Grocery Store Adventures

Doc and I have come to understand that GEM families across Europe accumulate certain stories—stories about cultural adaptation that one cannot escape. Amongst such tales are those of adults “crying in the grocery store.”

So far, our grocery experiences in France have been relatively easy. Comical and embarrassing, yes, but not yet bringing us to tears. It must be said that we've gained important tips from others. We bring our own bags to each market and weigh our produce before checkout. (Thank you, Jenn and Joy.)

Our first grocery shopping in France was in Chantilly (October 2011), at a small, indoor market where we needed to buy just a few things. In order to show respect for those with whom we shopped, we’d practiced some French travel phrases. Still, nervous giggles plagued us. We questioned why the milk wasn’t refrigerated, wondered at the arrangement of seemingly unrelated goods, and guessed the contents of items based on pictures and packaging.

Twice, clerks asked if we’d found what we needed. In the States, such a question is expected, but French salespeople usually wait for the customer to ask for help. We’d been trying to keep our chuckles quiet, since we knew inside voices are highly valued in France.    The stern look on the face of the second man helped us settle down to business. We loaded our basket with a few canned goods and headed to produce. Unable to locate a price for the lettuce, I braved the question with a fellow shopper. “Combien?”

Immediately realizing I’d violated standard protocol, I mumbled apologetically, “Excusez-moi. Bonjour, Madame,” then repeated, “Combien?”

The graying matriarch pointed as she answered in clear, resigned English, “The price is right there.” A thin smile graced her lips.

We’d been humbled, but we’d acquired our needed groceries. “Victoire!”

A day or so later, also in Chantilly, we ventured into a larger market. Unlike the helpers in smaller shops, the clerks seemed happy to speak English. After our purchases were scanned, Doc moved left, attempting to return our cart. Suddenly an alarm sounded. A kindly clerk switched off the noise, telling Doc not to worry. “Happens every day,” he said, yet his eyes narrowed. More training, more embarrassment, but “Victoire!”

On our second trip to France in July, 2013, I hurried into a larger grocery in Aix les Bains. Our prayer team member, Donna, and I were making a quick trip for two items. We found the wonderful ginger cookies we liked right away. But we both searched the aisles in vain for French thank-you notes.

Once again, I approached a fellow shopper, this time with more correct protocol. “Bonjour Madame. Excusez-moi de vous deranger. (Excuse me for disturbing you.) Parlez-vous Anglais?”

“Non!” She shook her head briskly.

With a slight smile, I tried to describe thank-you notes as best I could in French. The woman flashed a grin then muttered to her husband. All I heard was “ecriver,” which I’d spoken to say “to write.”

“Ah, oui!” he beamed to us both. “Un stylo, n’est pas?”

“Non, uh oui,” I hesitated. “Vous ecrivez avec un stylo, mais (you write with a pen, but). . . I began a demonstration of writing a small thank-you note, pointing to the imaginary card in the air.

Another couple rounded the corner and joined our game of charades. A single man chimed in, too, increasing the noise level as each tried to deduce the answer, sharing uneasy laughter when our combined efforts yielded no help.

I tried to say (in French) “No problem. I’ll continue to look for them myself,” but the first woman would have nothing of it. She was going to find what I needed if it took her all day! I knew I should hurry. Donna had disappeared around the corner minutes before.

Eventually, the cordial couple led me to an end cap near checkout, chattering louder in French with every step. There stood Donna. “I figured you’d all find me if I just stayed here,” she chuckled.

“Voila!” I cheered, and my five French friends applauded beside us. In that moment, the tension subsided. “Merci beaucoup!” I bubbled.

“De rien!” (You’re welcome, or literally “It’s nothing”). Grinning broadly, they seemed reluctant to leave, though we waved to one another and enjoined, “Bonjournee!” (Have a good day.)

Two cashiers looked at us disapprovingly. Donna and I ignored them as I chose some notes and moved into line at a third stand. While paying, I pulled my credit card from the reader too quickly. Frustrated, our clerk cleared the machine for a second attempt. I made a note to self—remain calm and wait a few seconds with these machines. One more lesson—“Victoire!”

These grocery store scenes increase our appreciation for the ways of the French. Yes, more humiliation, but that’s to be expected. Surely, more training lies ahead—"Victoire!"

