In Honor of Back to School Month: A Diary of a Sanders Vacation in the South of France

Dear diary (Day -1):
We are finally going on vacation. After giving birth, packing up our house, and moving, we are going on a much needed family trip to a Christian center in the middle of nowhere down south. Goodbye concrete, hello sun. I can't wait to get this trip started.

Dear diary (Day 1):
By I can't wait to get this trip started apparently I meant I could wait. It took us 2 hours to get out of Paris between vacation traffic, nursing a newborn, and a last minute stop at Decathlon for travel sleeping bags. Once on the road the adventures were far from over: after 10 years of backseat driving I lost the toll booth ticket at one of the rest stops. Ever the brilliant problem solvers, Matt and I decided to turn around and go back to look for it...not realizing that meant exiting the highway. The fine for losing a ticket is to pay the rate for the entire highway. It occurred to us 5 minutes after said paid fine that it might have been a smarter idea to go as far as we could before exiting rather than pay the entire highway's worth after only a half hour of highway driving. Just a thought. It was an exhausting day; we managed to make progress but really only at a snail's pace due to stopping to feed Ruben all the time. And as (bad) luck would have it, there are two suburbs of Macon with the exact same name and only a couple kilometers from each other. The only difference is, one had our hotel and the other didn't. I knew when we pulled up in front of that school that something had gone a little haywire.

Note to self: remember not to pack all our extra condiments and food for the trip next time in the newborn travel bath. And especially, do not put a bottle of vodka in it for some mixed drinks you plan on making once the kids are in bed. Bathtubs are slippery things and when stopping at the gas station they just might slip out when the trunk is open and then specified vodka will be in a million pieces all over the ground.
Additional note to self: don't pack the baby carrier next to slippery bathtub or it too might end up on the ground with the wet vodka and now every place you stop afterwards will have your son smelling like vodka.

Dear diary (Day 2): It's a darn good thing we decided to break this trip up by stopping at Macon for the night because I'm not sure how long we would have been driving before arriving otherwise. The kids were thrilled to discover McDonald's for breakfast and we were thrilled to discover a restaurant where they couldn't break anything. After very slow but admittedly steady progress, we arrived at the village of Entrepierre. The center is a center for people or families in ministry and we were immediately in awe of this historic village and it's mountainside surroundings. 2 things decided to greet us upon our arrival besides the village and its scenery: Noah-worthy rain and a small scorpion on our doorstep.

Dear diary (Day 3): Although the scorpion didn't survive, today I found another intruder in our living room. Ever the quick thinking bug killer, I took the closest empty jar I could find and stuck it on top of the beetle, hoping that my toddler wouldn't go investigating for at least another 48 hours. The girls were anxious to explore the pool so like any good parents we smothered them in sunscreen and blew up Lord knows how many floaties and walked to the pool. Life was very good for a short lived while. The problems started when I decided to take Ruben (in his bouncy chair) back to the house to nurse. The door clearly was against me and after struggling in vain with the key for 15 or so minutes, I decided it was outright hostile. So back I went to the pool to get Matt to switch me places and help. That was when Isaline decided it would be a good idea to start training for a marathon, poolside. I tried to tell her off but she couldn't hear me because she was too busy faceplanting. It became clear from the blood gushing from her upper lip that she had cut it open and that blood wasn't going anywhere but out. Thankfully Isaline is okay and while I'd like to say she learned her lesson today, she's a toddler so we all know how that'll work out.

Dear diary (Day 4): In the interest of keeping things kid friendly today, we decided to plan a picnic at the center and visit the local berry farm in the afternoon. The picnic went fairly well but then afterwards I had to go and get all pedagogic. I believe that was my downfall. You see, when we arrived, there had been a bowl of fruit on our table to welcome us and it turns out that it had come from the center garden. I was right in the middle of a really great teaching moment explaining to the girls where the fruit had come from (the mirabelle tree we were standing underneath i.e. not the grocery store) when it started raining beetles just inches from my face. Unfortunately for me, these beetles were not the kind that I had found in our house a few days prior--that one was an inch long at best--these, however were 2 1/2 inch long black beetles falling on me. That left only one course of action: jump up and down while screaming in fright like a 2 year old. I'm not entirely sure if my girls retained much from the lesson.

