “the Lord’s anointed.”

David is amazing! When they brought the Ark of the Covenant back to Jerusalem, he danced in his underwear – a sign of great humility, not one befitting for a king. He didn’t care! He was on fire for God.

If you look at the headlines from the beginning of 2 Samuel, you see things like:

David anointed king over Judah.

Abner (the commander of Saul’s army) goes over to David

David becomes king of Israel

David conquers Jerusalem

David defeats the Philistines

The Ark brought to Jerusalem

God’s promise to David

David’s prayer

David’s victories

David defeats the Ammonites

It’s all good! But then – when things couldn’t be going any better spiritually for David, he gets … tired.

In the spring, at the time when kings go off to war, David sent Joab out with the king’s men and the whole Israelite army. They destroyed the Ammonites and besieged Rabbah. But David remained in Jerusalem.

One evening David got up from his bed and walked around on the roof of the palace. From the roof he saw a woman bathing. The woman was very beautiful, and David sent someone to find out about her. The man said, “She is Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliamand the wife of Uriah the Hittite.” (2 Samuel 11:1-3)

David was tired, and he just didn’t feel like doing what he was supposed to anymore. It was spring – a time when kings were supposed to be going off to war. But David (a king) didn’t feel like going and sent Joab out in his stead. He was left with a ripe opportunity for temptation.

It’s sad when you see how far he falls. He gets Bathesheba pregnant, so – to fix that disaster – he calls her husband home from the war so that her husband can sleep with her and no one will be the wiser. But her husband is too righteous. He sleeps at the palace entrance with the servants because his commander and men are camped in the open fields. “How could I go to my house to eat and drink and lie with my wife? As surely as you live, I will not do such a thing.”

So David keeps him for another night and gets him drunk, hoping that this will do the trick. But Uriah maintains his integrity, even while drunk and doesn’t go home. There’s nothing left but for David to send Uriah back to Joab, carrying a note in his possession that orders his own demise. David’s note tells Joab to put Uriah in the thickest part of the battle, and then to withdraw from him so he may be struck down and die.

When the messenger came to report news of the battle, Joab told him to mention that Uriah was killed, in hopes that it would allay his anger at the troops’ losses. To be sure, he handled the news diplomatically. “Don’t let this upset you;” he told the messenger. “the sword devours one as well as the other.”

When Bathsheba heard that her husband died, she mourned for him. How could she not? She had married one man who was righteous and loved only her, only to be swapped for another man who added her to his collection of lust – even though he was king. It was not a trade that could bring happiness to a woman.

The story made me think how easy it is to get tired – to let your fervour go. You’re loving your neighbour, you’re serving the poor, you’re begging for people in prayer, you’re praising God, you’re cleaning your house (!!!) – I had to throw that in there – and then you just don’t feel like doing it anymore.

Photo Credit: 123rf

Since we are, as I mentioned, in a period of fasting, prayer and service, it’s not really an option to let go completely. Sure, I can skip the quiet time in the morning because I’d rather surf the web. And I can leave my dishes in the sink and all over the counter, rebelling in my own way. But I don’t have recourse to my usual coping tactics, like stuffing myself with chocolate and sundry things. Since I can’t give up in my usual way, I have to find a way around it and face what I don’t want to face. And this is what I found seems to work.

Prayer helps. I pray for God to let me feel his affection. I pray to overcome the desire to give in and give up. I pray for people who need it prayers and support. I pray for the spirit to express what I cannot articulate. I pray for Jesus to carry the heavy burden that I seem unable to carry.

Praying with others helps even more. I finally reached out to a friend, and she suggested I call another friend who lives close by and ask her for some tangible help. (I can’t really talk specifically about my spiritual victories and defeats because many of them involve other people, so please excuse the generalities). She drove 20 minutes to my house last night so we could get on our knees to pray together and have a big hug. Then she drove off again. I felt much better.

Memorize scriptures that will come to you unbidden when you need it. One of my students gave me a beautiful box of Belgian chocolates right when I began fasting sweets, among other things. I wasn’t tempted right away, but as I gave them away one by one, I had the vicious thought, “Who cares! What if I eat them all right now!”

(You probably think I’m nuts. I think I’m nuts to care that much about something that is only going to go in my mouth and out the other end – sorry – but such is my stupid struggle).

And the scripture came to me unbidden “who keeps an oath even when it hurts.” It’s in Psalm 15. I had to go look it up because I didn’t remember where it was, but I certainly remembered the scripture. I will be a woman who keeps her oath even when it hurts. I stuck that box of chocolates in the freezer for the day when the fast finally ends, and I haven’t thought about it since.

Do it when you don’t feel like it. I had an “I’m giving up” moment this week and miraculously, both of my students canceled, freeing up my morning. I had no excuse not to have a great time with God and do some exercise. The rest of the day went much better because I made the decision to do what was right. Today, I wasn’t so lucky as to have a free morning, but I still pushed myself to exercise right after teaching and take a second shower – when I would usually convince myself not to get sweaty in the first place. Believe me, this forcing myself to jump into the dailiness of life with exercise, eating right, cleaning the house is a spiritual act of worship because I am, by habit, a creature of escape.

That’s probably a good place to start, right? With those four things? It’s not so much throwing advice at you from a place of supreme wisdom (cough, cough) as it is identifying that our spiritual victories are often followed by an intense temptation to give up. And to recognise that fact is to fight against it, because keeping a spiritual fervour is not so much about racing forward, reaping victory after spiritual victory without pausing for a breath, as it is about simply not coming to a screeching halt. Or – even worse – going backwards.

One steady foot in front of the other will get us there just as well.

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The Viscount – Chapter Twenty

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER TWENTY

Jerôme showed up at the café fifteen minutes late. He stood at the entrance, looking around, his eyes blinking to adjust to the poor lighting. Jean sat to the right of the small round table with an empty espresso cup, hooded eyes fixed on Jerôme and a lit cigarette poised in his hand.

Jerôme finally spotted him, and moved unhurriedly to the chair at the left of the table and threw his book-bag on the floor. With deliberate movements, he took out a cigarette, tapped it on the package and lit up, exhaling before he spoke.

“Okay, I’m here.”

Jean continued to look at him without saying anything until his gaze penetrated Jerôme’s armor of confidence – the chink that was his youth. “Don’t be late again,” was all Jean said.

He stood up, threw a couple of euro coins on the table and said, “Come,” without a backwards glance. Jerôme slammed down the menu, grabbed his bag, following his dubious mentor. When they were on the street, he led the way over the crosswalk and into the Jardin des Tuilieries, where there were plenty of people, and just as many empty corners to talk.

Jean climbed onto a park bench, sitting on the back of it, his feet on the seat. Jerôme did likewise. “So? Spill.” Jean lit another cigarette.

“Well, I was able to get the money again, so he won’t have it. What are you going to do to him?”

Jean ignored the question. “Did he ask you about it?”

“No, why would he?” Jerôme answered with hostility. “He doesn’t suspect me. I mean, the guy doesn’t even have a clue. I don’t know why you insist on using him when I would do a much better job. I hate using a middleman.”

