Jennie Goutet's Blog: A Lady in France, page 31

Fondation Louis Vuitton

The Louis Vuitton Foundation opened on October 27.

It’s located in the Bois de Boulogne next to the Jardin d’Acclimatation. I’ve told you a bit about this park before in this post, but it’s basically like a miniature (totally French) Disneyland. Without princesses. This park has been around since the 19th century, and its architecture – the confection stands, etc. has changed little.

This pigeonnier (pigeon post) has been here since 1860, and it was used during the Franco-Prussian wars, and World War I. They transported the pigeons to a distant location, and when they had a message ready, they tied it to the pigeon who then flew home to this place.

We hadn’t noticed this area of the jardin before (is it new?), which reminds us of Bordeaux. There are even lights in the streams of water – not just at the base, but throughout the entire stream. How do they do that?

So anyway. We decided on the spur of the moment to go the Jardin d’Acclimatation on Halloween – just because we were all on vacation and wanted to do something else besides sit in front of the TV/computer/DS/iPhone. It ended up being a severe trial to have gone at this particular time, and I will tell you about that another time.

However, this last-minute excursion was how we came unwittingly to be in the know regarding this magnificent cultural event, whose conception dates back to 2001. It had been open just five days and the lines were still extensive. (We did not go in).

The architecture, designed by Frank Gehry, is airy and exquisite.

It looks like a massive, land-locked ship

where water plays a prominent part in the design,

as does lighting.

The fondation is open for concerts and art exhibits

and will quickly become one of the must-see sites in Paris.

(even if it’s really located in Neuilly).

It’s unsurprising that the Louis Vuitton brand was behind such an architectural confection, isn’t it?

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The Viscount – Chapter Thirteen

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

“Well Gaston, it’s been nice to be here,” Paltier said with a contented sigh as he lifted his feet and placed them on the stool, set comfortably in front of the fire. He sipped his port and rested the glass in the palm of his other hand. “We’re getting older, but I guess God will grant us a few more years of this.

His brother leaned back in his worn armchair and lifted his own glass in reply. “To our health!” which was met with an answering salute before they both sipped and relapsed into silence.

After a comfortable pause, “What time does your train leave in the morning?”

Paltier answered promptly. “Seven o’clock. I wanted to get an early start as I’ll be going straight to work from there.”

“I’ve no doubt,” his sibling answered in a rallying tone. “ Gus, the day you don’t consider your duty to the family of the first importance is the day I can no longer recognise my own brother. Heaven forbid you should sleep in.”

“I’ve had two weeks to sleep in, thank you very much. Work is good. A man never feels alive when his hands are idle.” His brother, a diligent vintner with a solid label, simply nodded his head in sympathy. The fire snapped loudly, and Gaston stood up and reached for the iron tongs to turn the burning log.

The two brothers were unlike in appearance. Gustave was tall and slim with a stately bearing that suited him perfectly to his life’s work. Gaston was ruddier and shorter with a stocky build that kept him closer to the grapes, as he liked to chuckle. But there was an easy understanding between them, and they both looked forward to their two weeks of company out of a generally quiet bachelor’s existence. Gus had never been interested in marriage; Gaston had married, fathered two children who had no interest in inheriting the vineyard (although they did not despise the money), and had lost his wife younger than he would have liked. But he bore these setbacks with fortitude.

Maybe it was the mellowing effects of the port and the fire, or the knowledge that the next day would take him back to Ile de France where he wouldn’t see his brother for another year, but Paltier opened up more than was usual for him. “The young Viscount will be holding a spring ball at the château this year.”

Gaston raised his eyebrows at that. “When was the last time? It was when the late Viscount was still alive, wasn’t it?

Paltier stared off in the distance. “It was the year before he died. We shall have to go through the storage and pull out all the glasses, cutlery, dishes – have everything washed. None of it has been used in twenty years.”

“Will it be a sit-down affair?”

“Yes, and the Viscount mentioned he’ll take some of your red. I’ll fill out an order form and send it to you as soon as I have a better idea as to the quantities. We won’t invite the entire town to the dinner, of course, but the idea is to open the gates to anyone with a purchased ticket for the dancing.

Gaston pursed his lips. “There was something funny about that last ball, wasn’t there? Some scandal? I seem to remember the late Viscount’s death was in some way related to it, and honestly I didn’t pay much attention. Penelope died that same year, you know.”

Paltier cast him a sympathetic glance and lifted his glass again imperceptibly. “You are correct. There was a burglary. Stolen art.” He shuddered a bit at the memory.

“Ah. I seem to remember something about that. What was it?”

“It was a Manet. The self-portrait.”

Gaston whistled through his teeth. “I don’t know that one. I am not at all surprised at his having such a painting, but how somebody managed to steal it with all those people around, I can’t imagine.”

“It was a strange affair.” Paltier sighed heavily. “You know, the family is used to money and they don’t take care in the usual way.” And if it explained things, “They don’t count their silver.” He then turned to his brother and, with uncharacteristic energy, pointed at him. “But you can bet that I do.”

His brother murmured what was appropriate before Paltier continued. “Anyway, they have a few paintings. They have a couple of Cézanne, a Van Gogh, a Monet, and then they had this one Manet. The Viscount’s father was quite the collector, you know. The family never thought that this private collection could be at risk.” He broke off vehemently. “I should have thought of it.”

His brother shook his head with a quiet tsp tsp and then asked, “So how did they pull it off?”

“I’m sure they took advantage of when there was a performance in the Italian Apartment because the room went dark. This light show was part of the show, and that must have blinded everyone to any activity that looked suspicious. I imagine the person slipped into the King’s Chamber and took it from there down a side staircase, which no one would have been using just then. It leads straight to the basement where they must have escaped into the garden.”

“But that’s too easy,” his brother protested. “Why, aren’t there alarms in the château? Weren’t there guards?”

“Normally yes,” Paltier answered. “But it was a during a strange period when they were doing some work down in the basement to repair some of the stone walls, and the alarm must have been cut. Or … the gardener, Pierre Maçon and his under-gardener were supposed to be watching it or some such thing. And, now, that is what is strange. Pierre disappeared that night.”

“Oh, I do remember that,” his brother intercepted. “A friend of yours, wasn’t he?

“He was. I’ll never believe it was him,” Paltier said firmly. “I don’t care that he wasn’t around to explain his disappearance. Something must have happened to him.”

Gaston sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Doesn’t look good though.”

“No,” his brother answered simply.

“What about the under-gardener? What was the fellow’s name? What did he have to say?”

Paltier replied, “I don’t remember his name. And he was there that night. Said he hadn’t seen anything. He was standing in front of the door when a few guards came rushing down. Said he was told to keep an eye out and prevent anyone from accessing on the lower levels.”

Gaston snorted. “What a waste of manpower. As if any of the guests would try to come that way. Unless … they thought that maybe there would be a potential robbery?” He thought for a minute. “But, so then, the thief could not have left that way.”

“No. Except that the under-gardener had not been in service more than a couple of months, and even he disappeared after a day. No one has seen him since.”

“Hmph.”

“But the evil in it,” Paltier continued, “is that the late Viscount was blamed for insurance fraud, and I know that the shock of it caused his death.”

“How could they blame him when the signs pointed to the missing gardeners?”

“Because he had the misfortune to inquire about the value on the Manet a week before the theft.”

Gaston turned in surprise. “But if it were really him, he would have to be an idiot to do something so stupid. Anyone can see that.”

“That’s why the charges were cleared – that and the missing gardeners. There was no proof. But I have a feeling the late Viscount made a few enemies when he bought the château and the racetrack, and they were the ones who encouraged the investigation. He was cleared, but the damage was done, and his fatal heart attack occurred less than a year later.”

“The painting never was found, hm?”

“No, and I have to say I’m surprised the young Viscount agreed to hold another ball after the pain the family went through. I’m sure he felt my disapproval, much though I tried to conceal whatever I’m feeling on the issue.”

Gaston chuckled in reply. He knew that his brother was able to cast very speaking looks. “Ah well,” he said. “It’s just as well that he’s bringing some life back to that castle again. Mind that there are guards in every part of the château this time!”

“Never you fear,” Paltier replied with determination.

Chastity and Thomas picked their way through the clumps of melting snow on the sidewalk. It rarely snowed in the Paris area, so it was always enchanting when it did. The snow that had started during the Marché de Noel continued intermittently throughout Christmas, and then remained frozen and cold past the New Year. Now the winter sun caused the edges of the snowbanks to soften, then liquefy. Soon there would be sparse traces on muddy grass bordering the sidewalk, and then none at all for the rest of the season.

