Who Does Your Indifference Hurt Today?

It seems we have entered an age where attention spans are so short, distractions so plentiful, shallow busyness so unquestioned, and conformity so widespread that the real aspects of living - of love and sharing and communicating in openness and sincerity - have been relegated to the bin.  

Who cares enough to set aside time to listen, to hear the voices of those we say we love? Who takes time to ponder anymore, to ruminate on thoughts and ideas shared by friends, then respond in kind? Who honestly desires to know their friends and family in depth, to share their joys and sorrows in the long-term, to take an active interest in what interests them? 

I do. And I feel very alone in this. 

My heart floats through the air expecting an echo of sincere response. 

It rarely comes.

I am awake. I hear and see true life and its happenings. I focus on them. I hold them up to the light for inspection and glean all I can from them. They build me, form me, teach me. And they show me how to care and love and engage. 

I long to discuss true life with others. 

But others are too busy for what matters. Others are content with slap-dash living. Others have a thousand pointless activities in which to drown their time and thoughts. Others choose paper over china, junk over gold. 

Shallow living is easy, as long as one remains anesthetized by the noise around them, and the denial within.

Living deeply, immersed in life and love, takes effort and time. But love compels the effort.

Perhaps the question, then, is where is the love that compels?

It is suffocated by indifference.

“The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.”~~ Elie Wiesel

 

Christmas Through the Glass Darkly

 

In all the Christmases in all my life this one feels the most fully deep, the most clarified, the most connected to its purpose. Perhaps because I am older, perhaps because my daughter is to have a baby, perhaps because the chaos of the world demands the Peace of Christmas. All of this and more brim my heart overflowing with the Love and Joy of Christmas, that Baby in the manger, the man He became, the Gift He gave. In the glass darkly we see and feel glimmers of Heavenly Delight, it beckons, we sense it. Christmas is a tiny parting of the curtain between that world and this; we get a peek. It feels exciting, it feels compelling, it feels . . . . like Christmas.

Overcoming Evil with Good - Living in the Perilous Time

Signs of strain begin to show in my loved ones' eyes, voices, words, and shoulders. The mirror's reflection reveals the same about me. 

While the blows of current events batter us, we are not alone. Millions walk under the same questions with the same confusion, frustration, horror. Burdened. Shock from heretofore unimaginable human behavior stirs anger and fear in our hearts, muddying our thoughts. We shake our heads as if to wake our minds from a nightmare. 

These initial reactions manifest without our beckoning. In order to avoid bitterness and hatred we consciously grapple with the vigorous shaking the ugliness metes out; we know the danger of dwelling in thoughts of evil. The still small voice asks us, at this point, in whom do we trust and why? Our security is in our Savior Jesus, not in our circumstances. 

Deeper within our hearts - where God lives - Truth meets chaos, unceasing prayers begin to trickle and flow, peace which transcends understanding soothes. Jesus is the Balm of Gilead. 

How do my loved ones and I proceed? With searching intensity our eyes lock, "How are you doing today?" Our arms hug a little tighter, a lot longer, "I love you, you are never alone." Priorities shift, "You are more important than my tasks. I am here for you." 

With words we remind each other of our power to instill purpose and hope by living as bright spots - as best we can - in a cruel world, to share the goodness of God in our everyday lives, to listen, to care, to mourn with those who mourn, to conduct ourselves in purity, beauty, and compassion, and above all, to love. In these small ways we banish the darkness with light. We offer courage to offset the misery. 

To the raging storms in our hearts Jesus says, "Peace. Be still." I observe the power of the Almighty in my wee shaky heart. My shoulders straighten, my chin lifts. I am strong and of good courage. 

Let us be there for each other as we travel through these uncertain times, remaining as calm as possible, always walking in gentleness.

"Turn from evil and do good." (Psalm 34:14, Psalm 37:27, Peter 3:11)

"By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." (John 13:35)

It helped me to write this out.

I hope, in some small or large way, it helps you to read it.

I love you.

You are not alone.

Surprising Grace - Revisited (First Published September 13, 2010)

An ominous storm blacks out the entire sky ahead as I drive the car to the repair shop early this morning. The  Coastal Mountain Range in the far west - north to south - bears the weight of the dense disturbance. 