Jean took a drag on his cigarette, and spoke in a calm that had a chilling effect on its listener. “Drop the attitude, kid. I know all about your ambition. I was you not all that long ago. Now. Hand over half of what you stole like we agreed.”

Jerôme played with the strap on his bag, running his fingers up and down while looking at the ground – a gesture, which made him look young. Finally, he reached into the side-pocket of his jacket and took out a wad of cash, handing it over without looking. “It’s all there,” he added sullenly.

Jean counted it, saying, “I’m sure it is.” When he had flicked the last bill, he looked over at Jerôme. “I need Camille for a little longer to serve my own purposes. But when I’m done with him, I’ll need someone with more balls. If you drop the attitude, it will be you. If not, I’ll find someone else.”

Jerôme exhaled, and looked up at the blue sky. He thought about where he would be if he was no longer able to provide his clientele with what he had promised. He swallowed his bile and nodded his head. “Alright. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

“Smart kid.” Jean climbed off the park bench, dusted the legs of his jeans, and sauntered off. Jerôme waited until he was sure he wasn’t looking, and gave him the finger.

* * *

Chastity didn’t know why she was so nervous getting ready to go to the museum exhibit. She put neutral lip gloss on her lips and then leaned close to the mirror, puckering. “Your lips are kissable,” words that came back to her unbidden. Marc had told her that once, and it was one of the few memories that sparked happiness rather than anger.

Her auburn hair was swept off her face, and clipped back with a barrette studded with dark blue glass beads. The back of her hair fell in large ringlets to the middle of her back, partially covering the royal-blue, low-backed dress she was wearing. She turned to the side and admired the way the pleats in the dress hugged the curves on her slim frame. She shook her hands nervously and padded out of the bathroom in stocking feet.

Her mother was wearing a more modest beige dress with a blazer, and her face was unadorned, but her eyes were merry. “You look lovely, Chastity. It’s so nice to see you dressed up.”

“Well, I guess we should go,” Chastity said, bending down to slip into her high heels. “We can drive. There’s a parking lot there.” She reached for her navy wool coat, which belted in the middle, and grabbed her car keys and clutch with an excited exhale. “Do you think Tommy is alright?”

“Thomas is fine, dear. He’s sleeping,” was the sedate reply.

The air was crisp, and felt colder under the starless night sky. As they parked the car, they could see streams of people pouring into the lit museum, and they were greeted at the door with live jazz music.

The museum itself was beautiful. The shell of the building was made of old stone and bricks, with tall windows comprising small, irregular squares of hand-blown glass, exposed wooden beams on the ceilings, and worn stone tiles on the floor. The music was coming from one of the rooms upstairs, and people were milling through the large gallery, graced with elegant paintings. All of the canvases were of still life, with the exception of two portraits.

There was a series of paintings of comice pears, and next to that were arrangements of fruit and vegetables – the watermelons, ripped apart with red jagged edges, and the onions shedding their outer layers onto a shiny tabletop. Chastity walked across to an adjacent wall where there were other paintings of kitchen counters with mason jars and water pitchers. Each painting was breathtaking in its cerulean color scheme and realistic detail.

Chastity heard the Viscount’s voice behind her, and she turned. He was in mid-conversation when he saw her, and he abruptly stopped speaking and took a step forward, his face lighting up with a boyish grin. The gentleman next to him looked startled, and glanced from his face to hers. But she hardly had time to register any of this when another man clasped the Viscount’s shoulder, causing him to spin around.

“Charles,” the man said loudly, pompously, and in English, as he reached out his other hand to shake. The Viscount had stepped away and turned back slightly, and his profile was visible to Chastity. She saw his features harden, and even though she felt she should look away from what did not concern her, she could not. The Viscount returned the handshake stiffly, and spoke politely, but in chilly accents.

“I am surprised to see you here. I assume Manon has told you about the exhibit?”

“We came together! She’s here,” he replied with a forced laugh, swiveling to try and catch sight of her in the crowd. “She said you’d be happy to see us and that maybe you could show us around your castle later.”

The Viscount remained perfectly composed as he said, “I regret that I am unable to at present. If you wish to make an appointment with my business manager, I’m sure he can find the time to show you the château. And now I must –”

“But these paintings are magnificent!” interrupted Michael, gesturing around the room. “I will be buying a couple to put in my country house.”

“This,” said the Viscount with effort, “is a museum exhibit. As such, the works are not for sale. But I will put you in touch with the artist’s manager and you can make arrangements with him. Now if you’ll excuse me –”

“Charles! Darling!” Manon came up in a cloud of Poison by Dior, her red lipstick matching perfectly the beads sewn into the lining of her white dress. Her hair was elegantly coiffed in blond curls, and her diamond earrings swung delicately as she moved. Chastity turned away and focused on the paintings again. “I couldn’t wait to surprise you.”

Chastity’s mother sidled up to her, and whispered, “You’re right. His face can change in an instant if he doesn’t like someone.”

“Oh, he likes her alright,” she muttered, marching away. “Manon Duprey is his … Let’s go, Mom. I don’t even know why I came.”

“We can do that, of course, sweetie- if you wish it. Oh, but look! There is Elizabeth. Let’s go and say hello before we leave.” Her mother had met both Elizabeth Moore, and her best friend Maude during their visits to hospital to see Thomas. She steered her daughter over to where Elizabeth was standing.

“Chastity!” exclaimed her director in a rich, warm voice. “How wonderful to see you out. And you look … beautiful.” She shook her head back and forth, as if amazed by the vision before her. “Are you behind this?” the older woman winked at Chastity’s mother – two conspirators.

Her mother smiled and answered, “No, it was Doctor Chabot who invited us, actually. He thought I might like to see some of the town, since we’ve been spending most of our time at the hospital.”

“Oh!” Elizabeth raised her eyebrows before schooling her features again. “So you still see Mr de Chabot at the hospital then.”

“We did,” Chastity said quietly, “but not so much anymore. It was very thoughtful of him to invite us when he’s got so much going on. Mother … Elizabeth – my mother and I were just leaving.”

“Oh no, no. You’re not leaving until you have some of the hors d’oeuvres with Maude, Michel and me. They’re holding a table and there are a couple of extra seats.” And in a tone that brooked no argument, she smiled and gestured for Chastity’s mother to lead the way. “How do you find Thomas, Sherri?”

Chastity’s mother spoke over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs. “He does seem to be improving rapidly. And the doctor said he thinks he can come home soon with full-time care.”

Elizabeth turned to Chastity. “That sounds like very good news. Does that mean, then, that you’ll be caring for him full-time?”

“Well …” Chastity chewed her lip. “I did want to talk to you about that. If our mutuelle covers it, I think I’d like to take advantage of having a specialist come and work with him while I’m teaching – bring him to physical therapy, and all that. In some ways, I feel out of my depth with him. I’m afraid I’m not the best one to help him overcome the challenges. I just want to be there to love him.”

