Entry Five

: Not your mom's French doors

I lack the eloquence necessary to describe the beauty of Paris. I will leave it to your knowledge of Monet and Voltaire. Their work does not exaggerate. It  really is that extravagant. I have to crane my neck to get a view of some of the ceilings, or the ornate embellishment of the sculptured buildings.

But what stops me in my tracks are the doors. I have been on plenty of runs where I will come to a halt to snap a picture-or make note to come back with my Diana. I don’t know what it is, I am enamored by them.  Sometimes they do not match the house at all. They are of odd shapes and pop colors. Some are wide as if they are still opening for chariots everyday. Some are so small I swear the residents are hobbits. 

As a kid, I spent a lot of time at Lowe’s.  my parents were always remodeling, and I remember playing with my sister in the chandelier and light section because it was next to the door section. My mom always talked about how important good doors were- pointing out pretty ones, and saying she would like to have French doors. So at 6 I had images of what I thought “French doors” were. They were wood with glass on the front. I spent more time at Lowe’s than Toys R US,  but that’s ok because it is more useful now to navigate a hardware store than the Barbie section. 

Then I came to France and realized Lowe’s lied, I have not seen one door that is wood with glass on the front.

I swear this blog is not about doors. well not literally.

It was Sunday morning in Paris and I creeped through the house to see if the family was up. I asked the parents if they could take me to Hillsong Church the day before and I was hoping they remembered. They didn’t. I slumped back to my flat and starting reading the word. Praying, asking God to OPEN DOORS for me to be a light to this family. Not just how I serve them and care for their Children but to share the Gospel.

Minutes later I heard a knock on my door. It was Fred, the Dad.

"Allo Teephuny! Are you ready? I am taking you to the church." 

I was surprised that he wanted to stay with me and not drop me off. Trying hard not to show him my excitement like I just “won him to the other side” I said I would save him a seat.

And  like water to my soul I heard the band. They were singing in English- it had been so long since I had had fellowship with other Christians. I had been in Paris for  over a month and not met one fluent English speaker, or Christian. Regardless of language barriers though I was with family because they were worshipping the Living God. I couldn’t wipe the smile of my face.

I think Fred noticed that there was something different about this church. His face was surprised, and he kept saying wow! Cool! . I was still nervous though. Fred does not speak good English he knows very little about me and my faith.  Hillsong is a pretty charismatic atmosphere esp, in their worship. They began to pray and all hands shot up. I  thought “oh no” Fred is going to think I am in a cult. Then I started worrying about what the message was going to be about . Then his hand shot up!   I heard God say: Hey Tiff, you got him through the door- I can take it from here .

I relaxed. And of course they start talking about tithing. I cringed. He leaned over and said “ I’ve never heard a church talk about money. We give but we don’t know why. I like this” and then I relaxed again.

The sermon was about asking seeking and knocking. A flood of images I had taken with my Diana and my mind of these beautiful French doors spread a smile on my face.  It was about coming to God with our needs, approaching the door with confidence because of what Jesus had done. We don’t have because we don’t ask.

As we got up to leave, he turned to me and said- “I was moved. It was like my insides were crying.” I said yes, me too.

 As we walked out the door, Fred leaned over and said decidedly- “I am bringing my family here”.

This is Fred, The Dad. in Notre Dame. 

Later, Fred took me to Notre Dame with the rest of the family. He told Valerie all about the service but in French so I couldn’t really understand what he thought about it. As we were walking through the crowded cathedral and  looking at dead saints relics through glass Valerie told me that Fred had told her “his faith was returning, He renounced God when he was younger when his family fell apart. “ 

I did not know this.

And then we rounded the corner, where the crown of thorns lie in glass.

THE crown of thorns. The ones that splintered my Jesus. People were talking all around me, some to me but I heard nothing.  I was weak, and speechless. I could not have stared long enough. To be so close to something that touched Jesus was overwhelming. I understood exactly the woman who said “if I could just touch his cloak”.  And then to wake myself up I partly decided there was no way it was the actual one, even though King Loius the something sold a CITY to have the crown of thorns.

Anyways. God clearly answered the question I kept asking. WHAT AM I DOING HERE??

It’s the same reason we are on earth, as to why I am in Paris. To bring others to Him.

To make disciples, to the ends of the earth.

 ASK. SEEK. KOCK. 

Doors don't open by themselves.

Entry Four

: La Femme Fatale

when you've displaced yourself in another culture, you tend to seek out and cling to the constants. the similarities or the universalities.  if you try to absorb and dwell on all the differences- you'd go mad. and feel out of place. I think there is an innate desire in us to connect, to relate. not by coincidence- God did not create man to be alone.