Fiery French Fellowship

The young Frenchman’s voice broke as he searched for the correct English word for his former life.  Later his wife explained that neither she nor her husband want to glamorize their destructive roles in the drug culture.  Instead they want to glorify the Savior, Who brought them out of this horrible darkness into light, love and forgiveness—a new place of peace.  Where once greed and selfishness reigned supreme, now their redeemed hearts are free to invest in others with Jesus Christ’s powerful, life-changing love.

Our new friend’s wife, a lovely homemaker with flawless complexion and makeup, chic clothing and a graceful bearing, described the plain woman who had entered her life and eventually led her to Christ.  After surrendering to Jesus, this young diva assumed that she would need to look and dress like her Christian mentor.  “I was willing to do this,” she explained, “because of what Jesus had done for me.”  She wanted to someday marry and have a family, but she was intent on either remaining single or finding a mate who was as passionate in his Christian faith as she.

These two people in their late twenties are astounded by God’s intervention in their lives.  After their separate conversions, by the Lord’s marvelous orchestration of events, they met at college and fell in love.  Now, instead of bartering others’ souls for personal gratification, they are risking themselves to tell those around them about Jesus.  Because of their radical transformation, four of their siblings have also come to accept Christ as Savior and Lord.  And this dynamic couple is sharing their journey with others across France, even as they train in Biblical studies and work to provide for their family.  They no longer follow in their impaired parents’ footsteps.  Instead they’re raising a sweet princess toddler and a precious infant prince.  These children will know Jesus’ nurture and constant presence, rather than the chaos their parents barely survived.


A third young disciple shared his story as we sat at table together.  He had been raised in a French Christian home but had turned to a self-absorbed life where he tried to drown his lack of purpose in alcohol.  Though he believed that God existed, this belief was shrouded in vagaries, with no connection to his private life.  Christian friends told him of a holy, personal God Who loved him deeply.  They told him of Jesus’ death on the cross that paid for all his screw-ups.  They described real love, which until that point, he hadn’t believed existed.  After putting his faith in Christ Jesus, he’s become a new person—a passionate evangelist who’s training in Biblical studies and spending himself for others.    

It is difficult to describe the sense of God’s presence while these precious saints honored us with their stories.  As we sat at a lavish four-course lunch in their small apartment, I heard the scripture in my heart from Hebrews 11.  “The world was not worthy of them.”  I wondered in that moment, Who is here to help whom?  The Holy Spirit had set these French Christians’ hearts on fire!  Like one chilled to the bone, I wrapped myself in the hot blanket of their fervor.

Yet each of these three people fought to control their own emotions, expressing heartfelt thanks for the encouragement we had brought them!  They seemed desperate for our prayer support.  The Lord’s presence through us brought confirmation of their mission, bolstering their resolve, affirming their God-given abilities.  And as God brought strength to their weary hearts, we experienced the joy of His wondrous refreshment together.

 

 

“Sing to the Lord, bless His Name; tell of His salvation from day to day.  Declare his glory among the nations, His marvelous works among all the peoples” (Psalm 96:2-3 NIV).

“Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery, but be filled with the Spirit . . . giving thanks always and for everything to God the Father in the Name of our Lord Jesus Christ, submitting to one another out of reverence for Christ” (Ephesians 5:18-21 NIV).

 

Favorites in France - Flowers

 

Since we first acknowledged and agreed to God’s call to us to work for Him in France, we’ve been in the biggest transition of our lives.  The challenges and changes in our hearts have been many, and we’re still living this side of the Atlantic.

Several colleagues have echoed what we first read in a missions training letter:  Make a list of the things you love about your new country.  You’ll have plenty of seemingly negative adjustments, so intentionally search for positives.

During our recent two-week trip to France, I started my list of positives—things I love about France.
At least for now, France's summer flowers top that list – and they are everywhere!  

 

They spring from window boxes and planters on terraces new and old. 

They garnish medians on busy streets, hang from lampposts, and even pop through cobblestones on narrow lanes supposedly reserved for foot traffic.

 

Wild lavender,  petunias, nasturtiums,  morning glories, hollyhocks, and what I've always known as daisies grace manicured gardens and unsuspecting barrowpits alike.  Indeed, God uses his floral salt-shaker liberally across France.




  



I dare not attempt to identify specific floral beauties.  Do you see any variety or species you can name in these pictures?

 

 
 

  

 

 

 

 

Our friend, Jennifer Williamson, identified this lavender wisteria covering ancient walls.