“Can I have a croissant?” Thomas asked, jumping over clumps of brown snow when a simple step would have sufficed.

“No honey. We’re just going to get some baguettes. I’ll give you a small piece, but I don’t want you to ruin your appetite since we’re going to be eating lunch soon.”

Thomas absorbed the news diplomatically. He continued hopping even when there was no more snow, his boots making tiny splashes in the mud on the sidewalk. “Mom, do you love my father?”

Chastity looked up startled because he asked her the very question she was wrestling with at that exact moment. “Ah,” she said simply before chuckling; but then her smile vanished quickly. “I don’t know sweetie. I like him. I love you.” She emphasized the word. “Would that make you glad, or … feel bad if I loved him?”

“Glad, I guess.” Hop. Hop.

“Well, we have all the time in the world to see about that, my baby,” she said smiling. They were approaching the corner where they would turn right and walk along the busy street towards the boulangerie.

“Here, kitty, kitty.” Thomas coaxed a starved-looking cat that was sitting at the crosswalk. When he saw the cat just turned its proud head, he gave up and changed the subject. “Mom, if I thought a kid was in trouble …”

“Hold on sweetie,” Chastity said, as she dug in her bag for the phone that had started to ring. She pulled it out and looked up as she went to press the talk button.

“Tommy, NO!” escaped her lips. But she couldn’t stop him. She was just in time to see the stray cat dart into traffic and her son leap after him. The next was all a blur. She saw his small body tossed to the side of the road as a car screeched to a halt.

“Madame! Madame, je ne l’ai pas vu!” A woman stumbled out of her car, crying. I didn’t see him!

But Chastity was already kneeling on the pavement, next to the parked cars, traffic piling up beside her. Her voice was caught in her throat as she looked at her pale, prostrate son. She was trembling violently.

“No,” she whispered.

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This Stubborn Little Thing Called Hope

Things couldn’t get any worse, right? (chuckle)

On Saturday, I woke up with a urinary tract infection, but I was pretty zen about it. Usually, the post-traumatic stress of having had a severe infection twenty years ago, all alone in a foreign country and not knowing what to do, sends me straight for the anti-anxiety medicine. But this time Matthieu was home, and I didn’t have to teach since it was holiday, and I didn’t panic.

So we all went to SOS Médecins, which is a half-hour away, and a step up from the ER because you can get an appointment and be seen almost straight away. And it turns out that, in addition to the UTI, I have walking pneumonia (or I think it is – une bronchite pneumonaire?). Which explains at least some of the heaviness I’ve been feeling lately – my lungs are completely blocked.

So antibiotics and two inhalers later, we came home and I collapsed gratefully in bed with a great excuse to stay there. It’s not such a bad thing to be physically sick so that you can deal with some of the emotional sick.

And if only it ended there.

A few months ago, I heard strange splashing sounds coming from the downstairs toilet (which is underground since we have a split-level house). I went to look, but just saw the water moving, with some splashes on the seat. A day or two later, I heard it again and, when I ran to look, thought I saw, what looked like … eels? Are there water snakes coming up from the sewer? That’s what I thought, and except for being a little freaked out, pretty much flushed the toilet and dismissed it. And there had been nothing to even recall the incident to mind ever since.

Until Saturday. When we got home from the doctor, I heard the splashing sound again so I went to investigate. And this time I saw the black eel again. Except that this time it was attached to a little furry butt. And I knew exactly what it was. I flushed.

An hour later I heard it again, and was privy to a view of the entire creature … if you haven’t guessed it by now, that creature was a rat. He swam up from the sewer and was panting in our toilet bowl (a small one, looking much cuter than he had any right to be). When he saw me, he dove back down and was helped back to the sewer by another flush. So we are using just the toilet upstairs at the moment.

It was so ridiculous it made me laugh. Like, really? A rat in our toilet? When I have a UTI?!

But by Monday I had stopped thinking anything was funny because Hunter nipped William on the arm again. I’m sure he was dominating him and not trying to harm him (he didn’t pierce the skin). But all the angst about the dog came rushing back – the advice we had been getting to put him to sleep or get rid of him. I cried all morning. And with being sick, the rat, the kids acting up because they are worried about me, the peripheral worries (some are too personal to write here – or they don’t involve me – but they make the burden heavier), I felt just about crushed.

God is funny sometimes. We were not able to get an appointment with the vet until Friday when the one who knows Hunter will be back from vacation. We will let ourselves be guided by her wisdom. But that’s five days to settle back into routine with our dog. Five days where the kids dry their tears and continue playing with him and petting him as if nothing is going to happen. Why these five days?

I can’t help but give in to the hope that maybe something good will happen that won’t end in Hunter being put to sleep, or sent to a box at the SPA. And, I can’t help but hope that, despite feeling physically lousy, I will be able to pull off a delicious anniversary dinner for my cherished husband (14 years today!). I can’t help but hope that the peripheral thing I fear will turn out okay. I can’t help but hope that, not only will we get out of this financial whirlpool, but that we’ll have enough to give a good amount to a missions collection that will be taken up at the end of November. Because how great is it to be able to give!

Do you think that money just falls from the sky, Jennie?

I do! I do! It’s all God’s anyways. I can’t help but hope that, like a loving Father, he will bring things about in good time.

There is a Proverb that says “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” (13:12) This past week, my hope has been deferred, and that is a singularly crushing, sickening feeling. Do you know what I mean?

But sometimes that’s the nature of the beast when it comes to hope. “But hope that is seen is no hope at all,” says Romans 8:24. “Who hopes for what they already have?“

Hope is not supposed to be something tangible that we can get our hands on. I’m not hoping for a husband when I was already given one fourteen years ago. No, we hope for what we don’t have. So, why would a loving Father allow such a thing as deferred hope?

Ah.

“And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings,because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us.” (Romans 2b-5a)

God – who is so anxious to bless us – allows our deferred hope because each time our desire is thwarted, we learn to persevere through it. And when we persevere through it, we accept more graciously – more faithfully – when things don’t happen the way we expect them to. And somehow, this building of character brings about that hope we so desire.

And God promises that, in our hope, we will not be put to shame.

I have no doubt that my dogged determination to have faith despite the disappointments comes from years of such character-building where my hope was sharply deferred. And (as I reassured my mom, who was worried after my last post) that longed-for healing begins when we voice the depth of the disappointment.

One of my favourite scriptures … or maybe not favourite, but one that impresses me, is Psalm 88, which ends with “You have taken my companions and loved ones from me; the darkness is my closest friend.” King Hezekiah turned his face to the wall and wept because he was told he would die. Elijah collapsed on the mountain, weary because he had been zealous for God and everyone was trying to kill him because of it. Jesus wept with loud cries and tears – not just before his death, but during his life – because of the pain and grief that accompanies human existence. These examples would not be in the Bible if God did not approve of us voicing our despair.

But there’s something stubborn about hope – a hope that will be heard. A light that refuses to be snuffed out. A new day where the air smells good and the tummy rumbles with hunger. A shrugging of the shoulders, and a “yes, things look bleak, but I can’t believe You would bring me this far just to leave me.”

Stubborn, stubborn hope.

“Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.” (Ro 12:12)

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Fall Holds No Joy For Me

I am just going through the motions. My husband – who left for New York – was worried to leave me because I can barely function. I can function (get up, shower, walk the dog, feed the kids). But I can’t do it with any glimmer of joy or hope on the horizon. And my face looks like a thundercloud to my kids.

For once, it doesn’t feel like something for which I need to find a solution. It feels like God has backed me into a corner to squeeze something out of me – to force me to face some truth of which I am unaware. And I don’t really want advice. I don’t want to know anymore whether we should keep the dog and pay for more training with money we don’t have, give him to the SPA or euthanise him (apparently this is the standard practice for biters in the UK?). Sometimes too much conflicting advice is heavier than none at all.

I don’t want to know the thing I need to do in order to lose weight and get in shape. I just want it to magically happen because years and years of trying this thing or that always results in failure because I haven’t gotten to the root of the hollowness I am trying to fill with food.

I don’t want to plan for how to get out of our financial pressures by tightening this belt or cutting that corner. Every time I see a solution – a road paved out for us – an expensive rug to sell, a refinancing, added hours teaching – something else breaks and needs repair. Our pockets are lined with holes and our sandals are worn out.