Later we decided to check out the farm which apparently had an "activity trail" which was like a guided tour which led us around the farm. Of course by "kid friendly" they really meant more like triathlete friendly with it's steep drop off, near kilometer trail, and scorching sun. It became appropriately nicknamed the 'farm from hell' because, well, two bawling kiddos and a newborn...enough said.

Dear diary (Day 5): Today we thought that since 'kid friendly' had failed us, we might try 'adult friendly' and get all cultural. We hiked around a mountain top town (what they call a 'perched village' around here) but the only problem is that it really truly was on top of a mountain. I think I used up most of my mommy nag cards and just about peed my pants in fright every time the kids got near a ledge. Deciding after the fact that it was a bad idea to attempt site seeing with young kids, we started hunting for an easy place for dinner. Attempt number one led us on a 45 minute goose chase that ended with a closed restaurant and me sitting on the side of a country highway alone with our children and nursing Ruben. Thank you Waze. Attempt number 2 was McDonalds but before we could get there we stumbled onto an asian buffet that looked just about perfect at the time. Of course if we had known that it would cost us Livia's future college tuition to eat there or that Isaline would accidentally fall off the booster chair, grab the tablecloth, and take down half the table (including our drinks) on her way down, we might have reconsidered. Despite cranky parents and a 2 year old that smelled like diet coke for the rest of the evening, we did manage to make it to dessert with only half of the restaurant staring at us.

Dear diary (Day 6): Back to picnics and a nearby water play area. The natural wildlife has unfortunately been getting to Livia this week--she has now developed a paranoia of all things small and alive. The worst are the bees but even butterflies have been making her drop everything, scream "peur, peur, peur!" (fear, fear, fear) repeatedly and latch onto my arm. If she would stop doing it while I am either nursing her brother or spreading something on bread I would greatly appreciate it. She also has developed a Dora the Explorer obsession and keeps yelling "backpack" and "we did it!" at the computer screen.

Dear diary (Day 7): Today decided to get started with a bang. A literal one. Lighting struck our house and we lost power temporarily as we were trying to pack up. Next Matt lost his bank card. Thankfully he found it before we had to leave. We made it back to Macon and stayed in the same hotel we had stayed in the first time on the way down there. Admittedly, it was a less than ideal setting to watch France play in the world cup game. Even less ideal because we had gotten McDonalds again to go this time but they had left out a few important pieces like straws and whatnot. The cherry on top however was that we once again found ourselves in the middle of a thunderstorm and as a result the electricity went on and off the entire evening and even into the morning because lightning had struck the hotel. I say less than ideal because despite only mediocre cheering from the Sanders clan (I was mostly busy yelling at the girls to not get ketchup all over the bedding), France still won.

Dear diary (Day 8): We're back in Paris now. After surviving beetles and scorpions, I think I'm up for surviving the Paris metro now. Despite our adventures, vacation was still worth it. But I have to admit, I'm glad to be home :)

10 years ago Part 3 (the last and final!)

One of the many churches in Rouen 

I recently had to take a French test in order to prove that I speak and understand the language so that I can apply for citizenship eventually. I was more than slightly terrified, which sounds odd for someone who has been living in a country for 10+ years, but the French are not like us straightforward Anglo-Saxons. We think that if you know your stuff, it'll mostly go alright for you on a test. The French are a whole different breed; they love their trick questions. In order to succeed at a French test, imagine that "the man" is out to get you, will throw everything in his power at you to make you fail, and then do alright in spite of that. In the states we have a minority group of "bad test takers"; in France no one thinks they're safe. Come what may, however, I couldn't help but feel proud of myself for being willing to be sitting in that chair, black pen in hand, and multiple choice answers in front of me. If anyone had told me that all these years later I would be doing that, I think I would have either peed my pants in fear or laughed outright in their face.