Still embraced by the eastern morning blue that thus far cheers my drive, I grip my steering wheel in anticipation of encountering the looming darkness.

"The only way to receive the help I need for my car is to enter that blustery unknown. The solution lies there."

First instincts are to find a way around, to avoid, to wait out the storm. But the appointment is today. Now is the time. This I can do. This I will do.

Just like any unexpected ordeal in life, the obstacle must be confronted, for enlightenment lies therein - or beyond. Difficulty must be braved. Willingness to be taught or rescued or strengthened or rebuked motivates. 

As is natural for my brain, an analogy is derived from my surroundings. The painful prayer of a recent crisis - a dark night of my soul - echos in my mind: "I trust you, God, though my legs feel boneless, my muscles merely rubber. I know you will make something beautiful out of this miserable situation. But, oh God, I need your help, need you to go before me. I cannot see a way out." In time, surprising grace rained down on my fragile courage, my frail trust, my on-the-brink brokenness. Peace that transcended comprehension. 

The Master Creator sculpts beauty from life's debris. All he requires from me is a willing mind, a trusting heart, however small and weak.  

While this morning's dark cloud situation is simple, my heart rejoices at its reminder of the innumerable shadow-lessons through which God escorts me, most of which are incredibly worse than a heavily-clouded dawn. His grace is evident through all. Grace that illuminates meaning. "There. There is the reason. There is the beauty. There is love, the greatest gift of all."

I am never alone.

Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. ~~Philippians 4: 6,7

Discovering My Purpose in the World

You'd think at my age I'd know my purpose.

I suppose I always have - sort of. We all subconsciously act on our purpose in relationships and also within our homes and spheres of influence, to a degree. But there is more. So much more.

August was designated as a rest month, calendar kept free. It was good for me. In it were choices that put my health and needs first. Revitalizing for my mind and heart and soul.

In small ways. But maybe those small ways are the largest connections of all.

I discovered that I am not invisible. No one is.

In that revelation a choice presented itself. Within the realm of free will, what effects shall my life offer the world? 

Some answers came to mind. They please me, excite me, challenge me.

I want to be a bright spot in a dreary world and an interesting spot in a lively world. God will use my willingness, I just know He will. 

I want to be strength and steadfastness in this uncertain world, experience and its wisdom, the wisdom of the ages and the wisdom of my  own age.

I want to represent the glory of growing older, to exhibit the same beauty I see in a an ancient red-tiled roof with its useful old chimney under a cloudy sky brightened with fiery autumn gold, the dying leaves ever more beautiful than their younger forms.

God grant me the mind to embrace these purposeful choices.

It's a start. It's a start.

I started to be free when I discovered that the cage was made of thoughts.

 

Lessons from Black-Eyed Susans

Apologies for the 18 day gap between my last post and this one. Life events happen. 

Happy for my personal interlude. Happy to be back. 

This morning I carefully snipped the curled-up flower heads from my cheery black-eyed Susans. Amazing to me is the difference it makes when surgically removing dead flowers, leaving only vivacious blooms. My eyes are instantly drawn to the beauty, symmetry, colors, and shapes instead of to the brown, crispy dead flowers crowding the fresh ones. Is it because I am the gardener that I after that first glance I quickly focus on the deadheads rather than the flourishing flowers? I don't know. But I do.

As usual, a life lesson presented itself.

And Bible verses as well.

"Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me Heavenward in Christ Jesus." ~~ Philippians 3:14

"Let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith." ~~ Hebrews 12:1b

Thanks to a steady hand and orange sheers this morning the sunny flowers bob and soak up the sun free from encumbrances. Clipping the finished blossoms allows room and energy for baby buds to reach toward the sun themselves. The entire group of flowers works together, under the care of me, the gardener, offering their proudest presentation. 

Refreshing the black-eyed Susans reminds me to do some personal gardening, to cast off unnecessary mental, emotional, or spiritual burdens, unceremoniously tossed within by others or my own self, or, to be honest, by current events. (But let's not go there right now.) 

Under the care of my Gardener, and by my choice to clear away the slog and bog, I become brightly available to offer my very best to those around me. Renewing my inner environment by taking stock of the inventory in there - including the rubbish that needs removal - creates the freedom to thrive, to continue. Better still it entices the desire to bloom, to let my beauty shine, my inner light. It is the same for you.