I don’t want you to rip the coveted idol out of my hands of literary success – that my words mean something, that I am successful and set above the ordinary. I want to be side-by-side, arm-in-arm with my brothers and sisters, but I want to be someone special. And if I unclench the fingers that grasp this idol, as if it can offer me breath itself, I’m afraid I’ll just be nobody.

The little things – getting out of bed early with the sunrise, a steaming cup of coffee, a calming meditation, a brisk walk as the sun highlights golden leaves in relief against a purple sky – the joy in these things goes no further than the whispered words. My senses are untouched.

You couldn’t be more surprised than I am by the fact that my miscarriage three years ago seems to have sucked all the joy out of autumn. No longer is this turn of season about my birthday, my husband’s birthday, my son’s, our wedding anniversary, a change, a stepping stone, a new beginning.

No. The first whiff of cold air in my nostrils brings spectral nausea of a pregnancy long past. And the countdown to Christmas with its white lights and pine scent and frosted cookies and spiced apples is really a countdown to the day after Christmas – the day when something I hoped for ended.

And it seems like it’s the beginning of a season of endings, and that all hope is lost for new beginnings.

I’m depressed – even on medication, I am depressed. And I don’t want advice.

I want relief.

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Jesus. Rock Star.

The church I went to in New York was very large, so I suppose that it was inevitable that someone famous would eventually show up. In this case, the famous person was Ricky Martin. I believe he only came one time, and the fact that he was willing to attempt mixing with the masses for the name of God is to his credit. But sadly, his presence created too much of a stir, and as the staff tried to “encourage” everyone back to their seats, one girl simpered loudly, “But he’s my idol!”

Let me just hit the pause button here to say –

Really?

You’re fawning over an idol … in church?

And it’s Ricky Martin?

Okay . . . resume.

Why doesn’t Jesus have this rock star status? I mean, I know the image we often have of him is weak – too weak to get off the cross, for instance. Or he seems to be a pansy, painted with that lamb around his shoulders and a deer-in-headlights stare.

Religious leaders have, perhaps, not helped his cause by coloring his character out of balance – with a strong emphasis on his sympathy, kindness and compassion, and a dearth of inspiration regarding his power. So I’m going to give you four reasons why I think Jesus is something of a rock star.

He always knew The thing to say.

Sometimes he opened the dialogue, plunging headlong into the very thing that would offend his audience, even though it was no less than the truth. Without taking the other scriptures into account (which showed his deep love for the religious leaders, as well as the poor), one would think he simply had a death wish.

“Woe to you Pharisees, because you love the most important seats in the synagogues and respectful greetings in the marketplaces.

“Woe to you, because you are like unmarked graves, which people walk over without knowing it.”

One of the experts in the law answered him, “Teacher, when you say these things, you insult us also.”

Jesus replied, “And you experts in the law, woe to you, because you load people down with burdens they can hardly carry, and you yourselves will not lift one finger to help them (…)”

Yeah. The expert in the law tried to instruct Jesus on social etiquette but he wasn’t having any of it.  He refused to remain silent if its sole purpose was to placate people.

When Jesus went outside, the Pharisees and the teachers of the law began to oppose him fiercely and to besiege him with questions, waiting to catch him in something he might say.” (Luke 11:37-54)

Jesus was so divisive, he ended up unifying his enemies! The Pharisees were the highest religious leaders who followed the Jewish law to the letter. The Sadducees differed from the Pharisees in that they did not believe in the resurrection or in heaven.  And the Herodians were Jews who thought they should work in sympathy with the secular leaders (at the time – King Herod), which made them politicians, and somewhat detestable to the other Jews. But these factions started working together against Jesus.

Hearing that Jesus had silenced the Sadducees, the Pharisees got together. (Mt 22:34)

Later they sent some of the Pharisees and Herodians to Jesus to catch him in his words. (Mk 12:13)

And no matter what they said, what they asked, who was asking the question, what kind of trap they set, Jesus always knew how to answer them.

“Keeping a close watch on him, they sent spies, who pretended to be sincere. They hoped to catch Jesus in something he said, so that they might hand him over to the power and authority of the governor. So the spies questioned him: “Teacher, we know that you speak and teach what is right, and that you do not show partiality but teach the way of God in accordance with the truth. Is it right for us to pay taxes to Caesar or not?”

He saw through their duplicity and said to them, “Show me a denarius. Whose image and inscription are on it?”

“Caesar’s,” they replied.

He said to them, “Then give back to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.”

They were unable to trap him in what he had said there in public. And astonished by his answer, they became silent. (Luke 20:20-26)

I don’t know about you, but coming from a girl who never knows what to say at exactly the right time, this is worthy of awe. And the people of his day felt the same way.

And they were amazed at him. (Mark 12:13-17)

When the crowds heard this, they were astonished at his teaching. (Mt 22:23-32)

No one could say a word in reply, and from that day on no one dared to ask him any more questions. (Mt 22:46)

When he said this, all his opponents were humiliated, but the people were delighted with all the wonderful things he was doing. (Luke 13:17)

Jesus is Raw Power

When we think of Jesus’ power, we think of walking on water, raising the dead, healing the sick. But we get immune to these things. They’re just stories – fairy tales – to us. (Even if we have faith, their impact can be dulled by overexposure). These events, however, were not dull to the men and women who experienced them firsthand.

“A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”

(Let me just say here that these were veteran fishermen, and they thought it was all over for them – that’s how bad the storm was).

He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.(…)

They were terrified and asked each other, “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!” (Mark 4: 37-41)

Yeah, they had seen him healing the sick and that was pretty amazing. But even that can be faked, right? Or if it’s not faked, maybe – possibly – someone else could do the same thing. But controlling the elements? Nobody can do that. This was a power they had not counted on, even in spending so much time with him.

Even in healing people …  ‘people were overwhelmed with amazement. “He has done everything well,” they said. “He even makes the deaf hear and the mute speak.” (Mark 7:32-37)

And when he freed the demon-possessed, he did not have to wrestle with it to his death like the priest did in The Exorcist. (Please excuse the cheesy cultural reference). He flung the demon out with words, and he – himself – remained standing.

“Be quiet!” said Jesus sternly. “Come out of him!” The impure spirit shook the man violently and came out of him with a shriek. (Mark 1:23-27)

Jesus was enough of a rock star in his day. He was constantly surrounded by people so that he had to go up to a mountain by himself in the middle of the night to be able to pray – and he had to stand in a boat some ways from the water because too many people crowded around.

But when he started getting mobbed, he didn’t need highly-paid bodyguards to get him out of the situation. He just … walked out.

All the people in the synagogue were furious when they heard this. They got up, drove him out of the town, and took him to the brow of the hill on which the town was built, in order to throw him off the cliff. But he walked right through the crowd and went on his way. (Luke 4:28-30)

Jesus Confounds Expectations

Jesus refused to buckle to authority. We all know that the religious leaders would not likely have let Jesus escape being crucified, since they were whispering to the crowd to demand Pilate for his execution. But still, when they hurled their accusations and insults (all of which were false or distorted truths) he didn’t try to defend himself. And before Pilate, the representative of the government who could have – at least legally – pardoned him (probably causing the crowds to murder him in some other way), Jesus did not plead his innocence.

Then the high priest stood up and said to Jesus, “Are you not going to answer? What is this testimony that these men are bringing against you?” But Jesus remained silent. (Mt 26:62-63)

That’s one thing. It’s one thing to stand firm against your enemies, but Jesus also stood firm against his own family! Oh, it’s so hard to resist family pressure, isn’t it? But look here -

Then Jesus entered a house, and again a crowd gathered, so that he and his disciples were not even able to eat. When his family heard about this, they went to take charge of him, for they said, “He is out of his mind.” (…)

Uh yeah. They thought he was crazy.

Then Jesus’ mother and brothers arrived. Standing outside, they sent someone in to call him. A crowd was sitting around him, and they told him, “Your mother and brothers are outside looking for you.”

“Who are my mother and my brothers?” he asked.

Then he looked at those seated in a circle around him and said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.” (Mark 3:21 and 31-35)

So even though he kept them out, we later see that James and Jude (two writers of the New Testament, who are generally agreed to be Jesus’ brothers) eventually became his disciples. And his mom was supporting him at the foot of the cross.

Not only did he resist his family, but also his best friend, Peter. Look here.
 