 

 

 Plants and flowers fill oil paintings in galleries and pop art in subway tunnels. 

 

 Their fragrance and beauty tantalize chateau guests and the customers who enter small village shops and restaurants.

  

Florists abound in France; a small bouquet or potted plant serves as a most appropriate hostess gift.

 I love France’s flowers.

The Juggler

Five magenta-colored bowling pins formed an oval as they revolved seamlessly through a young juggler’s hands.  I watched with fascination.  First I followed the missiles’ orbit then examined the hands that deftly maneuvered their cargo.  Seemingly light concentration engaged muscle memory that betrayed years of practice.  The whole body of this man, whom I’d guess to be about thirty, moved in pleasurable synch.  His eyes smiled through Foster Grants.  Occasionally he introduced a more complicated move, breaking his rhythm and bringing a slight frown to his otherwise placid face.

Eventually, my wits returned and I looked around to see if anyone else was enjoying the show.  But the band members were setting up their instruments, young workers manned the food, and small groups huddled in quiet conversation on the grass.  This beautiful French park in downtown Grenoble was the perfect setting for our early evening meal and outreach to passersby. 

I looked again for the juggler.  He’d traded bowling pins for fluorescent yellow tennis balls, working on a beguiling new move.  What made this man so different? 

 

 

 

I’d seen an exhibitionist days earlier in Paris who had balanced a goldfish bowl on his head, bounced a ball with one foot, spun bowling pins through the air and perpetuated a nerve-wracking, desperate chatter.  I had snapped that performer’s picture but moved away as soon as possible.

 

 

 

 

 

The man now before me bore a magnetic calm.  There was no change cup at his feet; in fact he seemed oblivious to our active group, though we were close by.  I found myself asking the Lord, “Shouldn’t someone talk to him?”   I heard His unmistakable response, “That’s why you’re here.”

I gulped.  “Oh God, give me courage.”  Clutching a flyer for the following night’s concert, and a copy of the book of Mark in French, I walked across the grass.

“Bonjour, Monsieur.” I continued briefly to demonstrate my limited French, then asked, “Parlez-vous Anglais?”

“Yes, a little,” the young artist responded.

“It’s a pleasure to watch you juggle—so smooth, almost effortless.  Have you been doing it for a long time?”

“Since I was a boy,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“You look as if you’re made for it, like you really enjoy it.”

“Yes, I surely do,” he answered with a slight smile.  “Would you like to try?”  Suddenly he handed me two tennis balls and launched into a juggling lesson!  After several of my awkward attempts to follow his instructions, he looked at me intently.  “You’ll practice?”

“Yes,” I giggled, gladly relinquishing the orbs.  “I’ll need to practice.”

He turned slightly, and I was afraid the conversation had ended.  “Do you live here in Grenoble?”

At this point, the young man tried to hide a shrug, as if resigned to a longer talk with this older American woman than he might have liked.  I felt like an intruder; then he began a litany of his education and work.  This ski instructor-travel guide-history buff had crossed four continents.  “What brings you to France?” he asked.

“I’ve come for two weeks to work with the Protestant churches here.  My name is Carol.”  I continued, knowing he might not appreciate the segue.  “My husband and I are here tonight at the park with a group from a nearby church.  We’d like to share our faith in Jesus Christ with you and others.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Carol.  My name is Loic.”  I tried to repeat the name, so he spelled and pronounced it carefully – “loo-eek.”  “I must tell you that I have friends who have been talking to me about their Catholic beliefs, and I’m not interested.  Though I thank you.”

“Protestants believe a bit differently than Catholics, though the essential message is the same.  We believe Jesus came to save mankind from our sinful selves.  He took the punishment for that sin on the cross. . .”

Loic stopped me mid-sentence.  “I’m truly not interested,” he repeated, in a flat, fatalistic tone.

My heart fell. He refused the concert flyer and scripture too.  “Well thank you for your time and conversation.  It’s a delight to meet you.  We’ve talked for a long time.  Could I ask just one more thing?”
 

“Certainly.”  Loic seemed bemused, but respectful and accommodating.  I knew I’d exceeded the limits of French protocol.

“Would you mind if I pray for you before I go?”  I wondered at my own boldness.

“Well, I don’t know what good that will do.” He sighed.  “But go ahead if it will bring you comfort.”