Fred the dad speaks in fast broken english with a heavy french accent. It was difficult at first for us to understand each other and often our intentions were misread. We were driving in his Jeep in Paris. (the only jeep in paris) in silence.   he picked up his ipod and selected Cat power, then LCD soundsystem, then Metronomy. He could see me excitement and surprise growing with each pick on his ipod.  For the first time we related to each other. and it was over music. we were roof pumping by the time we pulled into the girls school.

one song he played was called La Femme Fatale. I asked him what that meant and he described the ultimate woman, what most girls strive to become, what magazines sell, and what men dream of.
a few days later it was the girl's birthday parties. I found this universal desire to be "La Femme Fatal" apparent even in them.

 Each on separate days , the parties had different themes, and a separate catering company, professional photographers, DJ's and party coordinators. Did I mention they were 10 and 11?

This is Garance, o yeh- and specially ordered paper straws .

Garance and Daphne are polar opposites.and their parties reflected their personalities to the T. We have a great relationship because I can relate to both of their polarities. Daphne, the elder - is unlike any tween girl I have ever met. She is quarky, clever, funny, and can be found with her head in a book about murder mysteries or sci fi's. She loves comics. Garance is the girliest of girly, three different outfits a day- coordinated jewelry, socially in tune and always ready for a camera. I have to tell Garance that that is enough oufits for the day and daphne i have to tell to brush her hair.  the pictures should explain.

This is Daphne- the camera can't even capture her.

And I am somewhere in between. 

Daphne, probably challenging the boys to duel ( she takes fencing)

The only challenge Garanc'es party guests had was to pick the best nail color.

Daphne's party favors were buttons with her picture on them and the date of the party . this is better than most WEDDING FAVORS

  went to the Champs-Elysees , dropped 500 euros on the girls party favors at Sephora, not a bad part of the job

girl girl girl
the party was seperated into stations, nails, hair, makeup, wardrobe, photo

this is Garance's cake. well was.

This is Daphne's cake, in France a Boom is the first big party a girl has that essentially means she can invite boys. perfect for her comic book themed party. 

La petite femme fatal

clothes hand picked by a designer in Paris for this tween party

Lovely makeup artist

this is Valentine , an autre petite femme fatal.  Seriously, a ten year old- knowing how to  work a camera! nurture vs. nature- we'll never know. 

I have little resolve or concluding thoughts to this universality. It was more something I observed in both these parties- though they were so different : we all want to be great, to be distinguished somehow. It can manifest itself in so many ways- whether it be the layers of makeup we apply or our heads in superhero books dreaming of being wonder woman. it's not just la femme either- its mankind. God created his children to live extraordinary lives, hence the innate desire. We just surface it in the oddest of ways sometimes :)

Entry Three

: of God or Country.

Let’s go back to that birthday party when we’re six- unaware of our surroundings and how our bodies are moving through space. We are changing at a rapid rate at this stage and can’t keep up with our limbs.  Johnny is chasing Stacy with cake in his hands  and you want to join so you start running too. But there is a root by your left foot that you did not see, and then concrete to the face. Stunned.  Your knee, your cheek, your hands- you are not sure where all the pain is coming from so you start screaming . But! Before you finish your first wail out of nowhere, swift strong arms have scooped you up and a consoling voice is in your ear. Your dad sits you on the kitchen counter, away from the noise- away from the party and the birthday cake and what you thought was fun.  He took you somewhere quiet so that the wounds could be assessed. And so they can be tended to.

France is my kitchen counter.

where i wander.

If I told you what I did everyday, it'd make you sick.  I am getting paid to vacate. I wake up at whatever hour I choose, read the Word, push a button so a perfect shot of espresso pours, go for a run or a bike ride along the Seine that is my back yard, return- read by the pool, and sometimes wander around the town taking pictures or just to wander.  During the week days, I am usually taken to the golf club to have lunch and occasionally I hit a bucket of balls at the driving range or practice putting.The family and kids come home from their work/activities around 7. Sometimes I cook but mostly the housekeeper does. We talk about our day, wind down and then go to bed. On the weekends, Valerie takes me to the “must sees” of Paris. Some tourist attractions, some of her favorite restaurants and shopping areas. She wines and dines me and has exquisite taste in food, wine, champagne, and tea houses. Are you sick yet?  Because by week two I sure as hell was. WHAT AM I DOING HERE? I have something ingrained in me that I need to be productive, to grow, to struggle, to work diligently to achieve something. And I do not know if it is of God or country.

Capitilism, or Christianity.

I do know that this season  in life is very… quiet.  You can describe it as restful, peaceful, relaxing,  or whatever. But if you look at most of my days- its just me for the duration of my time.  I don’t mind being alone- in fact usually prefer it. However when the only sounds that fill the silence are the sighs of contemplation, snorts or satisfaction, and exhales of frustration. It’s a bit maddening.