From that time on Jesus began to explain to his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer many things at the hands of the elders, the chief priests and the teachers of the law, and that he must be killed and on the third day be raised to life.

Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. “Never, Lord!” he said. “This shall never happen to you!”

Jesus turned and said to Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the concerns of God, but merely human concerns.” (Mt 16:21-23)

It’s as hard to resist your friends as it is your family – maybe harder. But he recognised Satan’s voice in trying to deter him from going to the cross and he would have none of it.

Jesus reminds me of Mont St Michel – a city built on a large rock that is completely surrounded by water when it is high tide. If you leave your car in the parking lot overnight, it will be ruined forever – or you’ll never see it again. Sometimes the water comes rushing in at the speed of galloping horses, but the city remains firm. And Jesus is even more firm than that. In the face of societal, cultural and  familial pressure, he remains unmoved.

Jesus is a common man – The Son of Man

Being common may not seem that rock-starish to you, but it is, in a way. Those of us who are old enough – remember when Bruce Springsteen’s video came out – Dancing in the Dark? And he pulled a random girl on stage to dance with him, and she was so excited and we were so jealous? (Only it wasn’t a random girl, but Courtney Cox – and it was staged).

But everyone wants to be the fan that the rock star recognises. Everyone wants to be the one singled out. And Jesus does that. He singles you out, no matter how unremarkable you think you are.

As Jesus and his disciples were leaving Jericho, a large crowd followed him. Two blind men were sitting by the roadside, and when they heard that Jesus was going by, they shouted, “Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!”

The crowd rebuked them and told them to be quiet, but they shouted all the louder, “Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!”

Jesus stopped and called them. “What do you want me to do for you?” he asked.

“Lord,” they answered, “we want our sight.”

Jesus had compassion on them and touched their eyes. Immediately they received their sight and followed him. (Mt 20:29-34)

Everyone else wanted to shut them up – the way the crowds tried to do with the lepers, and the disciples tried to do with the little children, and the way the laws of cleanliness tried to keep the bleeding woman isolated and unhealed. But Jesus reached through those barriers.

He is approachable. He will accept no fame if it’s for the sole purpose of puffing himself up. He will stay common so that we can become a royal priesthood together. (referencing 1 Peter 2) Jesus, knowing that they intended to come and make him king by force, withdrew again to a mountain by himself. (John 6:15) He would not bypass the laws of heaven in order to inflate his personal status.

And there is no experience common to mankind that Jesus will not share – even when that means a religious ritual, such as being baptised for repentance (though he had no need to repent).

But John tried to deter him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?”

Jesus replied, “Let it be so now; it is proper for us to do this to fulfill all righteousness.” (Mt 3:13-15)

There is no common element of life that Jesus was willing to forego if it was something that we also had to go through – whether that was being born and relying on a mother’s care, or suffering physically, or weeping, or loving, or even dying. Except he took it one step further and conquered death, paving the way to eternity.

And doesn’t that just spike him into stardom in your eyes?

I know I’ve got stars in mine.

Droit d’auteur: niserin / 123RF Banque d’images

* Some of my thoughts and observations in here were inspired by the book Jesus the Same, by Charles Edward Jefferson

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Brussel Sprouts in Orange-Cream Sauce

Brussel sprouts, poor little dears. They get such a bad rap. Even I thought I’d have to stick this recipe with a little post I’m concocting called, “Kitchen Disasters” (along with the gluten-free pot pie, the leek and chèvre tart, and the celery root recipes, all of which made such beautiful pictures, but whose final results tasted so deplorably).

I thought the Brussel Sprouts would go in the way of those kitchen failures because they smelled funny as they were cooking. But then my husband came and had a plateful when I wasn’t looking, and was surprised when I moaned about them, saying, “I never knew brussel sprouts could taste so good!”

And when a friend came to lunch today to try them, she said, “Oh yeah. These are not my mother’s brussel sprouts.” I won’t say who this friend was in case her mother should chance upon my blog.

So they are good. But I’ve found that they taste even better when you let them sit for 2 hours after cooking, so give yourself plenty of advance time to prepare this festive side dish.

Here they are, the little green guys.

Wash them, peel off any brown leaves, and cut a cross into the smaller ones so that the flavour of the broth can seep in and so that they cook more thoroughly.

The bigger ones, you should cut right in half so they are sure to cook through.

Brussel sprouts are a cruciferous vegetable, along with cabbage, cauliflower and broccoli, kale, and … I’m sure others I can’t think of right now. Cruciferous comes from the word “cross” because these vegetables have a semblance of a cross when you cut them in half. See it? There’s the post with the branches going off on each side. Anyway, this is all very important because cruciferous vegetables help prevent cancer. So there ‘s a very good reason to eat brussel sprouts!

Of course, I don’t think bacon and cream help prevent cancer, but whatever it takes to eat your vegetables, right?

Alrighty. Moving onwards. Start by frying 200 grams of bacon (about 8 slices) and draining it on paper towels. You can do less than this if you want, and you can also skip it entirely, but in that case I’d put twice the butter and 2 extra Tablespoons of sour cream to cut the acidity of the sauce.

Then take a large garlic clove and a large shallot (or two smaller ones). Chop them finely -

- and sauté them in 2T of butter. (25 g)

Add to this 3/4 cup orange juice, 1 tablespoon sugar, and 1/2 teaspoon balsamic vinegar. Add 2 cups of chicken broth (or 2 cups of water and a large bouillon cube). Make sure it has completely dissolved before adding the brussel sprouts. I didn’t need extra salt because my bouillon mix had plenty.

Add the brussel sprouts to the liquid mixture and bring it to a boil.

When it starts boiling, turn the heat down and simmer for an hour. Stir occasionally. And after an hour, if the brussel sprouts are still hard, cover them for 10-15 minutes. Finish the cooking by turning the heat up to absorb the rest of the liquid.

I want to say here that it’s very important that you stir them gently so the brussel sprouts stay in one piece. (Or mostly).

When you have just the tiniest bit of liquid left, add the zest of one orange, 1/4 teaspoon of white pepper, and another tablespoon of sugar. Then add 3 large tablespoons of crème fraiche (sour cream), the bacon, and stir.

And then, ideally – you will let the sprouts sit for 2 hours before quickly reheating and serving. This gives the flavours a chance to blend together. And then you have (as my husband said) the best brussel sprouts you’ve ever eaten!

This is a perfect holiday side dish. I served something similar to this for Christmas one year, along with venison.

 * * *

Brussel Sprouts in an Orange-Cream Sauce   Print Prep time 30 mins Cook time 2 hours Total time 2 hours 30 mins   From: Lady Jennie Recipe type: Side Dish Cuisine: French Serves: 6 Ingredients 1 kilo brussel sprouts 200 grams bacon (8 slices) 1 large shallot and 1 large garlic clove 25 g butter (2T) ¾ c orange juice 2 c bouillon (plus extra salt if needed) 2 T sugar 3 T sour cream Zest from one orange ¼ t pepper Instructions Wash brussel sprouts, remove stems, cut a cross into the base of the small ones, or cut the large ones in half. Fry the bacon, set aside and drain. Clean pan. Mince shallot and garlic, and fry in butter. Add the broth and orange juice, plus 1T sugar. Bring brussel sprouts to boil in liquid, then simmer for an hour. Cover for 10 minutes if still firm, turn heat up afterwards to remove rest of liquid. Add another T sugar, the pepper, sour cream, orange zest, and stir gently to make the sauce. Add the bacon last. Ideally, let sit for 1 to 2 hours before serving, then re-heat. 3.2.2802

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The Viscount – Chapter Twelve

First time here? Start at Chapter One!

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER TWELVE

 Paltier absently rubbed a dusty bottle of champagne in the wine cellar. It was only six o’clock in the morning, but he had a train to catch in the direction of Montpellier, where he would be joining his brother for the New Year’s celebration. He always took his annual vacation this time of year, but he wouldn’t dream of leaving the house without having personally selected the foods and wines for the Viscount’s intimate dinner with Mlle Duprey.

He thought about how stark the house seemed when the actress was there, as opposed to the lively warmth that the Viscount’s young wife used to bring. It just wasn’t the same. Paltier carefully placed the champagne bottle in the leather bag he had carried down with him, and then set about searching for just the right wines that would accompany both the smoked salmon and the thinly-sliced roast beef.