“Lord God, I ask You to show Yourself to Loic.  Please show Him that You’re truly the Lord of all Creation, his Maker and the Sovereign of the Universe.  Lord I know You can speak to Loic as no man or woman can, so I ask for that, in Your way and Your timing.  I thank You for this special man, for his patience and listening ear for me.  Help him hear You, Lord.  I pray in Jesus’ Name, Amen.”

I’m still amazed that a man half my age, from a different culture, would engage me with such grace.  I had a deep sense of Holy Spirit’s involvement during our conversation; I think Loic could sense Him too.

 

This special man is in the picture above—in the right background near the sidewalk. I'll try to find a better picture soon, but for now, please trust me.  He’s no longer juggling but appears to be deep in thought. Might the Lord have been talking to him at that very moment?  Please continue to pray with me that Loic will be reconciled to God in Christ.   

There are at least two other conversations in this picture where people are fully engaged in the message of Jesus Christ.  Others are praying that God will speak, drawing these seekers to Him.  Please continue to pray that young and old across France will come to relationship with Christ.

God-Prepared Works

“For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them” (Ephesians 2:10).

Deep in our spirits, we believe this.  We are convinced that God has numbered our days, that He has prepared good works for each of those days, and that the way those works unfold is one obedient step at a time.

Just six months ago (blog post 1-28-13), I wrote that Doc and I had decided to lead a short-term team of intercessors to France. Now we’ve returned from that two-week trip.  We were showing our pictures to family, just trying to hit the highlights, and I wondered—did we make this trip sound like an indulgent vacation, or did they catch the sense of God’s works through us?  Truly, every place we visited, as “tourists” or “missionaries,” the Lord called us to prayer.

Many with whom we’ve shared our mission have rightly questioned, “Can’t you pray from here?” (meaning the U.S.)  “Aren’t the workers in France already praying?”  And the answer to both is a resounding “Yes!”

Our mysterious, unfathomably wise God is often unexplainable.  His plans strike us mortals as indefensible at times.  Those who know Doc and me well know that we shudder at presumption—the thought that we’re blaming God for a plan we really set in motion ourselves.  So we’ve asked Him these same questions several times over, humbly requesting that He expose any presumption or misunderstanding on our part.  Though “when” and “how” are still foggy, the “what” has come through strong.  We are to move permanently to France.

Lest you think the word “foggy” is a pun on Doc’s current eyesight, please read “Questions,” from April on this same blog.

What am I trying to say?  God used our recent short-term trip to affirm our call—BIG TIME.

Enter Francois. This French Christian brother has been praying for and serving the Lord in Aix les Bains for many years.  An electrician by trade, he has established many positive contacts in his region.  God has granted Francois unprecedented favor as he prays at the local hospital, where the norm is to restrict access to Christians and call in mediums and witch doctors when a patient requests spiritual help.

Sitting around his dining table, sharing sparkling water in the sticky heat, we heard the Lord’s heart through this man.  An American pastor, who’s served in France for 35 years, translated:  “I’ve been praying for a church in Aix for many years,” Francois told us.  As he described his fruitful evangelistic efforts, and the deep need for workers in the harvest in France, his eyes filled with tears.  “You are an answer to my prayers,” he said to the members of our team.

The French Christians have been nervous to present the plans for a church plant in Aix, knowing the mayor’s decisions and involvement are critical for credibility and success.  Francois joyfully recounted the favor God had recently granted through the Aix les Bains mayor.  We’d heard the story earlier in the week. When we shared through our translator that Doc and I and other U.S. prayer team members pray daily for local government authorities across France, he was so touched he could barely speak.  He and Doc put their fists to their chests, a sign of brotherhood to each other.

Time flew as God encouraged us through one another.  No one wanted to leave, though we had scheduled other meetings. In France you start talking about going half an hour before you head for the door.  To leave without that time lapse is impolite. As we rose to leave, our hearts ached, wondering when we might see each other next. Francois and his lovely wife stood in the front yard, waving their goodbyes and deep appreciation.  We praise God for the confirmation He gave through Francois and for these holy moments together.

Squealing Around the Arch

Doc and I looked forward to seeing the Arc de Triomphe sometime during our latest trip to France. The chance appeared when we were given a day of sight-seeing in Paris before we started our first week’s assignment during GEM’s Tour de France Outreach.

Visitors reach the Arch on foot through a noisy tunnel under the street.  Excited children’s feet clatter; they throw their voices, enthralled by multi-lingual echoes.  Scolding parents strive to keep their chicks under their wings.  Young people, ignoring the stifling heat, cling as couples and huddle with their friends—their guffaws at inside jokes adding to the ruckus. 