“Hm.” Elizabeth paused for thought. And with a grace that was inherent to her, faced Chastity’s mother as soon as they had all reached the top of the stairs. “You know your daughter and grandson better than anyone else. Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“Well, when Chastity first told me about the idea, I’ll admit I wasn’t keen. I couldn’t imagine being away from Thomas if I could stay with him without losing my income. I was surprised she would want to.” She flashed a smile at her daughter. “But if she can get home by late afternoon each day, and have someone to share the burden of his moods and struggles, I can’t think of anything better. I think Chastity has a great deal of foresight to know her limits.”

Elizabeth nodded decisively. “That’s exactly what I thought. We’re in here.” She steered the mother and daughter towards the doorway on the left.

The jazz music had grown louder as they entered the spacious room, which was well-lit with chandeliers. The wait staff was circulating with plates of champagne and hors d’oeuvres, and Chastity glanced at the table nearest her. “Oh no!” she groaned.

“What?” asked her mother, perplexed. Chastity scanned the room desperately. “My dress is the exact color of the tablecloths!” It was true. Apart from the usual touches of white, all of the tables were covered with royal blue linen, and all of the decorations had royal blue accents.

Maude spotted them at the entrance, and as if sensing her friend’s panic, rushed over. “Bonsoir Chastity.” She pecked her on the cheeks, and grabbed her hand and pulled her over to the table before she could demur. “Michel this is Chastity’s mom, Sherri Whitmore.”

“Enchanté,” he said, rising, and greeted the older lady with two kisses.

On the opposite end of the room, Manon walked through the arched doorway, followed by an entourage of men that included the Viscount. His face was stony, but he was listening to the gentleman he had been talking to earlier. Manon looked radiant in her white gown and blond curls, set off beautifully in a sea of blue. Chastity’s cheeks were burning, and she sunk into her chair.

“So I’ve got five guys that will mingle with the guests, and they’ll keep an eye on whatever’s going on in the room.  I think that is where there is most likely to be action. They’re well trained and will be a great complement to the officers,” Jef was saying. The Viscount nodded, but didn’t say anything in reply.

They stood at the nearest table with Manon talking animatedly to their left, and after a moment, Jef asked nonchalantly. “So. Who was that beautiful young lady in the gallery downstairs?”

The Viscount looked up quickly. “Oh that’s … it’s, uh, Camille’s English teacher. But her son was also hit by a car and I was the neurosurgeon on call.”

“Was he alright?” The Viscount nodded absently. “He’s come out of his coma, and is doing very well so far.”

Jef looked at him keenly. “Oh.” And after a pause, “I mean, I know you don’t have eyes for anyone but Manon – what hot-blooded man could? But the young lady …” He waited with a questioning look.

“Chastity Whitmore,” the Viscount supplied.

“… Mademoiselle Whitmore,” Jef resumed, “seems very charming.”

The Viscount ignored that comment and spoke with quiet deliberation. “As far as I’m concerned, things are over with Manon. I didn’t invite her here tonight, and the only reason I haven’t ended things is because I have promised to accompany her to the opening of her movie, and it would humiliate her if I pulled out when all the media has talked about us going together.”

“Ever the gentleman,” Jef said drily, shaking his head. “What are we to do with you?”

 “Take Manon off my hands,” he retorted grimly, adding, “You’re a hot-blooded man.”

“Sorry, my old friend. I only have eyes for Adelaide. And – there she is!” His friend walked off without ceremony towards the Viscount’s sister, and more out of curiosity than anything else, the Viscount followed him.

“Adelaide,” he whispered, worshipfully, taking both her hands in his and kissing her on the cheeks. “What do we need to do to get rid of this guy?” He jerked his head back towards his friend.

“Jean-François,” Adelaide replied, her voice filled with mirth. “What makes you think I should wish my brother elsewhere?”

“Why, so we can talk privately, of course. And so I can ask you to accompany me to the spring ball that will be held at the château.”

“Ah.” Adelaide’s eyes twinkled as she extricated her hands from her adorer. “Charlie, will you kindly tell your friend that he is much too young for me?” And she added with a tinkling laugh, “as much as he flatters me.”

Just then, the Viscount saw Chastity getting to her feet and struggling to get her coat on. “I think you can handle him just fine Addy.” He left them abruptly, and walked purposefully towards Chastity.

“Who’s that -?” he heard his sister asking.

When she saw the Viscount coming, she found that she could, indeed, blush even more deeply than she already was. She was kicking herself for entertaining hopes, kicking herself for coming, and was furious that her mother was moving with exasperating slowness.

“Chastity!” The Viscount called out, stopping short, when he saw all eyes on him. “Would you … like to see the paintings?”

She smiled, trying ineffectively to hide her confusion. “I have seen them. They are wonderful. We were just on our way …”

“Let me introduce you to the artist.” He put his hand on her elbow, and nodded to the rest of her table as he steered her away. Chastity was thankful that her friends didn’t say anything embarrassing before they were out of earshot. “He’s in the gallery down these stairs.” The Viscount realized he still had his hand on Chastity’s arm and he dropped it suddenly.

When they reached the bottom of the stairwell, he escorted her into the nearest room – a small alcove where the Cézannes were hanging. There was a tall, lanky gentleman talking to someone in the archway that led to the larger adjacent room.

An elderly lady was taking her leave, just as the Viscount walked up with Chastity. He gave the introductions in English. “Mr Mooers, this is Ms Whitmore. She is also from New York.”

“Chastity,” she said in a friendly voice, nodding at her new acquaintance.

“Randall. Where in New York are you from?”

“I grew up on 85th Street and Lexington.”

“We’re on 77th and Lex. Vivi!” He called over to a petit Asian woman who was crossing the room with two glasses of champagne. “This is my wife, Vivienne.”

Chastity looked at her intently for a moment, and then at one of the two portraits that were hanging to the right. “The portrait!” she said expressively, pointing at the obvious likeness.

“It’s from when we first met,” the petit woman replied with a reminiscent smile, and only the slightest accent. Chastity went over to examine the portrait more closely, and Vivienne followed her, while the gentlemen stayed behind, making quiet conversation.

Chastity looked behind her, saw another couple come up to the artist, and turned back to the portrait. “Tell your husband I love his work,” she said, breathlessly, examining the perfection in his brushstrokes. “I don’t know why, but they are all so cheerful, they makes me happy.”

“I’ll tell him,” Vivienne said warmly, placing her hand lightly on Chastity’s arm. She walked gracefully over to her husband’s side and turned to listen to the gentleman who was speaking. The Viscount chose that moment to leave the group and walk over to Chastity.

She positioned herself towards the large doorway that led to the main hallway where the exit was, her hands shoved low in her coat pockets. The Viscount stood at her side, looking elegant in the crisp suit similar to the one she had first seen him in. She had been accustomed to his dressing casually at the hospital, and she couldn’t decide which of his looks suited him better. He leaned towards her, and she caught a waft of aftershave with wood undertones. “I’m glad you were able to make it,” he said kindly. He faced her, his brown eyes searching hers.