Christmas had been a family affair. Paltier remembered how he opened the door to the Viscount’s niece as Sylvie barreled her way in to give her uncle and cousin a hug. Adelaide followed more sedately, and held out her hand to Paltier with a warm smile. She walked over to her brother and kissed both his cheeks, saying mischievously, “England has ruined Sylvie’s manners.”

Sylvie’s cheeks turned pink and she turned charmingly to Paltier to say, “How do you do?” She then kissed her uncle and cousin, murmuring demurely, “How good it is to see you again.” But her exuberance could not be hushed for long, and she threw her arm around Camille and said, “Show me the speakers you got.”

Adelaide watched the pair of them run up the marble staircase and was reminded of how many times the same scene had unfolded before her but with two sets of shorter, chubbier legs. She turned towards the Viscount who was headed up the other marble staircase towards a spacious room with wood floors. He strolled over to a table by the fireplace and took a cigar out of the drawer, which he then lit.

“Ugh. The annual holiday cigar,” Adelaide said, wrinkling her nose. “That’s one habit from our father I wish you had not acquired.”

“At least it’s only once a year, and not every evening,” he answered with a puff. He sat down on one of the settees, and gestured for her to do the same. She sat on the yellow one across from his.

 “Where is Maman?” she asked suddenly.

“I believe they have run into traffic,” he said unconcernedly. He took another puff.

His sister smoothed out her skirt, and said with an air of innocence. “It’s too bad Eléonore and Thierry were otherwise engaged.”

The Viscount let out a low chuckle, but then fell into silence. Adelaide looked at him shrewdly. “Okay Charles, what gives? You’re not one to share much about what’s going on, but this is melancholic, even for you.”

The Viscount looked at her for a moment, then turned to the small round table by the settee and flicked some ashes into an ashtray that was sitting there. Finally, he said, “The school suspects that Camille is doing drugs.

Her lack of reaction made him think that she somehow knew that already, until he looked at her face, which was stunned. After a short silence, she asked, “Have you spoken to him about it?”

“No,” he said, and flicked some imaginary ash from his brown corduroy pants. Adelaide knew her brother well, so she just waited in silence for him to continue. At length, he did. “My own son is like a stranger to me. He tells me nothing, and I find I don’t have it in me to pry. He knows I am here for him, and when he’s ready, he will open up.”

Adelaide understood men enough to pause before uttering hasty words, which would only cause her brother to become more stubborn (and which would probably include the word “idiot” among others). She spoke carefully. “Still, you would not be remiss if you let him know what the school told you, and remind him that you are there for him. Teenagers can sometimes forget that.”

She could see that her normally proud brother was considering her advice, and decided not to press her advantage. “Shall we –” her words were interrupted by the bell ringing.

“Ah. Maman,” the Viscount said getting up. Paltier was already hurrying past him to be able to welcome his mother in from the cold.

“Good evening, Paltier,” the dowager said regally from the doorway. Her children walked over to the stairwell and descended the marble stairs in order to greet her.

“Merry Christmas, Maman,” they each said, kissing her dutifully. The Viscount took her arm as they walked back up the staircase.

“I see you decided to put your tree in that corner this year,” his mother said, immediately upon entering the room. Adelaide raised her eyebrows at her brother behind their mother’s back. The Viscount turned towards Paltier who was hovering discreetly by the entrance. “Kindly let the children know their grandmother is here, and then you may bring in the appetisers.”

Paltier headed for the stairs quickly. He hadn’t intended to hear what the Viscount revealed concerning his son, as he felt very strongly about the great family being entitled to their privacy. But he had come up just short of the entrance as they were speaking. He would never discuss it with another soul; but in his own private council, he felt that it would explain a lot about Camille’s behavior. He sincerely hoped that the Viscount would heed his sister’s advice.

When he arrived at Camille’s door, he tapped lightly and made them privy to their grandmother’s arrival. “Oh I suppose we shall have to go down,” he heard Camille say, ungraciously.

“Savage,” Sylvie teased. Paltier smiled to himself as he walked back down the stairs. His cousin was a very good influence on the boy.

When Paltier finally brought the tray of champagne over to serve the dowager first – as the Viscount expected him to do – he witnessed Sylvie’s affectionate greeting and Camille’s more sullen one. Bringing the tray around to each family member one by one, he was just in time to see Sylvie squeezing her uncle’s arm, and hear her saying in a low-pitched voice that was meant for the Viscount’s ears only, “Thank you, Oncle, for helping my friend.” The Viscount flashed her a smile.

When they had been seated at the table, and served, Paltier took his place in the back of the room to await the change of plates. Presently, the Viscount spoke up with news that did not surprise Paltier, as they had already discussed it a few days earlier. But he knew it would create a sensation. “I’ve decided to hold a spring ball in the château this year.”

His mother’s fork did not exactly clatter on the plate, but she lost some of her poise as she answered. “Charles, I am astonished.”

The Viscount, expecting opposition, was prepared. “The mayor has promised every available officer to be present the night of the gala. I do not expect a second theft to occur.

The dowager said with asperity. “It’s that actress of yours. You are holding this ball to impress her.”

“Maman!” Adelaide couldn’t resist crying out indignantly.

The Viscount pressed his lips together for a moment before replying. “There will be significant tax benefits to my doing this. I am motivated purely by financial reasons, and the duty someone in my position has to the town. Surely you understand that, Maman.”

Paltier did not hear anymore of the conversation because the Viscount signaled for him to remove the first course and bring the second. He sent word to the under-waiters to assist, but decided on his way down to the kitchen that he would be bringing the food in himself while the family was discussing such confidential matters.

He remembered all this in the dusty wine room, and wondered if the château would once again see some of its former glory – some of its former life – from the days when the young Viscount’s father had held the seat. He picked his leather bag up from the wooden shelf, carefully shielding his selections and made his way up the stairs.

As he disappeared from view, a shadowed figure crept from one of the side rooms. He looked both ways to make sure he was unobserved, although he did not expect to be. He stuffed his roll of bedding in the closed space underneath the heater where he knew it would not be discovered. Then he went to the door leading to the garden, took out his key, and noiselessly slipped it in the lock and stepped out. The air was biting and it was still dark, but he knew of a place where he could get a cup of hot coffee this early – even on New Year’s Eve.

* * *

Thomas was eating handfuls of popcorn cheerfully, allowing stray kernels to fall on the floor. Nat King Cole’s Christmas album was playing in the background, although Christmas was over. Chastity just loved it so much and it made her feel cheerful. The decorations were still up, and the white lights on the tree made her home feel cozy.

Thomas took a break from eating popcorn to inquire, “Dad, what did you do to celebrate New Year’s when you were in prison?”

Marc was sitting on the couch next to where Thomas was seated on the floor. He looked down at his son. “There wasn’t much of a celebration. Christmas was better because we had good food to eat, and even a couple of gifts if we were lucky. But the guards weren’t exactly going to let us stay up late and have a party on New Year’s.” He grinned and tousled the boy’s hair.

“I bet you’re glad to be here celebrating with us, aren’t you?” Thomas smiled up at him, and his hand went back into the popcorn bowl.

Chastity went towards the kitchen, bringing the dessert dishes with her. She wasn’t precisely nervous, but she wasn’t completely at ease either. Having Thomas’ father over in such an intimate setting was unprecedented ground. She checked her reflection in the mirror that hung in the small dining room. She was wearing a black cardigan with black sequins sewn into it, which caught reflections of light and set off her auburn hair perfectly.

Satisfied, she went into the kitchen and put the dishes down. Leaning against the counter, she blew out softly. Suddenly, Marc appeared in the doorway. “Can I help with the dishes?”

“No, no, that’s fine,” she protested.

“I insist,” he said, and grabbed the heavy meat platter and set it in the sink. She watched as he poured soap onto the sponge. Chastity wasn’t exactly a neat freak, but even she could see that the cold water wasn’t going to cut through the grease. She would have to wash the dishes again.

She busied herself with putting the plates in the dishwasher, and they worked in silence that way for awhile.

“Chassy,” Marc said finally, using an old nickname. “Thank you so much for allowing me to be part of your evening. It means a lot to me.”

“I’m glad you could come, Marc,” Chastity replied, not quite lying.

Marc picked up the clean ceramic bowl that had held the potatoes and began drying it with a towel. He looked at Chastity as he did this, and when he set the bowl down, she finally looked back up at him.

“What?” she asked.

 He was looking at her intently. “Do you think there is any chance of us …” He trailed away uncertainly, still staring at her.