"...let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven." ~~ Matthew 5: 16

In addition to helping others, peace and contentment are ours when we move through life lighter and cared for.

If we do the work, the benefits will come. 

The benefits of caring for my flowers are a jolly yellow color spot and the bees and butterflies that visit. 

In the case of my heart, mind, and soul, the benefits of discarding untruths and old hurts are relief, peace, renewed energy, and hope.

Which reminds me of another verse: 

"But those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." ~~ Isaiah 40:31

Happy Gardening! 

Debussy and Me

When an unsettledness presses on me, Debussy's music calms me down, restores my balance.

Claude Debussy (1862-1918, French), considered by some to be the first Impressionist Composer, though he himself rejected this term, was the youngest of five children in a musical family, his father a sales representative, his mother a seamstress. He was close to his siblings and had an especially strong relationship with his parents throughout his life. 

When invited into the background of my day - while I write or pay the bills, or clean, or prepare a meal - Claude's soulful pieces create tranquility. 

My face relaxes.

My mind focuses.

My breathing becomes deep and restful.

And whatever I am working on becomes pleasant.

Such a simple fix to banish broody moods.

This is the power of art, more precisely the language of art, which has a passport to regions of my being words cannot navigate. Put another way, the language of art is the key to the lock on emotion's door. Gently and quietly this language enters. It simply nods its head to my mood, understanding even when I don't. This artfulness speaks to my heart which responds to both humanness and divinity. Soon my own head nods in return.

A powerful language it is.

The power of art. Any masterful art.

God is an artist. I am made in His image.

It is not surprising that the lovely language of beautiful art turns my heart to the Creator, no words necessary.

"Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weaknesses. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words."          Romans 8:26  

Here is a link to one of the greatest pianists of all time, Lang Lang, the young musician from China. This is a video of him on a boat, on the Seine in Paris, at night, lights all around, lovely cinematography, playing Debussy's Clair de Lune. Such a soulful young man. He is transported by the music and thus I am, too. Enjoy!

Joie de Vivre Moment #5 - Venice Water Taxi

As Indiana Jones sighed, "I love Venice."

Founded in 697, Venice has a unique history, a watery setting, and a romantic atmosphere with its canals, arched bridges, colorful buildings, and smells of the pleasant and not so pleasant varieties. I'll leave it to you to research her further.

Narrow walkways, hard cobblestones underfoot, GPS unreliable, like a puzzle to navigate but what fun! An absolute blast!

How tired my feet and knees became after working that puzzle for hours, finding the unique treasures which belong to Venice alone. 

But I digress.

One day, while vacationing for a week nearby, my husband, daughter, son-in-law, and I and drove into Venice, as far as we could, walking the rest of the way toward the liquid maze to explore. With gasps erupting from our lungs, cameras pulled from pockets and purses - pointing and clicking while in rhapsodic dazes - we crossed a Venetian bridge for the first time, water below, overcast sky above, history exploding all around.

"Where shall we go?"

"I'm getting hungry."

"I'd like to stand on the Rialto Bridge."

"Sounds like marching orders to me. Let's go!"

Our bed and breakfast host told us to be sure to take a map because GPS is unreliable in the city. Because the maps had tiny print - all those streets and businesses! - my son-in-law tried using his phone's GPS anyway. It seemed to work. But it led us on wild goose chases. We ended up in little stub-ends of narrow walkways, or tiny squares of residential areas. 

However, we did fortuitously happen upon public restrooms, clean and well-attended by friendly women who take your euros with a grazie (thank you) while pointing left or right for men or women. We learned early on that the word toilette uttered in an interrogatory tone would yield locations and directions. A good thing to know in Italy.

Yelp guided us to a little restaurant with good reviews where we had a delicious authentic meal at a table in the center of several other tables, Italian enthusiastically spoken all around. That took care of the hungries in fine fashion. 

Coffee and Cocoa Photo Credit: Caroline Foulard

Now, to find the bridge.

The famous stone arch bridge, Ponte di Rialto (Rialto Bridge) crosses the Grand Canal at the narrowest point in the heart of Venice. Built in the late 16th century and renowned as an architectural and engineering achievement of the Renaissance, the bridge is the result of a design competition won by Antonio da Ponte and his nephew Antonio Contino. 

