December 11: Remembering Hospice & Amy Grant's Averageness

I thought I could wake up today and just have a quiet day--reflective but peaceful.  I thought I could "do life" today without feeling it.  I thought I could write about redemption--I have had great things pressing in on my heart that I wanted to share--and that somehow the hard memories wouldn't still prick.  God had more for me as I began to type....  

Four years ago on this day, Dean and I were in the car in Houston, TX, racing to get to hospice before my father would heave his last labored breath.

We had made the decision to return to the house the night before as the hospice room was cramped and all spaces for sitting or lying were occupied.  And really, we had no idea how long he would last in his final hours....  I felt very peaceful in knowing that if God wanted me with Dad at the final moment, He would make a way for that to happen.  It was okay to go back to the house.

We woke the next morning, got dressed and in the car, stopped at a drive-thru on the way for some breakfast and got on the interstate to make the 30 minute drive over to the hospice.  Can I just say right now that the word, "hospice," meant absolutely nothing to me before my father died?  I think I thought it was like a nursing home or some other kind of long-term care facility.  Hospice is a place to go for the opposite of long-term care.  It is a place for the dying.  If anyone ever mentions to you that their loved one has gone to "hospice," you can know this is a very weighted statement.  The men and women who choose a career in hospice must have intravenous Jesus.  I do not see it any other way.  It is their labor to ease worn-out humans and their families into death.  Every day.

With twenty minutes still left in the car ride to get there that morning, I began getting texts from my sister:  "Hurry."

Thinking about it now turns my stomach.  This was it.  The end.  The peace I'd felt the night before about returning home had turned into anxiety and adrenalin.  We hurried.  We broke the speed limit.  We flew into the hospice center.  

I got another text as we entered the elevator:  "Run."

We ran.  We entered the room.  Everyone was there surrounding the hospital bed.  My sister, Amber, who had been sitting beside him, jumped up to give me her space next to his torso and right hand.  I laid my hand and arm on his chest.  It rose...and fell.  It rose...and fell.  It rose...and fell.  And then rested.  It was very quiet.  He had waited for me.  God had waited for me.  Three breaths.    

I have never known such a distinction between the spirit and the flesh.  To witness the breath go out of the man who helped conceive of my existence was...painful...devastating...surreal...holy...a privilege...wider than words can approach.

So every December 11, especially in the morning, I will remember.  I wonder if it ever won't make me cry....

I think a lot about that day and where I am now, compared to where I was then.  As a believer in the Word of God, I know that God is sovereign.  I know He sees everything--not just a piece of things.  I know that my heart breaking makes His break.  And I know that He redeems.  

This is something else I know:  that four years ago, there would've been no conceivable ability within me to have started my own blog.  It's taken four years of baby steps in my writing to be able to say, "I think I'll try this."  I want to do this.  I feel like God is saying it's time--for me.  And for me to be okay with it not being wildly successful or a measure of my ability to perform or needing it to evolve in a particular fashion or timeframe.  To just start it because this is where God has led me.  And that's all.  

Last Christmas, my family was talking and a story got retold in which my step-dad, Larry, had made a comment to my sister, Bri, years ago that he didn't think Amy Grant was a very good singer.  He said this out of a place of valuing especially gifted singing voices.  Well, hell hath no fury like Amy Grant scorned in front of the Beckham sisters.  Apparently, Larry had yet to understand that Amy Grant, to all of us--in the 80s, 90s and beyond--could do no wrong.  She was the queen of our world.  Her Godly messages and songs were our lifeblood.  Our lifeblood, I say!!  I used to sing, "Angels Watching Over Me," like it was true for my life--like angels were in the room!  And the truth is, in the middle of a sometimes chaotic and unstable home life as a child along for the ride on a dissolving marriage tilt-a-whirl, Amy's music kind of saved me.  God used her music to protect my heart, bring peace to my unsure spirit and draw me closer to Christ.  My sisters felt the same way.  

Therefore, no one says NOTHIN' 'bout Amy Grant, especially not our new step-dad, who we really weren't that sure about anyway.

As this story was retold last Christmas, Larry actually apologized to Bri for having said something so controversial all those years ago--he hadn't realized the weight of his offense.  We all laughed it off and assured him there was no harm done.  

But God placed that story within me and let it rest on me in the weeks that would follow.  I began to think, "Larry is actually right.  Amy Grant is not an amazing singer."  She's not.  If Amy Grant went on American Idol or The Voice today as her 18-year old self and asked for a music contract, she wouldn't get it.  She has a good voice, but it's pretty average.  