Her mouth opened in surprise. She should have noticed that his feelings had shifted these past months, but she hadn’t been paying close enough attention. She had only been trying to figure out what her own feelings were.

“Marc, I don’t know.” She shook her head. “It’s been a long time and we have both changed a lot.”

“What I want” he responded, “is to start fresh – as the people that we have become. Create a new story.”

“But I still don’t feel like I know you.” She laughed self-deprecatingly. “Honestly, I’m not even sure I know myself.”

Marc set the dish towel on the counter behind him. “Maybe we could start by spending more time together,” he said pleadingly. “I think nothing would make Thomas happier.”

Chastity, flushing at his presumption, walked over to look into the living room to hide her confusion. Thomas was now lying on the couch, and though he was still awake, his eyes were glazed and he seemed to be just about to drop off. She saw that the clock said three minutes to midnight.

Marc sensed her anger and folded his arms. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know the right thing to say here.” He sighed.

Chastity turned back to look at him, softened by his admission. “I’m sorry too. I need time, Marc. There’s just no way to rush this – there’s too much history there.”

He stood  looking at her, and finally nodded. The mood shifted subtly and Chastity felt lighter – as if their conversation had cleared the air. She was about to propose they go in to celebrate the New Year with Thomas when Marc grabbed her arm and planted a soft kiss on her lips.

“Happy New Year, Chassy,” he said, giving her a small smile. Then he walked into the living room.

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A Mountain Meeting with God

I went on a church retreat in Normandy this weekend and it was good. It dredged up … feelings.

In response to these feelings, a friend of mine recommended a book called Jesus + Nothing = Everything. Have any of you read it?

The crux of the matter is that God doesn’t love you more when you do more for him. And he doesn’t love you less when you do less for him. And this is a conviction I sorely need to internalize. One day maybe I’ll understand something and then I will write about it.

But in the meantime, I decided to post something I wrote after our trip to Switzerland about a different spiritual lesson that needed internalisation. Here it is:

A Mountain Meeting with God

Brown and white cows were everywhere on the grassy hillside, staring at us balefully as their mouths moved back and forth, clanging bells at their necks. The air was crisply cool, a leftover from weeks of heavy rain; but the sun shone as we followed the path along the mountainside. We were in the Swiss Alps for my daughter’s church camp, and we decided that we would stay and vacation in the area with our two younger sons.

I was not in the best place spiritually. As I prepared for the trip in the mountains, I remembered how Moses met God on Mount Sinai. He came back with a clear idea of what constituted the basic guidelines for godly conduct for his people. And then Elijah went to Mount Horeb, and he came back comforted, and with a renewed sense of purpose. I want to meet God on the mountain, I thought.

The day we arrived in Switzerland, there was a double rainbow outside our chalet – an auspicious sign. I want direction. I want comfort, I prayed. But with it – a small caveat that God wouldn’t come to me in a mighty wind, or an earthquake, or a fire. I prayed he would come to me in a gentle whisper. I was feeling fragile.

I stomped along the path feeling irritated. A week earlier, we had invited our trusted friends, José and Alberte, for some help in our marriage. After listening awhile, Alberte – who loved me – told me I was spoiled. Although I recognized its truth at the time, my heart remained untouched.

I could only think about how my hopes and desires were being thwarted. I wanted to write full time and not have to teach English to make ends meet. I wanted to do more as a couple in church, but was stuck with the amount of hours my husband worked. I wanted us to be better parents – more available for our kids now, while our presence was still vital to them. I wanted to lose weight and stop getting stuck in the same vicious whirlwind that was the 4PM sugar blues. I wanted to do something – to change something, to have a life that wasn’t so mired in mundaneness.

I recognized Rachel in myself as I vented my frustration on my husband. “Give me children or I’ll die!” Except it wasn’t children. It was … financial peace? Spiritual fervor? Acclaim? Some other situation than what I’d been given?

I recognized the fairness in Jacob’s answer. “Am I in the place of God?”

There were small urgent cries coming from higher up on the hillside. “Do you hear that?” my husband asked.

“Those are marmots,” he said. “They’re warning each other of our coming.” We stepped into the clearing and he looked around, trying to spot one.

“Oh!” he said again. “Hawks! They weren’t warning each other of us – they were warning each other of them!” Sure enough, two hawks circled the area where the cries were coming from.

Just then, all four of us gave out a collective gasp, because from the other side of the mountain came an enormous golden eagle – hugely majestic in comparison. The hawks tried to chase him from their intended prey, but he circled the hillside, swooping and soaring. We watched as he landed.

In a short time, he was rewarded with a skinny animal in his claws, and his powerful wings took flight. The hawks came back to renew their protest, but he disappeared into a copse of trees.

Impressed, my husband and I and our two sons, moved on, picking our way down the path, which was becoming increasingly muddy – the deep grooves from some mountain vehicle making it impossible for us to find sure footing. Two cows munched, shaded by the canopy of green, as they blocked our path at the entrance to the forest. We decided to leave the path and trek down the hillside at an angle.

The path was too slippery, and eight-year old Gabriel fell in the mud. I slipped trying to get to him, my sneakers absorbing pools of water which were hidden by the long grass. I was frustrated, but my son was inconsolable. One sneaker had flown off, and he was sitting directly in the wet mud, sobbing, with one sock soaked through. At this point, my thoughts were no longer on the hope of meeting God, but rather on the rage I was feeling at being wet, muddy, and at risk of not being on time to catch the bus back to our chalet.

I stayed in the living room area of the chalet that night, clean and dry, while my husband went to read in bed. To distract myself, I watched podcasts and read articles on blogging and publishing, trying to figure out how to be more successful in these areas. But the more I read, the more my heart sank.

Finally, I walked into our room and sat down on the bed.

“Honey, can I tell you something?” I asked, a lump in my throat. My husband put his book down and looked at me expectantly.

“I was watching this video on the top ten mistakes bloggers make, and I realized that I make every single one. I’m too preachy, I don’t give enough back to the community. I don’t open dialogues for other people to give their opinions.”

I plucked a feather, whose sharp end was sticking out of the pillow, and continued. “And then I read about getting a foreign rights agent, and realized that I will probably never get an agent because I self-published. And since God has made it clear that he wants me to focus on teaching, and not writing, I’m pretty sure I have vastly overestimated my talent.”

My husband’s mouth turned up in a half-smile as I started to cry, his own eyes shiny with sympathy tears.

I went on. “And then I realized that Alberte was right. I am spoiled, and I don’t want to have to give up things we can’t afford. And I’m proud because I said I only wanted to do the cooking at the pre-teen camp if I could be in charge.” I was crying openly now.

“I refuse to give in to self-pity,” I sniffed (feeling a little sorry for myself). “I just feel so ashamed that I’ve gotten to this point.”

My husband looked at me tenderly, and said, “Well honey, you know what I think? … I think you just met God.”

I choked out a laugh, but I couldn’t stop crying. I felt so raw.

“Remember? He showed you an eagle today!” he said, grinning broadly. “What is that scripture? So that your youth is renewed like an eagle? Or is it your strength?”

“Oh my gosh. It’s your youth,” I started crying and laughing at the same time. “It’s in Psalm 103!”

As my husband flipped through the pages of the Bible, I said. “Did you know that I’ve been praying that scripture for years now? I feel so fat, middle-aged, and unsuccessful; I’m afraid that my chances at beauty and youth are flying away. So I pray for youth like an eagle’s. I can’t believe he actually showed me one!”

I was bawling now.

Later, as I was falling asleep, and again the next morning when I woke up, I still felt raw and fragile, but I felt clean. It was as if the storehouses of my heart that were so filled with junk – pride, greed, dissatisfaction … it was as if God had taken a sharp-bristled brush and sudsy water, and had scrubbed them clean. Now in their place, there were open, airy shelves, in which to store gratitude and joy.

I had wanted to meet God on the mountain because I didn’t like where I was at in my life. He gave me all the signs that He was there, but I didn’t piece it together right away.

If I was lost and needing direction, He showed me a double rainbow, reminding me of his part of the covenant. I will never leave you, nor forsake you.

If I was weary and struck down by repeated personal and professional failure – unable to pray with faith – He sent a golden eagle to swoop and soar and remind me of his promise of renewal.

If I was clamoring and clawing for self-exaltation – knowing that nothing good could come out of building a foundation on myself – He showed me how very little I could do on my own strength.