Sometimes it's easy now to forget just how hard it was for me in the beginning. When  I  Matt rolled that beast of a suitcase upstairs to his friend Grace's house, I really had no idea of the adventure that was awaiting me. Grace was a lovely hostess and I remember marveling at how at ease she appeared here when I was just starting to have my Dorthy moment. We were definitely not in Kansas anymore. The next couple of days were filled with "sight seeing" amidst drizzly rain although to be honest, since I was getting to hang out with Matt I'm not sure how much of the sights I actually took in, nor how much I actually noticed the rain.


Matt and I trying to not to look awkward as we posed for the picture together 

Ever the gentleman, Matt drove me out to Rouen, the city that I would be staying in for the next school year. Once again, he arranged a place for me to stay for a couple of days before I would meet up with my French contact for the year. Saying goodbye to him felt like I was losing my one lifeline with the familiar. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had signed a year of my life away to this place. Nothing felt like comfortable home. The college aged girls I was staying with sweetly invited me out to a party that they were going to that evening but truth be told, I didn't feel like partying. I felt like the kid who had shown up to summer camp and then realized that she was actually at summer camp. I'm sure if I could have figured out a way to call my mom and have her come pick me up, I would have.

Bravery comes in the morning frequently and the next day I was ready to tackle the adventure awaiting me. Unfortunately, the adventure wasn't quite ready for me. Out of habit, one of the girls double locked the door on her way out to class. Even more unfortunate for me was my complete lack of familiarity with a European door. The thing had probably around 5-6 locks and other such doodads on it that I thought for sure it was just a matter of me not pulling on the right thingamajig. Somewhere between 45 minutes to an hour into a very frustrating process I began to realize that I was missing some important element (like a key) and that I would just have to sit in jail for the rest of the day. Thankfully, one of my hosts came home for lunch and suddenly my prison sentence was commuted to only half a day. I did, however, struggle with locking and unlocking that door for the remainder of my stay there. French lesson number one: Americans are just not used to old, complicated things and such things can only be learned the hard way.


My first day finally successfully exploring the city of Rouen

I eventually met up with my French host Christine. She was one of the English teachers that I'd be working with throughout the year and in charge of helping me find housing. Because I would only be staying a school year, in the end, there were only 3 options available. 1) renting an apartment with some college kids above the landlord's place. 2) renting a room from the same guy in what I would eventually nickname the haunted manor. 3) living with the nuns. You think I'm joking but it turns out that even nuns need money to live on. Options number 3 and number 1 felt off the table to me (the nuns had very tight rules and the place was about as homey as a convent, pun intended...and living above my landlord didn't seem like the wisest idea in the world) so the haunted manor it was.

As it turns out, I probably would have been better off living with the nuns. Oh hindsight. I eventually realized that my landlord was an eccentric control freak which made for a wild ride of a school year. I look back now and laugh (mostly!) but at the time  I wondered what on earth I'd gotten myself into. My first clue was what I have affectionately dubbed the "three scraps scolding" in which I got in trouble because three small bits of paper had been found in the stairwell which indicated that I had not been keeping up on the housecleaning. It was the first of many scoldings. The guy was obsessively controlling--he alone had the only key to the mailbox and would stop by everyday to personally give us our mail.


My quite possibly old haunted mansion...


We weren't allowed visitors of either sex to step in past the front gate on penalty of violating my rent contract (at least with the nuns it was only the opposite sex!). He couldn't stand for the storm shutters to be left open during a storm and I would come back from a long day of teaching only to discover that he had come into my room without my permission to shut them. One of the highlights however was the day that my housemate and I informed him that the fridge door was somehow damaged. I came home to a full fridge with no door in sight and a note saying that since the fridge was fairly new, the two of us would need to pay for a new one! My favorite moment, however, was the one time Matt broke the rules and came to help me clean the top floor on my last day in that loony bin. Due to my limited French, I hadn't understood some of the typed out and laminated signs in the bathroom. Apparently their was a whole tribute to Louis Pasteur and his contributions to good hygiene. It then went on to ask all gentlemen users of the toilet to pee sitting down as they do in the Netherlands to promote better bathroom hygiene! A guy who will tell you how to pee is clearly not a guy to be trusted.