What's not average about Amy Grant is what God has done with her music career as a result of her making available the gifts which He purposed for her.

How many people in the WORLD out there can "ditto" my same exact story of loving Queen Amy?  How many people has God blessed because of who He made her to be and how she has offered that up to the world around her with her good, pretty average voice??

And so what God began to press into my heart was, "Lesli, you don't have to be the absolute best writer.  In fact, you aren't.  But you have a voice and a story and because I gave you those things, I can use them however I want.  You just need to believe that I can do that and remove your own self-measuring and pride and fear of failure (the list goes on...) long enough to allow me."  

And almost a year later, I have stepped out into a bigger place because I finally believe that.  Sometimes it just takes a long time for us to believe God is enough.

The question I am asking is this:  If my father had not died four years ago, would I still be in my small place of not believing and allowing my self-measuring to dictate my actions?  Or would God have found another way to bring me out of that and into a bigger place of belief in Him?  And if so, what would that have been?  

God is sovereign.  God redeems.  Do I wish my father was still embraceable this side of Heaven?  I do.  Do I doubt God's love for me or His precise plan for me or His ability to use the hardest places in my life for His good and His glory?  I do not.  

Singing, "How I've proved him, o'er and o'er.  Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus.  Oh, for grace to trust Him more...."    

                      

    

  

Day 4: Welcoming Group 1, Honey Tasting and the Lady Giraffe of Hotel Bristol

Today was a big day!  My first group of visitors arrived!!  So very proud of my friends, Beth, Colleen and Danna, none of whom had ever been to Europe before yesterday.  Listen closely and you will hear the thunderous applause of my heart!   

But before they got here, Dean and I had booked something called a "market walk" through Context walking tours.  We headed over to our meeting point at Blé Sucré (below) and grabbed deux pains au chocolat (aaaand an eclair and bag of marshmallows) and two cafe allongé (coffee longs--which is the closest thing to American coffee we can find) before we met our fabulous guide, Preston.

As we walked, we inhaled buttery croissant flakes and sank our teeth into pastry nirvana.  Preston told us of his restaurant work experience in addition to having recently been certified as a sommelier--plus, he just loves food. He took us to the bustling Marché d'Aligre and walked us around, giving us tips and insight, both as foodies and potential customers.  The Marché d'Aligre is in the 12th arrondissement near the Bastille and is one of Paris's most popular food markets which has both an open-air market and a covered section of the market.  Dean and I would later agree it was just a downright wonderful experience--one of the highlights of the whole trip.

We walked down the rows of food stalls and Preston explained the ins and outs of what was in season, how to tell if something was from France, if something was organic, how the food sellers get heated and begin shouting and bargaining toward the end of the market so they can sell off, etc.

A moveable feast for the senses on every level!  We tasted little forest strawberries, melons, and "une tradition" baguettes which are grayer inside and not bleached flour--therefore more nutritious & multigrain in makeup.  We learned about the laws in place for any business wanting to call itself a "boulangerie," which is a bakery--for instance, all boulangeries are required to bake their bread on site and no preservatives are allowed.  The only ingredients permissible are flour, yeast, salt and water.  Because of this, Preston told us it is very rare for someone to be gluten-intolerant or have Celiac's disease in France.  I’m assuming this is because they have all been eating "the real thing" all along.  Fascinating.  Pass the rustic multigrain sourdough.

Preston also introduced us to the honey man.  The honey man was giving out all kinds of samples of his many varieties of honey.  Have I mentioned yet that I feel honey should be an actual food group?  Honey makes life more beautiful and I love honey like it's a friend.  The honey man sold me some honey that I took back home in my suitcase.  Every time I think about using it on something, I get worried I won't be able to taste the full extent of its glory--so I just eat a spoonful of it by itself to ensure maximum taste experience.  One time I did this and subsequently entered a honey trance and repeated times 22--couldn't stop to save my life.  Thank goodness I was spooning with a little demitasse spoon.  Alas, my jar is now half empty because of this indulgent escapade and if there really is a Santa Claus, he will bring me a second jar of this honey on the evening of December 25.  When I first take a bite of it into my mouth, it mystically floats on top of my tongue for a half second before vaporizing and blanketing every tiny taste bud in it's own cozy honey sleeping bag.  I could go on, but you might hate me.