I demanded to see God, but instead He held up a mirror for me to see myself:

broken, loved, weary, renewed, dejected, redeemed. The eyes of my heart were filled with the Almighty Majesty of a God that could truly love a wretch like me.

And I saw Him – just like I had prayed I would.

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Montmartre & Sacre Coeur

Montmartre is located in the 18th arrondissement, and you will (probably) recognise three of its landmarks.

The Moulin Rouge

the café where Amélie Poulain worked,

and the Sacre Coeur.

The first two sites are right next to each other as you come out of Metro Blanche. The Moulin Rouge is across the street, and the café is on the street just to the right, which climbs the hill – rue Lepic.

Before you get to Amélie’s café, be sure to notice (or grab a drink in) the Lux Bar, which is on the same side of the street and has beautiful Art Deco mosaics on its walls.

Montmartre is hilly -

and there is a lesser-known windmill, which is privately owned, called the Moulin des Galettes.

(You can barely see the blades of the windmill through the trees).

What’s interesting about this place is that the owner – the last of four brothers who ran this two-century, family-owned business  – rebelled against the Cossacks (the Russians) who were taking over Paris in the 1820s. He had himself nailed to the blades of the windmill as a final act of defiance and desperation.

Another interesting point. The word bistro – which to Parisians simply means café (i.e. a French bistro) – is the Russian word for “quickly!” And that’s what the Cossacks used to shout to the frazzled Parisian restaurant owners when they placed their orders. The word stuck.

This windmill later became an indoor garden and ballroom, and is the scene of Renoir’s 1876 painting, aptly named, “The Ball at the Windmill of the Galette.”

You keep climbing until you reach the Sacre Coeur (there is a grounded cable car for those who cannot make the climb)

There is a very famous photo similar to this. It’s in black and white and is taken at dusk. Do you know what I’m talking about?

 and then you get this view-

a magnificent view over Paris.

(and to your left, a view of the Marché St Pierre, famous for its fabric)

And the experience is complete with an accordion player in a beret, playing La Vie en Rose.

Montmartre stands for Hill of the Martyrs. I was able to get some of the history from this site. There is also an English translation, but it’s not as comprehensive as the French, and it doesn’t have all the pictures of the Sacre Coeur in construction (which are worth clicking over for).

Montmartre was originally a worship site for the Druids (the educated Celtic professionals and religious leaders that were located in France, Britain and Ireland). It was later where the Romans built temples to Mars and Mercury. And the oldest Christian worship site is the Church of St Peter, built in the 12th century.

If I’m not mistaken, this is it (below), although I didn’t realise what I was taking when I snapped the photo. It’s just to the West of the Sacre Coeur, practically attached to it.

The Sacre Coeur is not actually considered beautiful by modern day architects. It’s a copy of the Roman-Byzantine era, but it’s just that – a copy. Its proportions are not considered to be pleasing. It’s too tall, too white. It looks like a wedding cake.

No pictures were allowed inside, so I only took the outside.

Right next to the Sacre Coeur is the Place du Tertre.

This is where artists gather, but again – only a poor copy of the early modern artists of the 20th century who used to congregate there (or live there, like Picasso did).

There’s Montmartre village. Adorable and touristy.

And lots of pretty, hilly streets boasting some of the few houses left in Paris.

You are sure to find something that makes your heart sing in Montmartre. Have you been?

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The Viscount – Chapter Eleven

If you’re new here, welcome! You can begin at Chapter One, and each chapter will link to the next. For my regular crew, I’m not actually sure if I pulled this chapter off well or not because it switches points of view several times within the chapter. All critiques welcome.

THE VISCOUNT of  MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER ELEVEN

You could hear the throngs of people through the wall of beige canvas tents that lined the grounds. Thomas ran ahead to where the opening was, and then turned back to smile at his mom, beckoning. Then he was gone.

“Thomas, wait!” But it was half-hearted. She was already letting the bright festivity of the marché de noel pull her in from the cold darkness that lay outside the market.

The open-faced tents were set up in a large square, with aisles connecting the two ends, forming a sort of labyrinth. The aisles were carpeted in red, and each tent was brightly lit on the outside so that the interior was muted in soft lighting, but the aisles remained brilliant – vibrant with Christmas colors and bustling with people. You could spend hours in the market, going down one edge and examining the goods, then going down the other side and catching the stalls you missed. Chastity could smell the hot, spiced wine from the entrance, its fragrance mixing with the smoky scent of roasting chestnuts.

Thomas was in front of one of the first stalls, his gaze already fixated on a stand with wooden toys. There was a chess set, wooden puppets in various sizes and positions, and complicated puzzles that Chastity had no interest in even beginning to attempt. Thomas gingerly took one of them in his hands.

Chastity bit her lip to keep from admonishing him to put it back, and just watched him. He turned the puzzle this way and that, his brows pulled together as he concentrated. The vendor watched him for a moment, then gently took the puzzle from his hands, gave an unexpected series of twists and pulls, which freed the wooden loop from its prison. Then he winked at Thomas and handed it back to him. Thomas looked up in delight, his eyes shining, and then he flashed a grin at the vendor. She made a mental note to come back and get the puzzle for a Christmas gift.

“Come,” she said. “Let’s get a waffle first and then we can visit all the stands. We won’t be eating dinner until after we get home and I don’t want you to get grouchy.”

“I never get grouchy,” he replied indignantly.

“You’re right honey,” she answered, complacently. They were standing in front of the confection stand so she smiled at the woman and gestured “two,” pointing at the waffles, before leaning down to kiss her son’s head.

**

The Viscount walked next to Manon with her arm woven through his. She made a pretty picture with her blond curls set against her red wool coat, tied at the waist. The actress was home for the holidays, and as promised, he did not end their relationship before they had a chance to see if they could make it work in person – to see if there was still something there.

But the Viscount was feeling ill-at-ease about his decision to bring her to his city’s Christmas market, and this was not helping their relationship. For one thing, she was wearing her sunglasses, although night had fallen early. And she now had the permanent reflex of moving furtively, which of course called even more attention to herself. As he watched her, he couldn’t help but feel that her gestures were theatrical. Nothing seemed genuine. No expression of delight, no pleading for him to offer her a “darling little trinket” seemed natural to him. He was the model of graciousness, but his heart wasn’t in it.

She stopped at one of the stands and squealed softly over some Belgian lace. The silk threads were woven so daintily, it seemed like they would fall apart, but the pastoral image was stronger than it looked.

“May I offer you a gift?” he asked politely.

“Oh Charles, would you?” she responded sweetly. “Of course I can afford it, but it’s nicer to receive it as a gift than to buy it with my own money. It makes me feel cherished.” The Viscount felt a twinge of guilt as he opened his wallet.

He handed her the paper bag containing the expensive token wrapped in tissue paper, and then said. “Shall we get something to eat?” indicating the stand in front of them. He could see her hesitate as she scanned the menu of fried dough and candy apples.

“Sure,” she said finally with a quick smile. “I’ll have a crèpe with jam.” The Viscount went over to pay, knowing that most of it would end up in the garbage. Manon courageously took the only wooden bench that was left, fiddling with the tassles on her pale pink purse with gold buckles. She was jumpy and fearful that someone would recognize her.

* *

Chastity thought the woman facing her looked familiar as she took a bite of her waffle, and she only caught the end of Thomas’ sentence. “… too bad my father couldn’t come.”

She snapped back to attention, “Yes it is sweetie! I think he had to work.”

To tell the truth, she was surprised that Marc gave up the chance to accompany them to the market in what would have been their first public outing, surrounded by people she might possibly know. Her heart sank when Thomas had invited him, but she breathed a sigh of relief when he turned it down.

She squeezed his hand. “But I have to say, buddy. I’m glad it’s just the two of us.”

Chastity looked up and saw the Viscount walking towards her, easily managing two glasses of spiced wine and two crèpes. For a minute she thought he was coming to sit with her and she felt her face grow hot. He stared at her unsmilingly, as if he didn’t recognise her. And then just before reaching her table, he turned and sat with his back to her, a short distance from her son sitting across from her. She looked down and saw that she had powdered sugar all over the front of her sweater. She brushed it off as she felt her heart race wildly. Oh right. That was the Viscount’s girlfriend – the famous Manon in the flesh.

“ … but can can we invite him for Christmas?” she heard Thomas saying. He was almost done with his waffle and hadn’t noticed that anything with her was amiss.

She quickly caught on and answered smoothly, “Um. Perhaps not for Christmas. But maybe we can invite him for New Year’s!”