“Me too. I’m unused to going anywhere besides the hospital and my apartment.” She started to feel calm, as the noises and distractions of the room faded away. His eyes were still on hers, and the corners of his mouth started to turn up as he realized he wasn’t saying anything. Her own lips quivered in response, as she also found herself at a loss for words. It was both sweet and ridiculous.

“Charles!” Serenity screeched to a halt with one word. The Viscount’s face grew unreadable again and he looked beyond her, even though the voice came from behind him. It was as if he were trying to garner his patience. Chastity glanced up and saw her mother wearing her winter coat, following in the wake of Manon Duprey, and she could have kissed her for showing up just then.

“It’s my mother,” she said softly with a tiny shrug. “Good night.” The Viscount opened his mouth as if to speak, but then shut it again without saying anything.

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Chicken Confit With Orange-Saffron Glaze

I modified this simple recipe from a French cookbook – Cusine d’Hiver (Winter Cooking) by Tomawak. I don’t think it’s traditionally French, given the fact that they include saffron, but it did look good.

Using a skillet, you’ll need to brown 6 chicken breasts in olive oil, salt them, and set the meat aside.

In a large saucepan, fry 4 shallots in more olive oil. I used about 2 Tablespoons each for the shallots and the chicken breasts.

When the shallots are soft and starting to brown, add the juice of 2-4 four oranges, depending on how big they are. If they are large and very juicy, two will suffice. Add 3/4 cup bouillon (you can use water plus one large bouillon cube), and finally, add 2 doses of saffron. I’m guessing this is about 1/4 teaspoon.

This is powerful stuff. It has such a unique taste, and needs to be balanced out with the salt, oranges and honey. Oh yes, honey – two tablespoons.

Cook this mixture about 20 minutes on low heat until it has reduced – stir often. And this is when you’ll pre-heat the oven to 180°C or 375°F.

Put your chicken breasts in a pan, and cover them with the glaze, turning the breasts until they are fully coated. They stay in the oven for 30 minutes, but I took them out every ten minutes to turn them over and redistribute the glaze. And for the last ten minutes, I squeezed liquid honey all over the top of each breast so that they would caramelise.

Like that. *sigh*

You know, to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I liked it. I know that’s an odd thing to say for a food post. I had to keep taking another bite just to see if I liked it. But then that bite wasn’t enough and I needed another bite. Like that, I finished the whole plate and wanted more – you know, just to see if I liked it.

I think I liked it.

(For a pretty presentation, use a half-cup measure to scoop out the rice that accompanies it, slice the chicken breast, and pour the orange glaze over the chicken and rice).

Chicken Confit With Orange-Saffron Glaze   Print Prep time 35 mins Cook time 30 mins Total time 1 hour 5 mins   From: Lady Jennie Recipe type: Main Serves: 6 Ingredients 6 chicken breasts 4 shallots 4 T olive oil 2-4 oranges to juice ¾ c bouillon ⅛ to ¼ teaspoons saffron 2 T honey + liquid honey to pour on top of the chicken. Accompany with rice and green beans (or other green vegetable) Instructions Brown the chicken breasts in oil, salt them, and set aside. Mince the shallots and brown them in olive oil. Juice the oranges and add that to the shallots. Add 1 t large grain sea salt (or ½ t regular). Add the saffron, bouillon and honey. Reduce this mixture on low heat for 20 minutes, stirring constantly, and pre-heat oven to 180°C or 375°F. Place chicken breasts in baking pan and cover with glaze. Bake for 30 minutes, turning the breasts and spooning the glaze on top each time every 10 minutes or so. For the last ten minutes, pour liquid honey over each of the chicken breasts and let it caramelise in the oven. 3.2.2885

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Paris Author Luncheon

On Saturday, I met up with a group of authors to have lunch in Paris.

We went to the Café Delmas in the 5th arrondissement (2 place de Contrescarpe).

The 5th arrondissement (near the Sorbonne) is so charming and quiet, and the café, cozy and inviting.

I was pleasantly surprised to find out that gluten-free pasta was offered on the menu – rare in France – so of course that was what I had. There were ten of us who made it, and I thought it would be a good idea to introduce some of them to you, whose books are already available (others have works in progress that I will talk about when the time comes). This is us:

Lizzie Harwood, who edited my book, has her collection of short stories on pre-order from Amazon: Triumph: Collected Stories of Gone Girls and Complicated Women. I am in the process of reading it, and will talk more about it on the release date. (It’s good).

Meg Bortin, who was a senior editor at the International Herald Tribune before her retirement, wrote Desperate to Be a Housewife. I can’t tell you how much I loved this book, reading her perspective as a writer in the thick of all the world events from my childhood – the Cold War, the sinking of the Greenpeace ship, the space shuttle Challenger disaster, the fall of the Berlin Wall, and many more. I highly recommend this book. (She is camera-shy and was behind the lens instead of in front of it).

Here are some of the books I haven’t yet read, but have either ordered already, or plan to:

Marie Houzelle – She is French, but writes in English. Her novel Tita is about a young heroine in the South of France in the 1950s.

Vicki Lesage – Amazon Best-selling author for Confessions of a Paris Party Girl (and its sequel, Confessions of a Paris Potty Trainer). I think the words “best-seller” and “confessions” promise hours of enjoyable reading.

Adria J. Cimino – Paris, Rue des Martyrs – about four intertwining fictional tales. She has another book coming out in March, called Close to Destiny. Since I’m reviewing it, I’ll be sure to let you know more about that one.

This is Janina Rossiter

who had to leave before the group photo was taken, and who wrote the adorable Tovi the Penguin series, which you can purchase here. They are suitable for ages 2-6, but my older kids still thought they were cute, and I use them for my English classes as well.

Here are some of the other women, who – until their works in progress are ready, I will direct you to their Facebook pages or blogs:

Angie Brooksby, whose paintings you can see here, and whose writing you can read here.

and Elizabeth Brahy, who writes at Clash of the Cultures with the tagline “Adventures of a pop-culture nerd in a high-culture world”.

And Now … more about me

(cough, cough)

Kristin Louise Duncombe, was unable to make our lunch, but she is interviewing me on her blog here. I hope you’ll read it. Her memoir Trailing was one of the first memoirs I read, and having lived in Kenya, I identified with her life as a trailing spouse there.

Vicki and Adria, mentioned above, run the Velvet Morning Press, and there is talk of a writer’s retreat in the Champagne region this year (complete with haute cuisine since Adria’s husband is a French chef). Are you interested in more details? Let me know!

Anyway, I have a part in their anthology that’s coming out very soon, called That’s Paris: An Anthology of Life, Love and Sarcasm in Paris. It’s available for pre-order now, and I’ll be talking more about that too!

Finally, posts with tons of links are not necessarily the most fun, but I hope you’ll discover some new authors you will grow to love. And … I have a favour to ask of you. If you’re a reader/fan of my blog, would you nominate me for the Bloggies in the European category? I didn’t realise this, but your blog doesn’t even go before the judges unless you have many people nominating you. And since this is my fifth-plus year of writing regularly, I would love to be recognised (if I’m being perfectly honest).