My bedroom


There were other adventures in that place as well. My bed was a joke from the first time I sat down on it. My lats underneath my mattress were made with flimsy plastic and I broke 2 of them immediately. For once my beast of a suitcase came in handy as it was big enough to support the mattress under the bed. I ended up sleeping on it for the rest of the year. I also very stupidly decided to rent out the balcony bedroom when all my life I have struggled with active (and sometimes violent) night terrors. Thank God he overlooked my stupidity on that one and we had no balcony flinging adventures. I did manage to scare the snot out of my housemate one night with my spine chilling screams (or so I'm told). Which must have been all the more bewildering for her because neither of us could speak the other's language well at all (night terror was somehow not listed in my phrase booklet). I remember that we would sit at the kitchen table, eating our breakfasts with one hand and a French-English dictionary in the other. Our rule was that we were supposed to speak to the other in their language. It made for very loooong drawn out conversations, let me tell you.


My balcony view... 


I think now that I really would have liked her if I actually could have communicated with her. She seemed to me to be a funny, down to earth kind of girl. One day our new washing machine started going bezerk on us--I'm not kidding, it literally felt and sounded like a minor earth quake was happening. We both ran in from our respective rooms only to discover that darn washing machine rocking nearly 2 inches into the air on either side. Cleaning up the pots and pans on top of it (because yes, it was in the kitchen) we shared a good laugh that it was only a possessed machine and not something needing to be measured on the Richter scale.


New York monuments (Twin Towers and the Brooklyn Bridge) made out of tp as a project by some of my students... 


To my surprise, my work as an English assistant in two French middle schools was one of the highlights of my stay in France that year. It was, and probably will be, the one and only time I've worked with middle school students in my life. They had us do everything from correct student's pronunciation, to creating English activity workshops with small groups, to teaching a class about American pep assemblies (I may or may not have led the class in a game of chubby bunny for that one...I plead the fifth to traumatizing French youth...). I had no computer when I came to France (laptops were a rarity then) so I was stuck using the school computers and internet at one of my two schools (for some reason it didn't work at the other). It meant that I had internet connection for about 2 days a week, in between my class schedule. I otherwise needed to buy an international phone card and call my friends and family from an available phone booth when I wanted to get in touch.




 I sometimes wonder now what my experience would have been like, had I moved over here today in our "connected" world. The truth is, who knows? I might not have felt as homesick and alone but then I definitely would have missed out on my trial by fire. In my alone-ness I was forced to learn about the culture around me and highly motivated to finally speak that darn language.  I learned to stop taking small comforts like dishwashers and dryers and readily available music to listen to for granted. But most importantly, I learned what it was like to have my faith refined through fire. France has at times been my cross to bear but without it I would not have been able to savor the victories he has also thrown my way (such as learning this week that I actually passed that test!). With God, for every taking apart there is always an equal and even better building back up. I'm so grateful that he has brought me to this crazy, wonderful, frustrating like heck, delightful country. Here's to whatever the next 10 years bring!

10 years ago Part 1

10 years ago this month I packed a ridiculously heavy and large bag to set out on my French adventure. I would be leaving for a full school year and kindles and laptops were still in the minority. So as to not get bored, I packed all of my favorite books that I'd want to have on hand. I bought the biggest suitcase I could find and I vacuum sealed my clothes like a crazy person. Somehow it was cheaper to fly into London and I had what I considered to be the world's best idea: book a hostel overnight and see London while you're at it! What could be better, right? I flew right into the city center. I hauled that big beast of a suitcase out those airport doors like a boss.

No one but fancy people had gps on their phones then (I didn't even have one of those!) but I whipped out my mapquest directions like no one's business. I tried to look very confident because you don't want people in a big city to think you don't know what you're doing or anything--they might try to pickpocket you. Just a hunch but 10 year older me thinks that the enormous suitcase and paper directions just might have given me away. Thankfully Londoners were kind to the helpless American girl with too much stuff. 