“Oh yes!” Thomas said. “He can stay up with us until midnight!” Chastity immediately regretted having offered even this intimate part of their lives. She wasn’t ready for holidays yet, even for one as benign as New Year’s.

* *

Manon took a dainty bite of her crèpe and chewed it thoughtfully. Then she took a sip of wine, before saying, “So, are we okay, you and me? We haven’t really talked since I got back.”

The Viscount stared at her, astonished that she would bring up such an intimate subject in the middle of this torrent of people. Surely she understood his responsibility was to support the community at the marché de noel, and not have his attention directed inwards.

“We’re fine,” he said. “Unless there’s something you haven’t told me.” He looked at her quizzically, but she didn’t take the bait.

“You’re trying to turn this back on me, but I’ve given you every reassurance I can think of and it’s like talking to a brick wall.”

He looked at her blinking away tears, and realized that for once she was being sincere. He felt guilty for the second time that evening for having kept her at arm’s length. Maybe he was being hasty to think about breaking up with her this soon. It wasn’t like he was ever going to have what he had with Marilyn again. Surely this was as good as it was ever going to get.

He reached out and touched her hand, smiling at her for the first time all day. “You’re right. I haven’t been very giving. But we’re fine.” He gave her hand a pat, then picked up his plastic glass of hot wine and drank what was left.

She blushed charmingly and looked down. Then she pushed her plate away, “I can’t finish this. Shall we get out of here?” He looked at the crèpe, which had exactly one bite taken out of it, just as he had expected.

“Sure,” he said. “But you know I can’t leave here yet. I need to stay and support this event a bit longer since it’s the grand opening.”

“I knew that,” she lied.

* *

Chastity watched as the Viscount stood up and put his black wool coat back on. It was warm enough in the food stall to take it off, but the cold air crept into the rest of the marché and made the outerwear indispensible. She noticed how nice his red scarf looked against his olive complexion. He put his arm around Manon as they walked out, and then put his ear down to listen to what she was saying while they turned the corner.

“Are you finished Thomas?” she asked with a forced cheerfulness.

“Yup, Mom. You’re the one who’s not,” he said. He pointed at her forgotten waffle on the plate.

“Ah, silly me,” she laughed. “I must have had too big of a lunch.” She pushed the plate away. “Want it?”

“No thanks Mom, I’m full.” Thomas was silent for a moment, slowly spinning the paper plate in front of him. Chastity’s mind was filled with the image of the Viscount’s unsmiling face as he walked towards her.

“Mom?” Thomas finally asked, his voice tinged with a worry she didn’t pick up on.

“Hm?” she said absently.

“You said I could talk to you about anything, right?”

“Sure thing, sweetie.” She was not looking at him, but at the crowd walking by. “Oh look!” she said suddenly, pointing. “There’s Maude! Shall we go catch her?”

With the alacrity that only a child could possess, Thomas forgot the subject and raced after her friend, grabbing the back of her coat.

“Tommee!” she squealed, picking him up and twirling him around. “You know, in a year or two I won’t be able to do that.”

“I know,” Thomas said, smiling as his mom walked up.

“Hey,” Chastity said as they greeted each other with the bises on each cheek. “Have you seen anything you liked?”

“Well yeah,” Maude said. “I’m interested in the knitted hats and scarves because I’m willing to bet I could make something like that and it would sell.”

“Wait. You knit?” Chastity asked incredulously.

“Every scarf and sweater Michael owns!”

“I cannot even believe you find the time,” she said, thinking of her own life and how busy it felt.

“Well, we don’t have kids, for one thing,” Maude said. Her face broke out into a smile. “And I find it relaxing. It’s orderly,  just like Math. Every stitch has it’s place.”

“Maybe you could teach knitting to your Math students,” Chastity teased. “The jocks would love that. Anyway, show me! I want to see what kinds of things you can make. Thomas let’s go see if we can find some other stands with toys in them too, okay?”

He ran ahead by way of answer, even though he didn’t know where he was supposed to go. Chastity admired his energy and laughed. “Don’t go too far Thomas!” He stopped suddenly and darted over to a stall that had stickers and pens, and small desk toys that were propped on little wires.

“Oh perfect,” said Maude. “He’s stopped just in the right place. There’s the knitted wear stand.”

Chastity walked over to it and fingered a tomato-red scarf. “Oh, this one is nice,”  she sighed. “Too bad I can never wear it.”

“But this one you totally could,” Maude said, pulling out a forest green hat with pale green trim. She whispered, “Don’t buy it though. I’ll make you one just like it.”

* *

Manon pulled on the Viscount’s arm to to head towards a stand with soaps from Provence. But he extricated himself, saying, “I see the mayor over there. I’ll be right back.” She looked frightened, but quickly schooled her features.

“Okay chéri.”

“Bertrand,” he said, extending his hand to an older man in an expensive suit that pulled at the waist.

“Ah, Charles,” the mayor replied, returning the handshake. “Are you here on your own?”

“No. Manon Duprey came with me. She’s over there.” He saw the gleam in the mayor’s eye, and knew that he would be expecting an introduction. “I’ll introduce you to her,” the Viscount said with a wry smile.

“In good time, Charles. You know I have to ask you again this year if you’ll consider opening your home for a spring ball.” The Viscount started to shake his head, but the mayor went on quickly. “Now think about it, Charles, before you say no. Your father agreed to it in the past and it did such good for the community.”

“My father agreed to it once, and some artwork went missing. I just can’t take that risk again.”

“I understand that. I do. But some of the townspeople are pressuring me on this one. The chateau is no longer a patrimony – no longer a historical site belonging to the town, and people want something in return. If you agreed to this, we would have every available officer on call to keep an eye on things. Think about, okay Charles? Everyone is rooting for this.”

“I’ll … think about it,” was the most the Viscount could manage, although he was quite firm in his resolve.

“And now, let’s see about that introduction,” the mayor said, clapping him on the back. The Viscount felt himself steered towards the soap stand where Manon was accepting a brown paper bag with her fragrant collection inside.

“I got almond, green tea, and lemon,” she started to say, when she noticed the mayor walking next to the Viscount.

“Mademoiselle Duprey,” he said, taking both her hands in his own and kissing them, before pulling her in and kissing her on both cheeks.

“Let me introduce you to Bertrand le Neveu, the mayor of Maisons Laffitte,” the Viscount said drily. The mayor already had his arm around Manon’s waist and was walking forward with her, pointing out a stand with chocolates. He whispered something in her ear.

“You rogue,” she said laughing and blushing. She was used to his attention – an older gentleman of position and wealth, favoring her with his notice. These were the gentlemen she needed to please in order to stay in popularity.

“Charles, I’m just going to buy Mlle Duprey some chocolate. You can catch up with us further on,” the mayor said with a wink.

The Viscount nodded, unthreatened. He was not unhappy to be alone for a bit, and continued down the aisle of the marché. His main goal was to make an appearance and let everyone know he was supporting the town. But he didn’t need anything in particular among the goods that were displayed. To kill time, he paused at one of the stands on the corner to examine the collection of fountain pens.

* *

“Mommy, it’s starting to snow!” Thomas said, running forward again. Sure enough, it was possible to see flakes falling softly against the overhead lights, although they were hidden in the night beyond that.

Chastity and Maude began to walk behind him. “We’ll just follow this row down to the exit and then be on our way. I don’t want to get Thomas home too late.”

“Oh! Guess what!” Maude said. “I saw the actress here – Manon Duprey. She must be here with the Viscount.”

Thomas had stopped at the corner stand, which contained horse paraphernalia, so they stood in the aisle just next to him.

“I know,” said Chastity. “I saw them eating at the next table. He did not look happy to be here,” she said, her dimples showing. “Mixing with the commoners.”

“His father had more of a reputation for interacting with the people of the town than the current Viscount does. Apparently his dad even put on a masked ball in the chateau and opened it for the community to come and dance. The mayor has been begging for the current owner to do the same, but so far he has refused.”

“Thomas wait!” Chastity said, as her son darted forward again.

The two women followed, and as they crossed the intersection of stalls towards the exit, she said in a voice louder than intended, “Ha! The Viscount!” A gentleman in a black wool coat at a nearby stall turned his head slightly at that. And though she lowered her voice, he just caught the rest of the words before the women were out of sight.

“No surprise that he refuses to host a ball. Why should he bestir himself to do something nice for the town when he clearly has nothing personal to gain from it?”

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