Basically, you click here and nominate three of your favourite blogs in any category. They won’t accept less than three nominations, so for family members who read only me – thanks anyway. When you submit, you’ll get an e-mail with a link you have to click on to verify your nomination, and then you’re all set. If you do nominate me, thank you.

Lunch in Paris was fun. It was amazing to meet all of these other authors and get to put a face to a name. We plan to do it again, and hopefully include some of the others who were not able to make it this time around.

On the train ride home, I saw the army, police, and national guard in full force. (Can you see the men with machine guns at the end of the platform)?

Before I used to think it was weird, but now I’m grateful, as are a lot of other Parisians. The dialogue continues about what free speech means, about the anti-French sentiment springing up in the Muslim communities and nations worldwide, and the marginalization the Jewish people feel here in France.

To such complex problems, there are no easy answers.

* * *

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Forgiveness

As we drove into Paris for church yesterday, we passed the long rippling flags indicating Montrouge where there was a killing three days ago. We passed cavalcades of policemen mobilising for the manifestation that would take place in Paris later that day, and which would eventually assemble 1.5 million people. We were then stopped at the hotel entrance where we meet by a gentleman wanting to scan us for weapons.

I wrote about the initial reactions here The Threat Stemming from Charlie Hebdo, from the point of view of a mom living in France. It was all anyone could think about or talk about. And even if we had wanted to put the trauma behind us, this fresh evidence of potential danger and discontent made it impossible.

It was helpful to get a spiritual perspective to the events that happened this week. In the welcome message, a friend shared the range of emotions she felt as one thing led to another. She discovered that one of the terrorists lived a quarter of a mile from her. She shared about the pain and sadness she felt, her pride over the French – and even worldwide – solidarity that was expressed, and her admiration for the swiftness of the police force. And she finished (more seamlessly than I can sum up here – really, it was beautiful) by reminding us that our hope is not on earth, and with a reminder that we are called to love our enemies.

Loving our enemies requires forgiveness, and it is not a platitude handed out by Jesus to accompany a cute little parable. Jesus was very clear that this is a requirement for being with God in heaven:

For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins. (Matthew 6:14-15). I don’t think you can say it more explicitly than that. If you forgive others, you will be forgiven. If you do not forgive, you will not be forgiven.

Jesus elaborates on the theme here:

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?”

Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.

 “Therefore, the kingdom of heaven is like a king who wanted to settle accounts with his servants. As he began the settlement, a man who owed him ten thousand bags of gold was brought to him. Since he was not able to pay, the master ordered that he and his wife and his children and all that he had be sold to repay the debt.

“At this the servant fell on his knees before him. ‘Be patient with me,’ he begged, ‘and I will pay back everything.’ The servant’s master took pity on him, canceled the debt and let him go.

“But when that servant went out, he found one of his fellow servants who owed him a hundred silver coins. He grabbed him and began to choke him. ‘Pay back what you owe me!’ he demanded.

“His fellow servant fell to his knees and begged him, ‘Be patient with me, and I will pay it back.’

“But he refused. Instead, he went off and had the man thrown into prison until he could pay the debt. When the other servants saw what had happened, they were outraged and went and told their master everything that had happened.

“Then the master called the servant in. ‘You wicked servant,’ he said, ‘I canceled all that debt of yours because you begged me to. Shouldn’t you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?’ In anger his master handed him over to the jailers to be tortured, until he should pay back all he owed.

“This is how my heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive your brother or sister from your heart.” (Matthew 18:21-35)

The simple truth is, no matter what someone did to you, it cannot compare to what your sins did to Jesus. Even the worst atrocity done to you or your loved one is a hundred silver coins of debt compared to the ten thousand bags of gold that you owe God.

Why? Well, I think part of the answer lies in the mystery of God’s nature, and that His thoughts are not our thoughts. It’s hard to grasp how offensive our sins are to a holy God, and the magnitude of his love in redeeming us through a humiliating sacrifice.

But it’s also something rather concrete. God came down to earth to walk among us in the flesh. He gave up everything comfortable and holy to live with sinners, and to redeem us even before we had turned our lives around – while we were still his enemies. He went to the extreme of dying for us, so great was his love.

So if we, in turn, spew murderous hatred against someone who has hurt or offended us (no matter how grievously), “I hope you burn in hell!” … well … the sad truth is, they probably will. If they didn’t have a chance to repent of their sins, they probably will end up in hell. But if, rather than weeping over their eternal separation from God, we cry out, “Good! It’s no less than you deserve!” than we do not resemble God in the least. We are nothing like him. He will say, “I never knew you.”

Yes it was a huge victory that the terrorists were stopped, and they will have to face God’s wrath for their sins. But the scriptures also tell me that God weeps for them. He remembers what they were like when they were helpless and depended on a mother’s milk to survive, when they were just learning to walk, when they were innocent and curious, before they were taken captive to sin.

Oh, regarding this past week’s events and the atrocities committed, how can anyone talk about forgiveness? I certainly cannot preach about forgiveness because I have no right to do so. Boko Haram has not razed my village to the ground, killing everyone I know and loved in the world. My father was not murdered because he acted on his rights to free speech. I was not overlooked for a new position because I wear a head-scarf. My husband is not in danger of going to the supermarket because he has a kippah on his head. My child is not mistrusted because of the colour of his skin and his choice to wear a hooded sweatshirt. My husband has not left me for another woman. I was not gang-raped. My family was not terrorised and held captive …

I could go on.

But Jesus had much to say about forgiveness; he was categoric about its importance, and he spoke as one who had every right to do so.

Then the chief priests and the elders of the people assembled in the palace of the high priest, whose name was Caiaphas, and they schemed to arrest Jesus secretly and kill him. “But not during the festival,” they said, “or there may be a riot among the people.”

(Jesus) took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.”

He withdrew about a stone’s throw beyond them, knelt down and prayed, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.” An angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him. And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground.

Then he returned to his disciples and found them sleeping. “Couldn’t you men keep watch with me for one hour?” he asked Peter.

Now the betrayer had arranged a signal with (the religious leaders): “The one I kiss is the man; arrest him.” Then seizing him, they led him away and took him into the house of the high priest. Peter followed at a distance. And when some there had kindled a fire in the middle of the courtyard and had sat down together, Peter sat down with them. A servant girl saw him seated there in the firelight. She looked closely at him and said, “This man was with him.”

But he denied it. “Woman, I don’t know him,” he said.

A little later someone else saw him and said, “You also are one of them.”

“Man, I am not!” Peter replied.

About an hour later another asserted, “Certainly this fellow was with him, for he is a Galilean.”

Peter replied, “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Just as he was speaking, the rooster crowed. The Lord turned and looked straight at Peter.

The chief priests and the whole Sanhedrin were looking for false evidence against Jesus so that they could put him to death. But they did not find any, though many false witnesses came forward.