We went in a cheese shop and Preston explained how cheeses are usually organized by the type of milk used--sheep, goat, cow.  And then he gave us two to sample.  One of the cheeses he explained was a specialty cheese that only comes "in season" for about 5-6 weeks out of the year because it is only made—wait for it—after the snow has melted in the Alps and they release the sheep to wander up higher in the hills where they eat seasonal flowers and berries that are only available for a short blooming time.  And this is what flavors their milk and makes the special cheese!!  Have you ever??  Can I go there?  Does Heidi live there?  Maria von Trapp?  I'm coming, Maria!  I'm coming!  Save some cheese for me!  

To wrap up, because we had expressed interest in learning more about wine, Preston took us to a small place which served wine and small plates from a bar.  We stood around a large barrel standing on end, sipped our wine and marveled at the novelty of the place.

There were barrels of wine--3 or 4 with taps--and then a few stacks of crates of mismatched empty wine bottles.  People would come in and get an empty bottle and the guy running the place—who was, of course, wearing a tank top, apron and had a slight handlebar mustache ((trademark!))—would turn the tap of whichever wine they wanted and he'd fill it.

The bottles were .50 and the wine was around 3-5€ a liter.  Groups of people coming into this tiny little place would have a bite and a sip....  Businessmen in suits crowded around a small table with a plate of charcuterie or cheese and had glasses of wine on their lunch break.  Preston said there are not many places that still do wine on tap like that.  Ahhhh, France!!  Further to our experience with Preston, I have since learned he may be found at Paris By The Glass for tastings, classes, day trips and events while in Paris.  I recommend him with pleasure.   

We made our way back to the apartment to see if my lovely visitors had alighted.  They arrived shortly after we did and it was so great--"We're here!!"  Beth, Colleen and Danna had all come from Tennessee and Alabama, all the way to Paris, France, y'all!!  Lots of annoying American squealing ensued!  

Excitement and adrenalin gave way to exhaustion, though, and the little sleep they'd gotten on the plane had started to catch up with them.  We left them to nap and shower and we went out to tour the Musée Carnavalet (French history) and stroll the Places des Vosges.  When we headed back to the apartment to get ready for dinner, we were late and dodging groups of people on the sidewalk to scoot past everyone we could when lo and behold, we encountered serendipitous sweetness.  We saw a little jazz band playing on the street and with them, a little lady dancing to the music in her own little world.  We were in such a hurry but the scene just stopped us in our tracks--like it would've been wrong not to "see" it….

I am drawn to people who seem to be at ease with who God made them to be--in a life-giving way that is in keeping with God's character and is accessible to others.  Aren't we all?  For so long, I felt like I had to make apologies for the most natural things about myself.  Somehow I perceived myself as…not fitting.  Whatever my most obvious strengths were I assumed needed editing/altering for public interaction….  I still struggle some days to choose to believe that God made Lesli because He actually wanted Lesli in this world and He knew she would be needed.  He also knew she would struggle and she would not find her way easily…but this was okay because God would use all of that for His glory.

And so when I saw this little lady dancing her same little steps over and over, it blessed me.  I saw her being exactly who she was made to be—and then not feeling like she needed to dilute that for those around her.  But trusting that if God made her that way, He made others to be able to draw blessing from her—because what was in her was God’s to begin with and He made her that way in order to share more of Himself with this aching world.  Completely on purpose. 

    

Eventually we all made it to dinner at Le Petit Cler, a little bistro in the 7th.  It was drizzly so we took the Metro, which I will say right now was my least favorite mode of transport in Paris.  Stressful and not visually wonderful.  {Photo creds to Beth for the Metro photo & Colleen for the group photo in Le Petit Cler!}

And here is my sweet Group 1 getting ready to dine at Le Petit Cler!!  Left to right, Colleen, Danna, Lesli, Dean and Beth.  We had a great little bistro dinner and then made our way to Sainte Chapelle where we had tickets to a classical concert that night.  It was transportive.  The sounds of the string instruments filling every inch of the space of that majestic church--it made my eyes close and shoulders relax, my body weighed down with wonderful.

They played Vivaldi's "Four Seasons.”  If you’re like me and think, “Four Seasons—hm, that sounds familiar but I can’t hum the tune right off the top of my head,” then go google it or look it up in iTunes.  It’s one of those pieces of classical music that just invades your soul.  I kind of get teary just listening to it.  And the speed with which they move their bows across their instruments left me sitting in disbelief.  I couldn't move my arm that fast with that kind of precision *not* moving a bow across an instrument.  Amazing.    