GPS was taking us in circles, the map was confusing. I had a bright idea.

"Let's follow the crowds. We know we are getting close. The bridge has to be a big draw for tourists. The crowds will direct us there."

And they did!

We exited a narrow dark walkway into a tourist hubbub of photo posing, boats, and the magnificent bridge spanning the waters of the Grand Canal. Thrilling! Like the victors we were, we four stood shoulder to shoulder on the banks of the waterway, the sun had burned off the clouds a bit revealing the autumn Italian sky. A gondola floated noiselessly right in front of us. Ah, Venice! 

And then. . . 

. . . four noses wrinkled, four sets of eyes looked at one another.

"What is that smell?"

Travel informs deeper and truer than movies, pictures, or even Rick Steves. Oh, they show you carefully filmed scenes bathed in beautiful weather, smiling faces of attractive people - or at least friendly-looking ones - music in the background. Sure. But when you actually stand there in the comfortable weather, street musicians playing live music at your elbow, an eclectic array of ancient buildings splashed with the lapping waters of the canal, the iconic Ponte di Rialto dominating the scene, yes, your senses fill with sights, and sounds, the taste of the watery air, the touch of the sunshine and breeze, the sound of folk music, and  . . . the smell of sewage. Rick Steves didn't tell us about that.

But we, being us, found it hilarious. Onto the bridge we traversed swept up in the merriment of tourists, including us, posing for pictures, taking it all in, joy abounding. A dream come true.

More walking. More pictures. More amazement.

Until the moment came when it was time to head home. 

By the time that moment hit we were far from our parked car. Far, far far. We still had cobblestone walkways to tread plus arched bridges aplenty - you have to find just the right bridge to get you where you need to go - and curving passageways yet to conquer before we met the comfortable seats of our rental car for the drive back to our even more comfortable country estate in a nearby village.

My body went on strike. Right then and there. I gave my options some serious thought, then made my proclamation.

"I'm not walking all that way back. My feet and knees are killing me from these cobblestones. I'm taking one of those classic wooden boats, a water taxi. You guys can walk. I'm taking a boat." 

Protests of how expensive that would be met me, but I said I didn't care how much it cost. I've always wanted to ride in one. Now is the time.

Son-in-law gazelled from the bridge we were standing on to a landing where water taxis were parked, waiting for clients. He made a deal for all four of us to ride to our exit. Fifty dollars. If I agreed.

"Done." I said. I gave him the money. 

You should have seen the smiles on the faces of my family! They were so excited and tickled and eager and loving it! I was thankful for the inappropriate shoes I wore which led us to this decision.

In a matter of minutes an Italian man was holding one of my hands and my French son-in-law holding the other as they helped me aboard the rocking boat. My mind was blown. How did I get here? Who cares! It's glorious good fun.

My husband and son-in-law were grinning from ear to ear. My daughter and I were giggling and grasping each other's hands in glee. Look where we are! Look what we are about to do! 

Immediately passing through the cabin to the back of the boat, I stood there looking all around me, my arms resting on the smooth shiny wood of the top of the cabin, face to the breeze. My family followed. Once again, we four victors faced the world and the wind, only our driver and us aboard. We faced the canal, took a couple of excellent selfies - excellent because the joie de vivre shines from our faces - and we settled in for a dream come true. 

Drinking in the moment, studying and enjoying everything around me, feeling it, smelling the air which just smelled good like Venice should, of water and boat fumes and coffee and oldness, absolute contentment alighted on my entire being. 

Our ride took several minutes, for which we were thankful. Bursting with happiness, it took great self-regulation for me to not grin and wave at the tourists in the heavy water busses or the gliding gondolas, or even at the people with cameras pointing at us from the bridges. It's just not done. Understated elegance, you see.

After disembarking we marveled at our newfound energy. My rejuvenated body didn't ache anymore after its rest. I bought some lovely prints of Venice which hang in my bedroom, reminding me everyday of that euphoric moment. My daughter bought some clothing and trinkets. 

And we drove home, wrapped in our joie de vivre, happy chatter all the way.