SO you’re on the kitchen counter and you stop crying because Dad is telling you its going to be ok but has to clean the wound, and it might sting a bit. He puts ice on the worse of it to soothe your sobs.  You know the party is still going on  without you so you ask your dad if you can go back outside because you do not want to miss out. With a firm but loving tone- he says no. you are not finished being mended.

how i wake up

what i drink

what i do

what i eat

                                                                             what i capture

where i stare

The life I left behind in America is still going on without me. One of my best friends is planning her wedding, Younglife in PB is going through a transitional time, my other best friend is still sleeping in my room how I left it.  A large part of me wants to jump back into the party. The life I left behind was going somewhere- I was working and loving my community. But the truth of it is- there are parts of me that are wrecked, badly bruised , and well- wounded.  I will be vague and say that the divorce has crushed  my perception of family and marriage.  God scooped me up at just the right time, and brought me to a place where it was just me and him. Somewhere quiet away from the noise, where he can mend things.

where i sit, and hear my dad's voice.

Entry Two

: Paris Makes Me Want to Do Bad Things

I have the most free time and least amount of responsibility I probably  ever will In my lifetime. I quickly made note of this and decided in order for there to be growth – there needs to be discipline! 2+2=4.  However, Paris – be it in the water or tea, I have said no to very little. It has put a spell on me. 

Paris, you have bewitched me body and soul.

And  have lead me to want to

1.     Smoke a lot of cigarettes.  Something I not only think is disgusting but not even an option for a life choice. In fact I think its suicide for procrastinators but STILL! its a natural part of the day for Parisians. Go to the bathroom, drink coffee, smoke, drink coffee, breathe, go to the bathroom, smoke.eat.smoke sleep smoke. drink.

2.    Wear red lipstick. It doesn’t matter if you’re running to la poste or to the club.  Parisians rock it. All the time. In fact it may be safe to say women wear rouge more than bras (see 4)

3.     Skip dinner. Head straight for the dessert menu.  French sweets are explosions of paradise in your mouth. I have yet to say no to it. The family takes us out very often too. This is dangerous.

4.  Not wear a bra. Which is funny because there is kind of an unspoken law among American girls: If you’re an A or a perky B you’re probably ok to leave the straps at home but here it really doesn’t matter how high or wide they’re chillen. Apparently it’s not weird for occasional nip action.  I teeter in a b or c so this is also dangerous. Perhaps if I start smoking I will regress and also get to join in on this one.

5.    Not smile.  I read somewhere that Parisians do this, I rolled my eyes but then I got here and realized: its true. Heres why: Parisians don’t like anything.   Smiling says your’re easy. Or easily amused- and which one is worse? we can’t have that.

6.   Drink champagne. Valerie only drinks champagne. So when we are out , anytime of the day, which is often as I said and its offered to me- I of course say yes.  EXPENSIVE CHAMPAGNE IN FRANCE THAT IM NOT PAYING FOR? Of course I will say yes. Everytime.

                                                                entry one.

    

It’s like at your 6 year old birthday party. Someone hands you a bat, blindfolds you, and spins you around until you are disoriented but you’re so determined to burst open that colored paper mache, to be the one to shower everyone with dollar store candy , to win, to succeed. So we swing with all our might but then someone pushes you out the door of the party and its quiet. The noise of the party, the familiar faces, the familiar sounds- gone. Replaced with something foreign. But the expectation is still there to win . to succeed- after all-im armed, I still have my bat that was handed to me as I walked across the stage on graduation day.

May was nothing short of a whirlwind. I was spun around, flipped upside down- flown across the country. From sun up to sun down I was surrounded by people who I loved the most. I partied. Graduated. Partied.Flew to CA for a glorious wedding with friends, said goodbye to my best friends in west palm, and finally ended the month in SC with my family for my brother’s stunning wedding.  I have never laughed harder, cried steadily, and said so many painful goodbyes than I did in the month of may. Not just to people that I would not see but to a chapter of my life that was exuberating.

Hours later after the wedding I am waking up to a flight attendant that is jabbering in a beautiful but unfamiliar tone. My sleep mask my blindfold. I vaguely remember the hours in between the wedding reception and the flight to Paris. I am pushed off the plane, away from the party. It is June 1 , the party is over. Bat in hand, still dizzy –or jet lagged rather. I stumble away from all that I know and into complete darkness. I have no idea what is in store for me this summer, what the family is like, where I am living, what my responsibilities are, or anything  about Europe, France, Paris . hell I can not even talk to strangers if I wanted.  In the dark. Unknown. I breathe. I have a college degree now, that should mean something right?  My bat, my “expensive tool for life” my years in the classroom , my degree are seeming meaningless at the moment because I get lost  trying to find baggage claim from my gate.  It was then I thanked my background  in charades rather than psychology to find my luggage. After hours of circling the airport I find the family who hired me.

Within the first 48 hours of arriving in Paris, I have done more than some have in a lifetime. I wish I was not drugged with jetlag-  but it was hard to miss the splendor of the Eiffel tower, or the grandness of the Louvre, and the exquisite meal I had in the Garden of Versailles. These were each bucket list items for me but for the family I am working for, simply a weekend in their home town.  I tried acting as nonchalant as the Querleus  but squeals of delight would sometimes erupt from my spout.

Blindfold off, bat- not needed,  somehow I was still showered with sweets.