I was a little sad in the concert because my friend, Suzanne from Belfast, who was originally slated to be a part of Group 1, regrettably had to change her travel plans at the last minute after having been the first to book her ticket!  And it was Suzanne's idea to go to the concert because so much of who she is encompassed by music.  I asked Dean to take a little video of it for Suz.  We missed you, Suzanne!!

  

Could not believe I was sitting there in Sainte Chapelle--in Paris--listening to a classical music extravaganza--with these amazing girlies!  Afterwards, the girls made their way back to the apartment to get some well-earned shut-eye but Dean and I went out for a drink on his last night in Paris with me.  We decided to go to a bar in a fancy hotel, Hotel Bristol, where we'd read great things about their handcrafted cocktails.  {professional photo below thieved from the Internets to show the true beauty of Hotel Bristol by night}

We taxied to Hotel Bristol and just as I was stepping out of the cab, feeling barely appropriate in my black knit dress and boots, into my line of vision strode something akin to a 6 ft. tall creamy white gorgeous lady giraffe that I would, seconds later, come to realize was probably a supermodel.  By the way, it's Fashion Week in Paris, but I'm doing my darndest to bring that down a couple notches.  

Gorgeous giraffe lady froze me with her arresting beauty prowess as she glided into the hotel with two men who were presumably her "handlers."  I looked closer at her outfit.  Knee-high stiletto black boots, legs for days, a complete and utter lack of cellulite anywhere, and then...the "pants."  Let's not call them "pants." Let's not even call them, "shorts."  Let's just call this article of fabric what it actually was:  a woman “diaper" made of gray wool, cut in such a way to reveal the tiniest sliver of her rear peeking out on each side.  Then a sleeveless orange-red ruffled silk blouse, short brown hair--coiffed and arranged with artistry--and makeup to perfection.  She walked like she meant it.  As she sauntered over to the elevators, Dean and I walked in the opposite direction to the bar, where it took us a moment to talk through what we'd just witnessed.  Mainly, I was sleuthing to see if Dean had noticed the aforementioned "slivers."  Indeed he had.    

Le Bar du Bristol in the Hotel Bristol.  Bonsoir!  We are here for some classy cocktails--something worthy of giraffe lady from the lobby, s'il vous plait.  And they delivered:  we opened our bar menu to find a list of ~24€ cocktails (gulp).  But by the time we factored in the "welcome drinks" which came in footed crystal shot glasses and tasted like orange paradise, the basil cashews that we gnoshed on while the bartender worked on our drinks like he was verging on an Oscar in mixology and then the complimentary Jacques Genin truffles that came out on their own little platter, we said it was all worth it, if only for the experience.  Our cocktails were creatively conceived, surprising and delicious.  The servers spoke perfect English and were beyond gracious.

I wondered if giraffe lady knew about the cashews and truffles down in the bar.  Judging from the flawless nature of her legs, my guess is, “no.”  Pity, that.  If she only knew what she was missing, she might trade in her wool diaper for a libation and a little bit o' livin'....         

    

Crafting a Tale of Insanity

In case you couldn't tell right off the bat, this is an ornament of Joseph's coat of many colors which I was assigned to make for the Jesse Tree ornament exchange I attended today. I'll just say running a close second to Jesus's birth, the greatest miracle of all is that my sanity is intact tonight and Dean still chooses to remain married to me after I went on a journey to craft hell and back this week, dragging my family with me every step of the way.  Crafting to me is the equivalent to Lesli singing opera in Chinese:  painful and unpleasant on every level.   

To acknowledge that I have been refused any inherent gifting or tendencies which favor the tactile creative arts is to affirm the most obvious of natural laws.  The problem is that in my excitement to attend the exchange and be able to enrich my family's anticipation of Christmas with the Jesse Tree tradition, I chose to deny this basic truth about myself and plunge headfirst into fantasyland--a trip which would ultimately immerse me in the lowest depths of craft despair.  

If you haven’t heard of the Jesse Tree, it’s an advent tradition full of meaning—a series of Bible verses and devotionals which focus on prophecies and events which led to the birth of Christ, one for each day of December until Christmas.  For each day/devotional, there is a coordinating ornament to hang on a separate little tree in your home.  Doesn’t that sound amazing?  There are very simple printouts that you can use for the ornaments and probably be good to go in about 30 minutes.  Lesli chose to forgo the 30-minute route and instead chose the 2-week valley of the shadow of death route.  My jumpsuit of pride zipped up like a glove and rose-colored safety goggles in position, I was ready to soar through the air of craft triumph.  I can do this!  I am woman, watch me appliqué.  