That Venice water taxi ride is a highlight of my life. A dream come true, grander than imagined, enriched by the fact that, rather than a touristy check-it-off-your-list attraction, I needed help, I was in pain, and there was this sun-reflecting glossy boat which just happened to contain a wish for me, a desire to be whisked away through the watery streets of Venice, under its various-sized bridges, next to venerable structures, and with some of my beloved family along for the ride, overflowing with contented vitality.  

Oftentimes difficulties give way to the most beautiful - and memorable - joie de vivre experiences.

Che bello! (How beautiful!)

(Photos all mine except where marked. All rights reserved. Thank you!)

Coronations Require Memorabilia - Right?

My King Charles III tea tin with tea arrived today from across the Pond.

A Coronation keepsake for this Anglophile.

I couldn't be happier about it.

God Save the King!

Long Live the King!

(Oh, just humor me . . .  ;)

Recaptured Memories

"It was marvelously quiet under a sky of burning blue. The air smelt of eucalyptus and tomatoes and heliotrope from the garden. I would get up early to work, and about noon walk out to a sand fringed cove named la Garoupe. There I would find the household sunbathing. Gerald would be sweeping the seaweed off the sand under his beach umbrellas. We would swim out through the calm crystal blue water, saltier than salt, to the mouth of the cove and back. Then Gerald would produce cold sherry and Sara would marshal recondite hors d'oevres for blotters. Saturated with salt and sun, some in cars and some walking, the company would troop back to the terrace, overlooking the flowers and vegetables back of the villa, for lunch.

     One of Sara's favorite dishes was poached eggs with Gold Bantam corn cut off the cob and sprinkled with paprika, homegrown tomatoes cooked in olive oil and garlic on the side. Sometimes to this day when I'm eating corn on the cob I recapture the flavor, and the blue flare of the Mediterranean noon, and the taste of vin de Cassis in the briny Mediterranean breeze."

If you are a regular reader of this humble blog then by now you know that John Dos Passos is one of my favorite writers. The above excerpt is from his book Best Times: An Informal Memoir. My soul is deeply touched by his description here, the heart of the man and his experiences laid across the years like masterstrokes of paint on a canvas, massaging my mind. I am moved. Moved.

"Sometimes to this day when I'm eating corn on the cob I recapture the flavor, and the blue flare of the Mediterranean noon, and the taste of vin de Cassis in the briny Mediterranean breeze." 

The blue flare of the Mediterranean noon. Poetry. Transportational poetry. 

I've been to the blue Mediterranean, splashed in her cool waters, bare feet supported by squishy tan sand. A dream come true that did not disappoint. I thought of Dos, and Sara, and Gerald and their friends Hemingway, Picasso, MacLeash, Fitzgerald, Porter, Cummings, the list goes on and on. Gertrude Stein called them the Lost Generation. For the ten years they played in Antibes they were really quite found. In addition to the sun, sand, and sea, they had each other and unconditional, deep, joyous friendship.

We've all had those corn-on-the-cob moments of vivid remembrance when an experience vibrantly. jumps to the forefront of our thoughts, our emotions riding them as if they were happening right then. Sometimes joy, sometimes sadness, sometimes melancholy, often longing. Longing to return to that hour, that day, not forever, just for a visit to say hello, to hug, to taste, feel, hear, see, smell the memory back to life.

Those longings can lead to new adventures. Often they lead to an ache, a deep tear-inducing ache which is the impetus to go again, to set your foot back on the path of the new and unknown, to catch-up with old friends and make some new ones, or to create something - anything - that will add to your collection of enriching memories tucked away and waiting. 

You never know when something will trigger a memory. But something will. And you'll recapture the sensations all over again, splendidly.

The Not So Lost Generation in Antibes, early 20th century

Here I am west of Antibes in the French Mediterranean. Bliss!

Bocce

Bocce, a ball sport belonging to the boules family, is a calm but strategic game with an ancient lineage. Probably dating back to ancient Egypt its popularity emerged with the Romans and Emperor Augustus.

Developed into its present form in Italy, bocce is closely related to the British bowls and French pétanque. It was first played as a modern sport in the 18th century in Italy. With the influx of Italian immigrants at the turn of the 20th century, bocce gained widespread popularity in the United States. 