Then the high priest tore his clothes and said, “He has spoken blasphemy! Why do we need any more witnesses? Look, now you have heard the blasphemy. What do you think?”

“He is worthy of death,” they answered.

Then they spit in his face and struck him with their fists. Others slapped him and said, “Prophesy to us, Messiah. Who hit you?” The men who were guarding Jesus began mocking and beating him. They blindfolded him and demanded, “Prophesy! Who hit you?” And they said many other insulting things to him.

While Pilate was sitting on the judge’s seat, his wife sent him this message: “Don’t have anything to do with that innocent man, for I have suffered a great deal today in a dream because of him.”

But the chief priests and the elders persuaded the crowd to ask for Barabbas and to have Jesus executed.

“What shall I do, then, with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” Pilate asked.

They all answered, “Crucify him!”

“Why? What crime has he committed?” asked Pilate.

But they shouted all the louder, “Crucify him!”

Then he released Barabbas to them. But he had Jesus flogged, and handed him over to be crucified.

Then the governor’s soldiers took Jesus into the Praetorium and gathered the whole company of soldiers around him. They stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him, and then twisted together a crown of thorns and set it on his head. They put a staff in his right hand. Then they knelt in front of him and mocked him. “Hail, king of the Jews!” they said. They spit on him, and took the staff and struck him on the head again and again. After they had mocked him, they took off the robe and put his own clothes on him. Then they led him away to crucify him.

When they had crucified him, they divided up his clothes by casting lots. And sitting down, they kept watch over him there. Above his head they placed the written charge against him: THIS IS JESUS, THE KING OF THE JEWS.

Those who passed by hurled insults at him, shaking their heads and saying, “You who are going to destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself! Come down from the cross, if you are the Son of God!” In the same way the chief priests, the teachers of the law and the elders mocked him. “He saved others,” they said, “but he can’t save himself! He’s the king of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him. He trusts in God. Let God rescue him now if he wants him, for he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’” In the same way the rebels who were crucified with him also heaped insults on him.

(and)

Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” **

For Jesus, there is never ever a good enough excuse not to forgive.

** These scriptures are all direct quotes, which are pulled from Matthew 26 & 27 and Luke 22 & 23. They are mostly in chronological order, but are not complete, and the verses are intermingled between the two books of the Bible. If you’ve never read the crucifixion story, you can read the complete version in those chapters listed above, as well as Mark 14-15 and John 18-19. Matthew, John, and most likely Mark are eye-witness accounts, and Luke wrote about it second-hand after interviewing many people who were there.

A final word. I will be offline completely until next Monday to try and recover from carpal tunnel. I’m afraid to do permanent damage. If there are comments to be moderated (first time commenters) they probably won’t get approved until then (unless I can get my antiquated iPhone to work).

Photo Credit: 123rf

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The Viscount – Chapter Nineteen

Before I start this week’s chapter, let me recap my 2-weeks of “plot-tightening.” On a practical level, I’ve changed Camille’s new friend “Eléonore” to Eloise to avoid confusion with the Viscount’s elder sister. And the mysterious “Jean” who keeps meeting the other guy on the Seine to talk is the same “James” that is selling drugs to Camille. I decided to simply make him Jean all around to avoid confusion.

On a broader level, it is helping me immensely to post my chapters on this blog for two reasons: a) the regular upkeep of my blog is important to me, and it’s hard to do that while writing a novel, and b) it gives me accountability. I’m forced to keep going, even when it’s hard or I get worn out. It forces me to finish, and I really need a victory in the fiction department to convince myself that I can really do it.

However, I know it doesn’t make for pristine writing. My husband was helping me with the trickier parts of the plot, and he suffered through about 6 chapters before saying that he can tell it’s a rough draft. (My husband is a huge support to me, so he has enough credit to say something like this). And when reading the Top Ten Writing Mistakes Editors See Every Day, I had to acknowledge a few hits. There is much polishing to be done, and you, Dear Readers, are not getting my best work in these chapters. But thank you for your graciousness in reading anyway.

Alright. Now onwards.

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Camille spotted Eloise through the glass doors and raced outside after her. “Eloise, hi!”

She turned and faced him calmly, but with a pleasant smile on her face. She didn’t look unhappy to see him. “Hi Camille.” When he just stared at her without speaking, her smile grew broader and her eyes twinkled. “Did you want to see me?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, uh. I was, uh wondering how late you stayed at that party.”

“Oh, so you remember that, do you? I wasn’t sure you had any memory of meeting me there because by the time I came back downstairs, you were sitting on the steps passed out.”

“Yeah. Someone woke me up before Randy’s parents came home, and everyone was gone by that time. But to tell you the truth, I don’t know why I passed out. It’s the second time it’s happened to me after only drinking a little bit. And –” he added conscientiously, “after smoking some pot.”

“Hm.” She looked concerned. “Did you ever think that maybe someone was slipping something into your drink? Do you know anyone who would do that on purpose? You know,” she added, “since it happened twice?”

A teacher, leading a line of elementary students towards the gate, passed them at that moment, crunching over the pebbles in the courtyard, and instructing them to keep to their line of two-by-two. “Hey Eloise,” a tall, lanky boy called out to her at the same time, causing her to break off and smile at him. “Do you want me to walk over to class with you?” he proposed, indicating the outlying buildings across the street.

“Hey Justin. No thanks,” she replied, shaking her head. “I want to finish talking to Camille, and it’s still early.” Justin shrugged and loped off, and Camille felt a flash of gratitude towards her.

When they were alone again, she turned her attention back to him. “So, we were saying …?”

“You were asking if someone could have slipped something in my drink, but I can’t really see why anyone would do that.”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “To humiliate you? To steal from you?” She saw him flinch. “Did someone steal from you? I hope you weren’t carrying anything valuable.”

“No, no, it was nothing,” he replied, hiding from her the realization that for the second time, the money he had collected for drugs had been taken from him while he was passed out at a party. For the past week, he had been racking his brains trying to figure out what he was going to tell Jean about not having his money, and he hadn’t given much thought as to how odd it was that he should have been robbed twice.

“… and so, because of that, I never drink or eat anything at parties. Unfortunately I have a friend who was raped after losing consciousness, and she’d only had one drink.”

Camille snapped to attention. “Did she report it?”

“She did. The police are looking into it. But I wouldn’t think they would target a guy, which is what makes me think that they either thought to steal from you, or …” she took an involuntary step towards him, “humiliate you. I’m sorry it happened,” she added quickly.

Camille didn’t feel embarrassed for having been a target, he felt mad. And when he didn’t respond right away, Eloise spoke up again with obvious reticence. “I know you’re friends with Jerôme, but I can’t help but think he goes with a bad bunch.”

“We’re not friends,” Camille said firmly. “And he doesn’t go with a bad bunch. He leads it.”

“Oh!” Eloise looked at him with respect. “Okay, so you know your own mind then. That’s good.”