I walked those 10 or so blocks to the hostel. I remember being so glad to finally get there as the last 5 or so had been completely cobblestone. I was wrong, however. I had only reached the check-in desk. My room was located at the other location back 4 blocks in the direction I had just come. Feeling like an odd combination between Wonder Woman and Popeye pre-spinach I gritted my teeth and pushed 'the beast', as I was starting to yell  call it in my head back those darn 4 blocks and up the stairs to my private suite that I would be sharing with about 8 other people in what can only be considered as the world's biggest dorm room.

Unfortunately, the internet café that the hostel provided was located back at the check-in office. I briefly contemplated letting everyone back home consider me MIA at least for another 24 hours but decided my mom just might swim the whole Atlantic Ocean if she hadn't heard that I'd landed safely. Funny to think about in the age of Whatsapp, Viber, and instant everything. So I dutifully wrote and told everyone that I was okay. I wrote another email that night too. There was this cute guy that I had been emailing now for a few months. It had started off as a random French contact and had evolved from there. I told myself that it was only a little crush, because after all, how can you actually have a crush on a guy you've never even met before. (I know, I was the one girl in school who didn't have a crush on Leonardo Di Caprio after Titanic came out) That's what I was telling myself because not so long before I had crashed and burned after falling for my best guy friend in college. There was no way I was playing the fool twice and Cautious Carol had now become my name. I did, albeit very reluctantly, throw in that he would know how to spot me the next day in the Paris train station (oh, did I mention he had arranged my whole Paris stay?) by the fact that I'm just under 6 ft tall (1m80). I had kind of been avoiding that little factoid due to the fact that it tends to scare most boys off. But I figured that short of chopping off my calves and replacing them with peg legs my height would become obvious soon enough.

I'm assuming I fed myself somehow. Not sure when or how but clearly I didn't starve. I do remember not having factored in my big heavy suitcase to lug around during my little "London visit." I couldn't just leave it unattended. Someone might steal my fabulous book collection.  Thankfully I made a temporary friend who looked nice enough and she agreed to watch my suitcase for an hour or two. I did some sort of bridge walk along the bank of the Thames (which I wouldn't learn for a few months yet is actually pronounced as if there's no H). I walked by famous monuments having no freaking idea exactly what I was looking at. It took me forever at one point to realize I was staring at the London Tower. finally made my way back to the beast after doing way more walking than I thought was possible and somehow found the force within myself to drag it to the train station. 

Back then, before the age of terrorism, security with the Eurostar was nothing like it is now.  I just about died of embarrassment when I couldn't get the beast up onto the shelf reserved for luggage and the gentleman next to me had to do it for me. And then I really wanted to just sink into the floor when he loudly declared for the whole cabin to hear, just how heavy my luggage was and what could I possibly be bringing that could be so heavy? I should have made up some ridiculous answer but all I could think of was the truth and that made him look at me even more incredulously. I took my seat and promised myself that I would wait a few years before coming back over the channel. By then maybe my embarrassment would have waned a bit.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I was actually hoping to see the water from the train windows once in the tunnel. I don't know what I pictured, maybe one of those viewing floors you find at an aquarium? Clearly I was quite the seasoned traveler by that point. But one thing is for sure, I successfully managed to get off that train and step onto French soil which turns out is a decision that would change my life from that point forward. 

Last Night I Had A Dream

Last night I dreamed a telephone was ringing. Usually this turns out to be your alarm and you wake up and have this weird sort of urge to answer the phone convinced the president is calling you and oh by the way you're late for school even though you graduated years ago. Gotta love dreams, right? But it wasn't my alarm. It was a Friday night and it was my turn to sleep in the next morning. Matt was mumbling something about letting them leave a message but I still stumbled out of bed, groping for the telephone because it was, after all, midnight, and even the most dedicated of telemarketers in Paris usually give up around 9 pm and turn in.