Bocce is good clean fun and a relaxing way to spend time outside - or inside - with family and friends. It can be as competitive - or as chill - as you want. As with any game, it depends on the crowd.

I bought a hard ball set a few years ago for fun during a July 4th backyard gathering. It was a big hit and has been ever since. A set includes eight balls in two colors and a smaller ball called the pallino, which serves as the target. 

With a newly acquired indoor/outdoor soft ball set purchased at an LL Bean store in Wisconsin, I played bocce with my husband and kids last week while on vacation, a tournament my partner and I almost won, til we didn't.  

 The kids beat us, 2 games to 1. 

We'll get 'em next time!

Why is Zadok the Priest Played at British Coronations?

When England’s Queen Anne died without immediate heirs, the throne passed to her German cousin, the elector himself, who was crowned George I and was pleased to claim the attention of Handel.

George I’s son, George II, also preferred the work of his father’s longtime favorite, and he requested that Handel write music for his coronation.

Zadok the Priest is a British anthem that was composed by George Frideric Handel for the coronation of King George II in 1727. 

It will be used in King Charles' ceremony. (I'll post the lyrics below.)

Zadok was the priest who anointed Solomon, as described in 1 Kings 1. During the service, Charles will be anointed with holy Chrism oil, made using olives from the Mount of Olives and consecrated in Jerusalem.

The tradition dates back to the Old Testament of the Bible which describes the anointing of King Solomon by Zadok the Priest and Nathan the Prophet and has been maintained to emphasize the spiritual status of the monarch.

"This is often thought to be the most sacred part of the ceremony," Charles Farris, Public Historian At Historic Royal Palaces, said. "It's an ancient and very symbolic ceremony ... historically it was akin to the anointing of priests and bishops."

Zadok the Priest is sung in three languages: English, French and German.   

Do read 1 Kings 1. It tells the drama surrounding Solomon becoming King. An exciting and true event, it was not so simple as was Charles' ascension to the throne.

I'll be getting up in the middle of the night to watch the live stream of King Charles' coronation, which I have waited most of my life to experience. While I adored Queen Elizabeth, and am so sorry she has passed, this moment was inevitable. And I'm excited. I have followed Charles' life since I was a young girl, with great fascination. He is quite a character. I believe he will be an effective and loyal king.

Long Live the King!

The lyrics to the song are as follows:

Zadok the priest
And Nathan the prophet
Anointed Solomon king
And all the people
Rejoiced, rejoiced, rejoiced
And all the people
Rejoiced, rejoiced, rejoiced
Rejoiced, rejoiced, rejoiced
And all the people
Rejoiced, rejoiced, rejoiced and said

God save the king
Long live the king
God save the king
May the king live forever
Amen, amen, alleluia, alleluia, amen, amen
Amen, amen, alleluia, amen

God save the king
Long live the king
May the king live forever
Amen, amen, alleluia, alleluia, amen, amen
May the king live
May the king live
For ever, for ever, for ever,
Amen, amen, alleluia, alleluia, amen, amen
Alleluia, alleluia, amen, amen, amen
Amen, amen, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, amen

Long live the king
God save the king
Long live the king
May the king live
May the king live
For ever, for ever, for ever,
Amen, amen, alleluia, alleluia, amen, amen
Alleluia, alleluia, amen, amen, amen
Amen, amen, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, amen

Superimposition

In our butcher's shop yesterday a family - which included a mom, dad, and two little boys - stood ahead of me in line. Perusal of the meats, cheeses, and specialty foods held their attention.

As a mother and grandmother, my attention naturally gravitated to the little boys, one about three years older than the other, the same age difference as my now-adult sons. I'd say they were around four and seven years old. In whispers, the older boy enthusiastically informed his little brother about the display case contents, pointing out hot dogs and cheddar cheese, pickles, and whole chickens. 

Memories of my own boys at those ages flooded my thoughts. 

Transported back in time, I relived two little kids running errands with me during the day, so well-behaved, looking at the store's offerings with curiosity, the older educating and minding the younger, just as these two tykes in the butcher shop were doing. I found myself superimposing my sons onto these curious boys as I delighted in their carefree antics. 

As I waited my turn I revelled in cherished memories of our mommy-and-me adventures, so many, such fun, my sweet boys.