“Not as well as I should. I can’t believe some of the situations I’ve gotten myself into,” he said with uncharacteristic candor. “But that’s going to change.”

“Well, if you need a friend – ” She said this with a smile and pulled her bag on her shoulder, as she started to walk away.

“Eloise,” he called out. She looked back at him. “I just didn’t want you to have the wrong impression of me. You know – after what you saw at the party.”

“I don’t think I do,” she replied serenely.

* * *

“Mom,” Thomas had whispered. It had been the first word he spoke, and that was three days before her mother arrived. In those three days, he had improved by leaps and bounds, establishing set periods of sleep and wake. He had not been talkative, but he had been able to answer every simple question they had asked him, except for what had happened the days leading up to the accident. And he had been able to communicate his desire to drink some water almost right away. It was almost more than Chastity could hope for.

Marc accompanied her to pick her mother up at the airport, which was not something she had planned on. But her old car broke down on the way to stock up for her mom’s visit at the grocery store, and she didn’t want to bear the expense of a taxi. “I will stay out of your way,” Marc had said as he drove. “I know you need lots of private time with your mom. It’s going to be so good for you to have her here.”

She looked at him gratefully, surprised. “That’s really sweet of you. I think it will be good – for both Thomas and me to have her there.” After a moment’s silence, she added, “I’m sorry you don’t have this. I wish you still had your relationship with your parents.”

Marc’s replied with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “Actually, there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” She looked at his profile expectantly, and he continued dramatically. “My mother made contact with me.”

Chastity gasped. “You’re kidding me! That’s great!”

“Yeah,” Marc continued. “Apparently she heard through some mutual friends that I was showing interest in my son and that pleased her enough to forget some of her anger. She’s hoping to be able to meet Thomas.”

“Oh!” Chastity was caught off-guard. “Okay, well, it’s not possible right now, obviously.”

“You don’t think she could come visit him in the hospital and bring him a gift?” Marc asked innocently.

“No!” was the indignant retort. “He just woke up from a coma and needs as little stimuli as possible!” She looked out the window to her right, hiding the red spot on each of her cheeks.

“Yes, but your mother is coming to see him,” he argued back.

“Thomas already knows my mother. She is not a stranger. So please forget the idea. It’s not going to work.”

“I’m sorry for asking,” replied Marc petulantly.

A silence fell over them, and she sighed inwardly. Here were some signs of his old self surfacing – the things that made her more and more certain their relationship could not work out. They began to see billboards for the airport, and her spirits lifted at the thought of seeing her mother again. That’s when Marc broached the subject again in a kinder tone. “Do you think that it might be possible at least for you to come and meet my mother in Paris? Perhaps after your mom has been here for awhile and is familiar with everything, she could stay with Thomas while you come with me. I really think the whole reason my parents are interested in a reconciliation is because of you and Thomas.”

Chastity struggled internally. But when he added, “It would really mean a lot to me,” her compassion won over. “Of course, Marc. Anything I can do to help restore your relationship with your parents.”

They didn’t say much else before arriving at the circular airport and driving down the ramps that would lead to the parking garage. When they reached Arrivals, she could see her mother courageously pulling her heavy suitcase off the conveyor belt through the glass walls, but she wasn’t able to catch her attention. When she finally exited Customs, Chastity threw herself in her mother’s arms, and Marc had the decency to stay back against the wall.

If her mom felt any surprise at being picked by Marc, she covered it up graciously. “Well Marc,” she said placidly. “You look well. I’m glad to see that your life has taken a turn for the better.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replied politely. “May I push the cart?”

All that had been a week ago, and true to his word, he had held back from visiting the hospital so they could have their time together. Now Chastity, her mom, and Thomas had formed a happy ritual of talking, playing, eating and watching TV each day in his room. And this was the picture they presented when the Viscount finally came to visit. Chastity was sitting on one side of Thomas’ bed, and her mother on the other, with her back to him. They were playing Candyland – a juvenile game that was chosen on purpose so that it wouldn’t tax Thomas too much, though they could see that he was slightly bored.

“Two orange squares, Grandma, so you have to go there.” He started to point at the spot on the board, but flinched in pain, and lay back against the pillows gently. The board was propped up on the table that spun over the bed.

“Oh yes, Tommy, you’re right,” his grandmother replied, meekly. Her plan to dumb the game down a bit was not working in the way she had hoped. Rather than encouraging her grandson with how much he did know, it seemed to frustrate him.

“Mr de Chabot!” Chastity exclaimed, jumping up. “We haven’t seen you in awhile.” She walked over to him, her eyes alight.

“Charles,” he reminded her with a smile. “I am very sorry for it. I had to turn Thomas’ case back over to Docteur Toussaint while I took care of some personal things. Are he and Docteur Okonkwo taking good care of you?”

“They are both great. And, there’s my … I’d like to present my mother,” she said turning towards her mom, who had just stood up at Thomas’ bedside.

“It’s a pleasure,” the Viscount took two steps forward and shook her mother’s hand. His movements were easy and graceful and Chastity’s mother found herself looking up into a boyish face with warm, brown eyes. The Viscount then moved over to the bed. “Hi Thomas,” he said, addressing his young patient. “How are you feeling?”

Thomas still looked belligerent, but his expression was doubtful when he answered. “Sometimes I get mad. I’m not used to feeling mad a lot of the time.”

The Viscount sat down on the bed next to him and took his hand. “That, I’m afraid, is very normal after a brain injury. Some of your anger is happening because the part of your brain that usually keeps you in a good mood was hurt, and so you get mad more often. And you also feel frustrated at not being able to do what you are used to doing. Does that make sense?”

Thomas looked down, and then yawned. He didn’t answer, and just picked at the blanket with his fingers. “I’m tired,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Here, let’s lower the bed,” the Viscount said quietly. When he finished, he gestured to Chastity to follow him out to the hallway. She walked behind him, but her mother chose to remain by the bedside.

“I’m getting the updates from Christian – Docteur Okonkwo – so I’m following his progress from the medical end, but I’m curious. Does he act like himself when he’s awake?”

“In some ways, very much so,” answered Chastity earnestly. “He is just as sharp as ever. But he gets frustrated much more easily. He used to be such an easy-going kid, so this is a pretty big change for him.”

The Viscount nodded, and leaned against the doorframe. He was wearing a cable-knit sweater with a V-neck under his winter coat, and Chastity was struck by how much she wanted to lean against him at that moment. She mentally shook herself.”

“… this can change, actually,” he was saying. “There is no guarantee that this is his new personality. It could be part of the healing process. But I have to say that both Docteur Toussaint and I are encouraged by his cognitive progress. His is the best we could possibly hope for.”

“That is so good to hear.” Chastity broke out into a smile, and he noticed how much younger it made her look. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled widely.

He pulled his eyes off Chastity’s face and stood upright again, glancing at her mother. “I was, uh,  wondering if you and your mother would like to come to an art gallery opening this Friday? It’s a painter from New York, actually, so your mother might have heard of him.”