I didn't even really have time to get worried. It figures that something as horrific as the multiple terrorist attacks last night would have first made it all the way across the big blue expanse and to my parents' tv set before I was even conscious that people were dying so horribly in my city. 2015, it seems, in the most awfully literal way, will have begun and ended with a bang. Last January, as many of you still remember, Paris was touched by terrorism when a couple of men raided the French satirical publication Charlie Hebdo and executed many of the employees who worked there. I remember feeling conflicted. I was shocked in the face of such violence and horrified that those men lost their lives in the name of God. And yet, I couldn't raise them up as heroes and martyrs as so many of those around me. There is nothing heroic about mocking the sacred. Belittling someone's faith whether Jew, Christian, or Muslim (and they regularly made fun of all three), does not take courage and freedom of speech does not eliminate the necessity of wisdom in our words and actions.

In the days to come the nightmare unfolded in new and scary ways. I remember going shopping the day after during the traditional January sales--normally a zoo of shopping bags, stressed out shoppers, and fought over shoes. In the place of the usual consumerist crazy marched uniform clad soldiers with big guns and a chill trailing behind their clipped steps. Every shop was talking about it. In Gap they were joking that they should probably shave their beards so as not to be confused with terrorists. I saw Je Suis Charlie badges everywhere.  The day after I was at work when my boss informed me of the hostage situation taking place in a Jewish grocery store across the city not far from where good friends of ours live. Without panicking the children we needed to get them inside the school as quickly as possible and stay inside until the hostage situation had been resolved. We took down the sign on the front door indicating that we're a school and the reign of Alerte Vigipirate began. No more parking outside of city halls, schools, prominent churches, or the police station. A heavily armed man was now posted outside of our local synagogue. On Monday we heard that there was another hostage situation, this time only minutes down the road from the school next to a grocery store that we go to weekly. Once again we were tense and on edge; some of our school children live in that neighborhood.

As it turned out, the third attack was mercifully uneventful and not terrorist related but for the first time, my confidence in the stability of my city was shaken. You didn't know where or when the next attack was coming from. The first had been targeted; this, more and more random... It felt as if every troubled and radical Muslim in the city was coming out of the woodwork in angry vengeance. For the first time in a relatively sheltered Western life, I felt truly unsafe.  As a Christian, it was hard to know how to position myself. I knew all the Sunday school answers but deep down in my core I knew I needed more than just a platitude. The truth is, I was scared then and I'm scared now. I won't deny it and hide behind a front of pretending that Christians don't ever feel threatened by the overwhelming presence of evil in this world.

And evil it was. Reports are rolling in revealing the massacre of the night before. Whole cafe terraces shot dead while enjoying an evening drink. Young people murdered as they were shot up and thrown grenades at during a rock concert. Bomb blasts during a French-German soccer game. One of my friends, holed up during bible study and unable to get back to her nursing baby for fear of going out in the streets. A fellow parent from church stuck in the soccer stadium with his two small boys trying to reassure them. My coworker, about a week away from her due date lives in the very neighborhood the hostage situation took place in. Thankfully she was actually sleeping when it all took place but not having heard from her, I and another coworker were concerned.  Another friend had both her brother, sister and their spouses that went out for dinner in the neighborhood that got shot up. They were just 300 meters away from the restaurant shooting when it happened, thanking God that they had changed their mind about having dinner in that very restaurant earlier. They found refuge with a hundred other people hiding in a hotel basement.

This attack hits even closer to home than last January. The multiple shootings occurred in our old neighborhood, just a couple of blocks away from our former apartment. I can picture the concert hall that was shot up. I can imagine the cafe and bar nightlife well, having walked those streets many a time while living over there. The truth is, I am scared. I live in a city where I might be blown up just taking the subway or having a drink in a restaurant. I knew that before and I am reminded in the most horrific way possible that my physical safety can crumble at any second. But if I stay focused on this chapter in history then I will lose sight of the big picture. God's bigger picture. You see, I believe in a big God. A God who is writing a large narrative; one in which there is heartbreaking conflict but overwhelming resolution. The most joyful of happy endings. I am as baffled as the next person by the ways God moves and the tragedies he allows to occur. The Bible, however, promises a time coming when there will be no more tears. No more suffering. Evil completely weeded out and eradicated. A God who is waiting for the maximum number of souls to find their freedom, peace, and joy in him. So yes, I'm scared. But I also know where to tell my emotions to get off at when they threaten to consume me. Because this isn't the end of the story.