Then, I realized I had been looking at the family the whole time, mostly at the little boys. I was happy remembering those good days when my kids were little, the main focus of my life.

But I think my gaze made the mom uncomfortable. I feared she thought I was critiquing her family. Her husband was making a very large order, customers were lining up behind me in the small shop, and she and her boys were the center of attention because they were literally in the middle of the store, where they had to be. She glanced at me, gave a nervous smile, then made sure the kids stayed close to her and didn't bump into anyone. The boys were on their best behavior. 

I returned to the present and gave her my most assuring smile. I winked at the little boys, who shyly grinned back at me.  

"There are a lot of interesting things in this shop, aren't there?" I said to the boys. My words and demeanor put them all at ease. The mom returned my smile, relaxed. The boys nodded and said, "Yes!"

I offer this insight to young people. Sometimes, when older people are watching you, they are reliving decades of memories sparked by your young family, your young coupledom, or even your singleness. Our brains run memories we forget we have. This can be very sweet, or painful, or just surprising for us. Our faces may look stern as we concentrate on holding precious memories for as long as we can - or feeling strong emotions from them. We are deep in thought. 

It's good for us to remember, to relive sweet, happy times. It's a blessing. 

And the painful memories? They are important, too. They remind us that life can be hard, but we are still alive, and hopefully these memories give us hope as we see how far we have come. 

So, though our faces may not be smiling, it doesn't necessarily mean we are irritated. It can very well, and perhaps most often, mean we have traveled back in time for a moment to a wonderful place where joy happened, and you or your kids provided the portal. 

We are most grateful.

Thank you for understanding. 

And may you find as much pleasure one day in future superimpositions of the memories you are creating right now.

Joie de Vivre Moment #4 - Église Saint-Martial de Cazenac (Saint-Martial Church in Cazenac)

Serendipity . . . 

. . . of the soulful kind. . .

. . . deep in the heart of Perigord. . .

. . . in France.

Sundays on the road usually mean missing church. Tom and I usually set out for parts unknown on those days, just to see where God might take us.

One early sunny summer morning, after buying bread and pastries from a charming Beynac boulangerie-pâtisserie (bread and pastry shop), Tom and I decided to drive the long way home. We meandered down country roads, exploring, as curious vacationing people tend to do, eyes ever-scanning, taking it all in.

Cazenac, which is Beynac's neighboring village, was of particular interest to us. On this adventurous day we noticed  a directional sign pointing up a woodsy hill. It simply stated l'Église de Cazenac. 

"Église means church," I explained to Tom. "Let's check it out."

Tom steered our huge van up the hill on the narrow, winding road. The shady lane offered sun-dappled coolness under a leafy canopy, the air scented with moist soil, warm foliage, a fresh welcome.

Upon reaching the top of the hill, a grand vista presented the Dordogne Valley in her Sunday Best. Silence, but for the ruffle of a shy breeze, invited us to park our car, to set foot to history, to linger.

On the hilltop stood a tidy cluster of massive stone buildings and old walls guiding our eyes down a narrow drive which sloped away from where we stood. Dominating this little village, and anchored to the earth right in front of us, stood a tall church.

Built between the 12th and 15th centuries, l'Église Saint-Martial de Cazenac, made of cream-colored stone, stood behind huge locked gates, the sun shining through the bell-cutout high in the peak above the door. What a shame we could only photograph and view the exterior.

Undaunted, we let the rest of the village show us what she had to offer. No other people around, we had the run of the place. We began by reading the headstones in the church cemetery. Families, founders, and no doubt friends buried, their graves lovingly tended, immaculate.

Only our footfalls softly clapping on the pavement interrupted the tranquility. Ancient buildings next to the narrow road looked like they had stories to tell. One with double doors high in the gable looked like a barn, another like a tradesman's shop, tightly closed and going nowhere. A fig tree with ripe fruit tempted us, but we resisted, just in case there were eyes peering from what looked like a residence on the other side of the road, its tiny terrace with lush potted flowers revealing recent human care. 

The stillness, serenity, and aromatic breezes lulled and rejuvenated us. Simultaneously. Energy flowed, fueled by curiosity. Feeling ourselves unwinding, we held hands as we explored further down the rue.