“Mom?” she called, beckoning her mother over, and then indicated for the Viscount to continue. He addressed the tall, older woman in front of him.

“Have you heard of a New York painter called Randall Mooers?” Chastity’s mom shook her head. “Well, we’re having an opening at the art gallery featuring his work. I thought it might be fun for you to visit the museum if you’re ready for a night out.”

“Well that sounds nice.” She turned to her daughter. “We don’t leave the hospital til about 7:30 or so, right?”

“That’s right,” her daughter confirmed, unsuccessfully trying to hide her eagerness. “So we could do that after Tommy goes to sleep, couldn’t we?”

“It doesn’t start until 8:00,” offered the Viscount.

“Thank you very much for the invitation,” her mom nodded. “We’d love to come.”

“It’s very sweet of you to think of us,” Chastity added.

After the Viscount’s short visit, Chastity lifted her arms up in a stretch, and rolled onto the balls of her feet. Then she dropped her head down and swung her hair back and forth. As she stood back up and twisted from side to side, her mother watched her keenly. “So he’s another one of Tommy’s doctors?” she asked casually.

“Mm hmm.” Chastity walked over to the windowsill and fiddled with the toys there, stacking the books and putting the pieces to a game in a more orderly fashion. “He was the first doctor who treated him, but he’s on sabbatical so he handed the case back to Dr Toussaint.”

“And it’s the strangest thing,” she said, turning around swiftly. “He owns the château at Maisons Laffitte and I teach his son English at the school.”

“What a coincidence,” her mom said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, he seems like a nice man.”

“Oh!” Chastity shrugged one shoulder. “He is nice – at least here in the hospital. But honestly it came as a surprise to me. When I met him at the school to talk about his son, I never could have imagined him being this warm. Believe me, his expression is not always that friendly.” Restless, she straightened the blanket over her son, and then sat down, crossing one leg over the other.

“Hm!” her mother replied enigmatically, picking up her Sudoku puzzle and pencil. When her daughter turned to look out the window, the older woman allowed herself a small smile.

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Jesus, the Idiot, and Samuel Pickwick

I remember when I first read Matthew 11:28-30. I was in Taiwan, bewildered with grief over my brother’s suicide, and suffering from an undiagnosed depression from a car accident that resulted in head trauma a few months prior. I was homeless, in a sense, coming from New York, where I had been out of work and staying in my boyfriend’s apartment,  to my current year’s teaching position in Taiwan, and on my way to a year in Paris where I hoped things between my boyfriend and me would work out for the long-term. (They didn’t, by the way, which is another story, and which you can read about in my memoir over there on the sidebar).

If you’re not familiar with Matthew 11, this – this is the scripture:

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

I had just discovered the Bible as more than a talisman to carry with me against bad luck. Not that I did that – someone had to give me a copy. I discovered it was more than an antiquated story with good moral lessons.  In it, I discovered words of life. And when I read the words in Matthew 11, I know I gasped. I probably breathed a sigh of relief. And though I’ve often since stumbled on scriptures that made me laugh – whether because it was funny or because God hit the nail on the  head – that’s one thing I’m certain I didn’t do because it was at least a year after my brother’s death before I was able to laugh again.

Am I weary and burdened? Oh yeah.

More than seeking wisdom at the time, I had been seeking knowledge. I was touched greatly by Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, whose Prince Myshkin, I had been told, was supposed to have been modelled after Jesus. Someone so pure, so self-sacrificing, so good that the world could only look on him as an idiot. I was ploughing through nearly all of Dostoevsky’s works (for fun – I was never a popular kid), but The Idiot stood out to me the most – the concept that someone could be so good as to be misunderstood and eventually put away.

It has been … 21 years since my brother Mark died. He killed himself on January 3, but since I was in Asia, I didn’t find out about it until January 4th, which remains the significant date in my mind. I didn’t know that such a bone-chilling bleakness could exist until I was in it with no way out.

By the time I left Taiwan, and had moved to Paris, I now owned a Bible and offered up occasional, tentative prayers. Some time that fall before the anniversary of my brother’s death, I was also treated for depression and was able to function again.

And it was just about that time, as a fan of Dickens, that I had moved on to reading The Pickwick Papers. I was surprised to read in the foreword of the book that Dostoevsky had found no other model as near to what he hoped to achieve for his Prince Myshkin in portraying a simplistic good man than in Dickens’ Samuel Pickwick.

(And, in full disclosure, I just found out that is not precisely true, based on the following, quoted from this website):

The first installment of The Idiot was scheduled to appear in the the January number of the literary journal Russkii Vestnik, and Dostoevsky wrote in a letter to his niece, S. Ivanova, desribing the central idea for his new novel:

The idea behind the novel is an old and precious conception of mine, but so difficult that for a long I have not dared to attempt it; and if I have decided to attempt it now, it is only because I found myself in an almost desperate situation. The chief idea of the novel is to depict a “positively beautiful” (polozhitel’no prekrasnyi) man. . . . There is only one positively beautiful person in the world—Christ—and the appearance of this measurelessly, infinitely beautiful person is, of course, an infinite miracle. . . . I’ll simply say that of the beautiful persons in Christian literature the most perfect is Don Quixote. But he is beautiful only because at the same time he is funny. Dickens’s Pickwick (an infinitely weaker conception than Don Quixote, but all the same immense) is also funny, and succeeds only because of this quality. Compassion arises for the beautiful when it is laughed at and ignorant of its own worthÐand so sympathy arises in the reader. This rousing of compassion is the secret of humour. [The Dostoevsky Archive, 120]

So, now I understand that Don Quixote was a greater influencer, as was Dickens’ novel Our Mutual Friend. But at the time, I was doubly impressed that Dickens’ character could influence Dostoevsky’s to such a great extent and was excited to dig into the book. And I was at a time in my life when I was ripe for humour and ready to be entertained.

Oh, I laughed while reading The Pickwick Papers. I laughed from the opening lines until the ending. It was the first time I remember laughing after my brother’s death. I laughed so hard that when I was in public, I had to close the book so people wouldn’t drag me to an asylum. I laughed so hard I cried.

Now I can see some of the underlying, more somber, social statements in the book that I wasn’t ready to see at the time. But Pickwick Papers remains for me the book that made me laugh for the first time in over a year.

Where am I going with all this? I’m not sure. But Jesus is more than the morose self-sacrifice of Prince Myshkin. And he is more than the innocent jovial gaiety of Samuel Pickwick. These are just two minor facets of a perfect diamond. No one could mistake him for an idiot because in all his “positively beautiful” goodness, there is also strength. He is someone who can stand at the rubble of humanity as he is about to be sacrificed and say, “Be of good cheer. I have overcome the world.”*

* John 16:33 (I have referenced this before, but it bears repeating).

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” (MSG)

Jesus’ yoke is not a set of religious rules; it’s freedom. It’s walking with someone who understands suffering, but who remains steadfast and lighthearted. His way is so unlike our way where human worth is based on achievement. The very notion of his simplistic goodness seems … idiotic.

Nevertheless, it’s real.

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