Oh Happy Day

                           

 

Oh happy day. It's Easter. Fabulous, soul-saving Easter.. I love Easter. I really do. Have you ever  noticed that everything around you screams Easter at this time of year? And I'm not talking about the chocolate egg aisle at your local grocery store either. (Although I admit those screams are pretty tempting...) In France, more so than in Oregon where I grew up, I feel like you can especially feel it. We have enough evergreens in Oregon to not make nature feel butt-naked but here in the Paris area life outside feels very dead during the winter months (and when you think that the majority of it is paved in concrete, I guess it kinda is...). In an oceanside state where you differentiate 3 seasons out of 4 by the amount of rainfall people learn that you might as well just throw a raincoat on it and call it good. In fact the first few months I lived over here (oh let's be honest--it lasted longer than that) I had to hide a grin every time I saw Frenchies frantically running for an awning to hide out under during a downpour. Until I realized that it actually makes sense here. In the Pacific Northwest, if you tried attempting that, you'd be waiting all day for that rain to let up (and maybe then some). Weather changes rapidly here so when it's nice out you seize on it; when it's not, you hibernate. When spring rolls around, those first tentative buds practically scream new life. Matt and I joke about how we get to know our neighbors again every year once spring hits. People venture out. Cafe's put out patio furniture and you can even find bikini clad sunbathers taking over the local parks (never really understood that phenomenon btw). Every spring Paris is reborn.

I love how everything around me reverberates with fresh new life come March and April. I love the cherry blossoms, the wild bulbs that sprout out of the most random places. I love how I come to life with every fresh start and each new time I take to soak up the life bringing message of Easter. The truth is I don't deserve the kind of grace that God has lavished on this brittle heart of mine. But just like my butt-naked trees I know that he will bring about something organic in all that brown and black should I choose to let him. Happy Easter to all of you. 

Happy Holidays Part 2

Merry Christmas late for the second time in a row! :) I just like to be different, what can I say...

So I shared a couple of things that we were up to in Colombes (our suburb of Paris) leading up to the holidays but I hadn't yet gotten around to telling you what were up to during the actual holiday. Last Christmas was in Oregon so this one we spent with Matt's family in the Brittany region of France. 

Let me tell you, when you live in the Paris area (esp. we you're an in-the-closet-tree-hugger from the west coast) getting away from the daily grind is like a breath of fresh air! Suddenly in no particular order you find yourself surrounded by trees, space, and smiling faces. 

There may have been some family walks, some ice skating, and some general good-time having by all. 

These are my two sisters in law, Anne and Lucile,--aren't they just  beeautiful? 

 

The biggest outing by far, however, was our trip to a place called Puy du Fou. I had never been to this place but I have to say it was the definitely the cat's pajamas. How to describe it? They call themselves a theme park but it's basically a private medieval village with rotating biannual themes. I'm sure you'll be shocked when I tell you the current theme was Christmas. Complete with fake snow falling from I never figured out where, the place was decked to the hilt for the holidays. 

I looved the old school carousel. Here's Liv living it up (is that redundant?) with two of her cousins... 

In the main 'place' at one point the buildings put on a little show for us. We got serenaded from the windows by our lovely musicians (ps. just a fyi: they're not real people). 

Here's a close-up: (please don't ask me what instrument she's playing--I really have no clue)

And who doesn't love giant paintings stuck out in the woods surrounded by a blanket of fresh fake snow? 

Another show we got to watch, this time with real musicians singing Christmas carols...

But the real show, by far, was this one, that we had tickets for inside the theater there. It was called the miracle of Christmas and while I was expecting something along the lines of a hallmark card commercial, it was actually the nativity story. Very well done, I might add! I loved all the special effects. 

 

So there you have it! Christmas with the Sanders! (The rest of them I mean!) Hope yours was just as merry!