This is my favorite Paris landmark yet.  Wikipedia tells us that the Arch “honours those who fought and died for France in the French Revolutionary and the Napoleonic Wars, with the names of all French victories and generals inscribed on its inner and outer surfaces."

 
I found myself gawking—assuming that rank accounted for the varied font sizes of the engraved names,

 

 

 

 captivated by the sculptures of angelic and mortal warriors.  

 

 

"Beneath its vault lies the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier from World War I.”  Even as I write I ponder, with those who paused at the Tomb, the value of a life given for others. 

 

 

 

 

 

Doc has always been curious about the eight-lane roundabout that encircles the Arc de Triomphe. He’d sworn never to drive it, but he watched the vehicular parade with intrigue as the rest of our team surveyed the monument. I noticed an older gentleman, studying people as they studied the magnificent structure, and everything around it. So much to take in.

                                                                                                         

Next stop--Eiffel Tower. I remarked to the group how close it looked from where we stood and that surely we could walk.  Then we spotted a taxi, powered by a man on a bicycle. Tired from the heat and lots of walking, Doc and I decided to enjoy a ride. We asked to be taken to La Tour Eiffel.  To our surprise, our athletic “driver” headed straight into the roundabout!

 “Whoaaa! Whooaaa!” Doc bellowed as I squealed with nervous delight. Traffic in France is very fluid. Not a single horn sounded, though we were making lots of noise.  Our cyclist maneuvered clear into the inside lane, then back outside to take the third exit.  “Whoaaa!  We made it!”  The rest of the ride was pleasant, even breezy.  The Eiffel Tower was more than a half-hour walk, but that’s another story.  Suffice it to say, our friends didn’t complain.  And we’ll never forget giggling and screaming like kids on a carnival ride as we were pulled, in a bike buggy, round the Arch.

Braving the Park Bench

Two beautiful French women. Older women—a relative term from my vantage point. Sitting side by side on a park bench in Aix les Bains, France. Sharing quiet conversation about the exceedingly warm weather, the children playing next to the fountain, and that odd mixture of French and English spoken nearby. Of course I could only imagine their conversation, first because I speak very little French and second because in France no one talks loudly enough to be heard outside their immediate circle. The only sound my ears picked up from a close seat on the curb was a quiet hum of soft, slurred syllables; the music mesmerized. 

I offered a silent prayer for courage, then moved slowly toward the empty spot on the bench. In America, two women would have commandeered the entire pew for themselves, spreading as far apart as the seat would have allowed. Their voices, though, would have carried across the park, whether or not anyone else wished to listen. I was surprised and grateful for this physical place for me.

“Bonjour, Madame.” I ventured, gesturing toward the vacant area. I spied a slight smile as the beautiful white coiffure bobbed ascent, so I plunged ahead. For the next few minutes, I stumbled through French greetings and small talk with this lovely woman. The salt-and-pepper-haired lady joined the conversation, asking her friend first if she knew me. I learned the first had lived in Aix les Bains all her life, the second for decades. They learned I was traveling in France for two weeks, serving Protestant churches there. Each woman seemed genuinely curious and pleasant.

Suddenly, a third, much younger woman crashed on the scene. As if to protect her friends from my intrusion, this lady plopped herself between them and launched into a French flurry, with a heavy Italian accent. The other women barely moved to make room for their friend, so I still had plenty of physical space. However, the Italian’s dislike for my presence was plain. I listened with quiet curiosity. The word I understood most was “American!” spoken in a decidedly negative tone.

“Bonjour, Mesdames.” My young male colleague’s baritone resonated as if from a quiet bell tower. He knelt in front of the bench. Over the next few minutes, his engaging French conversation won even the Italian. Surprised to hear that he and his wife live in Aix and are studying French, these ladies warmed to his respectful, attentive approach.

As he strode back to our French and American friends, I commented softly that this special young man was “un tres bon ami.” With a combination of gestures, my fledgling French, and the ladies’ laughter, we agreed that friends of various ages give much joy. I then asked permission to take their picture.  What beautiful smiles!

Will you pray with me for these three lovely ladies? Will you pray that the Protestant church plant in Aix les Bains will receive favor from young and old in the village? Will you pray for bridges between the generations across France? May God fulfill His plan for each heart in this land.