At last, we decided to return to our family in Beynac with our breakfast pastries and bread. The baby should be up by now, her parents ready for treats.

We strolled toward the car, one last lingering look at the graceful church, wishing we could have gone inside.

Buckling our seatbelts in preparation to leave, we noticed a man in an SUV speeding up the hill. He parked near our van. Peppy and pleasant looking, he hopped out of his car, pulled a set of keys from his pocket, and proceeded to open the gates. Then, he dashed over to unlock the church door, all smiles and gentility.

"Tom! Tom! I think maybe he saw us up here and decided to open the church for us."

Upon leaving the sturdy building and returning to the gate, the gentleman made eye-contact with me.

"Pouvons-nous entrer, s'il vous plaît?" (May we come in, please?) I timidly asked.

"Oui! Oui! Entrez et bienvenue!" (Yes! Yes! Come in and welcome!) He waved toward the church with a big smile while holding the gates open for us. What a nice man! 

"Merci beaucoup!" (Thank you very much!) 

At that, he nodded with great pride and satisfaction, nodding his head as we passed. He encouraged us to look around, then left us there alone to explore. We were giddy at this unexpected surprise.

Always respectful of new places - especially sacred ones - Tom and I courteously entered.

The first thing I noticed upon reaching the church door was the stone threshold, its surface worn into a deep smile-like curve by centuries of parishioners' shoes and boots stepping onto it when passing through. This heavy smooth stone spoke history. What history, I did not know, but it was clear this place had a vibrant past.

The next aspect to catch my attention was the coolness and that delicious unique smell of Europe's ancient buildings. If you've ever been blessed to enter one, you know the fragrance I describe. Musty, fusty, venerable. I love it! Natural light filtering in through the door and windows added to the ambiance. No electric lights were visible, if there were any at all. Warm gold-hued stone walls, a simple ribbed vault ceiling overhead, a rickety wooden staircase leading to an upstairs door, slender stained glass windows, and simple wooden chairs in neat rows invited wanderers to stay awhile, to reflect.

Speaking in muted tones, and joined by another couple our age, Tom and I separated, our interests piquing in different directions. Cobwebs in the corners and along the high windows informed that this is a visited place rather than a regularly used one. Well-kept and friendly, this tucked-away sanctuary exuded lovingkindness.

Soon, Tom and I found ourselves together again, sitting in the second row of brown seats next to a multi-colored reflection on the floor, vividly mirroring the window and sunshine from which it was formed. Tom looked as tickled as I felt by the colorful merriment on the cold surface near our feet.

"It's Sunday, you know. How about we have a little prayer meeting?" I suggested. Immediately agreeing, Tom held my hand, leaned forward, took a silent moment, then began whispering prayers.

We prayed for our kids and grandkids. We prayed for our brothers and sisters, aunts, uncle, cousins, nieces and nephews. We prayed for our friends. We prayed for our country, and the world, for wisdom, love, and understanding. We prayed for the other couple in the building with us, and thanked God for the kind caretaker who let us into the church.

Besides being a joie de vivre moment, this was serene serendipity. God provided the setting, the humanity, the sacredness, and the love for Tom and I to share His presence and peace in a nearly one thousand year old église where prayers, worship, celebrations, and sorrows intermingled, creating testimony that God's Truth turns hearts of stone into hearts of flesh in the lives of His people.

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh." ~~ Ezekiel 36:26

Joy and pensivity. Together. From a tiny church on a hilltop, under a golden arch, on a rustic wooden chair, my hand in my husband's, our prayers earnestly shared, we communed with God that Sunday morning, in rural France. He is never far from us.

"For where two or three gather in My name, there I am with them." ~~Matthew 18:20

". . . the kingdom of God is within you." ~~ Luke 17:21b

Joie de vivre. Exuberant enjoyment of life.

Yes.

2022 Photos by Cherie, all rights reserved. Thank you! Enjoy.

April Rain

Let the raindrops kiss you,

Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.

Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

~~ Langston Hughes

Rain is grace; rain is the sky descending to the earth; without rain there would be no life.

~~ John Updike

After the rain cometh the fair weather. 

~~ Aesop

Photos all mine, taken this evening. All rights reserved. Enjoy!