The way the ornament exchange works, 25 days worth of ornaments are needed for a full Jesse Tree set for each person attending and the idea is to share the work.  There were 30 people participating, 25 of whom were assigned to make 30 ornaments each of their assigned ornament.  Don’t ask me what the other 5 people did—I’m having negative thoughts about how minimal their task was compared to the 25 ornament-makers’ and thinking on this inequality draws me away from God, not toward Him.  I was assigned the ornament for Dec. 7:  Joseph’s coat of many colors.  Thirty colorful coats, coming right up!  Feeling extremely perky.

Upon my first google, I found my inspiration:  a felt-shaped coat with multicolored felt patches, sewn in an adorable pattern, neat and tidy--not at all "crafty."  Perfect.

 My brain quickly booked a first-class ticket to Delusionville.  No matter that I didn’t own a sewing machine nor had ever attempted using one in my life.  The longer I stared at my inspiration photo, the more convinced I became that my passion for conquering the patchwork felt coat would trump any obstacles in my way, such as NOT KNOWING JACK ABOUT SEWING.

Passion hijacked logic and before I knew it, I had clicked “submit” on an Amazon order for a sewing machine (yes, that's right) and a slew of felt samples from some felt specialty store in the midwest.  WHAT?!  A blatant disregard--nay, an outright slaying of common sense.  Don't listen to those voices, Lesli--they want you to end up with the ornament print-out, not something amazing.  You are capable of much more.  Fear the generic.  FEAR IT.  Haste via fear of the generic will take me to some crazy places....    

I have to pause at this juncture and confess that I am essentially a lunatic.  Five weeks post-Paris return and I am still treading water in the deep end.  I know--you don't feel sorry for me and that's fine.  Hush.  Every Sunday night, I give myself a pep talk and convince myself that this {insert any week from the past five} is the week I will start and finish laundry in the same week, have all the normal items in my pantry and fridge, actually cook a meal without having an emotional breakdown, *think about* recommitting to moderate exercise and feel as though I have the slightest clue as to what is occurring in my children's classrooms with regard to activities and homework.  I cannot catch up.  I'm now looking at Christmas break as my only hope.  Never mind that I just started a blog.  

ENTER: THE SEWING MACHINE.  Enter:  Thirty colorful coats.  Enter:  Learning a completely new skill which I have no business devoting time to in an already helter-skelter season.  Enter:  My husband's well-founded yet nonetheless annoying and unspoken assumption that this will be yet another "unfinished project" of Lesli's to add to the graveyard of forgotten and overwhelming projects and all their paraphernalia.

Monday morning, once the kids left for school, I spent an hour and a half reading the machine manual and watching instructional DVDs, which got me as far as threading the bobbin and running the thread through the little crevices and the needle so that I was ready to sew.

I felt victorious for a half-second and then I froze.  I stared at my inspiration photo again.  In a moment of horror, I realized the reason it looked so lovely was that every differently-colored little patch was sewn on with matching thread.  It had taken me an hour and a half just to thread one color.  I admitted defeat...privately.  I had to.  But if not this, then what?  My weary wheels began to spin....  Time to switch tracks.  Just to prepare you, dear reader, there would actually be 3 forthcoming switches from the original inspiration idea.

Switch #2:  Maintaining commitment to my felt purchase yet substituting the glue gun for the sewing machine.  This resulted in a scorching glue gun burn and rampant cussing.

The ornaments were decent but they just looked too messy and crafty to me.

I then moved to Switch #3:  The latest Pinterest fad--melted crayon bits, version "colorful coat."

Visually, I loved this plan, but there was a very short window between 'liquid' and 'slightly hardened' in which to press the cookie cutter into the melted crayons and then no time to punch a hole for hanging.  If my timing was even slightly off, it was a total loss as the crayon coat would crack and break from the hole punch.  It would've cracked and broken anyway as it was quite fragile.  Switch #3 was especially stressful because it occurred during dinner prep on Wednesday night (just before we host our CollegeLIFE group from church).  I was trying to brown ground beef for taco salad in between peeling crayons, breaking them up and beating them senseless in a ziploc bag with a can of black beans, ironing the crayon bits between layers of parchment and coming up short every time.  I made four & cracked four before I gave up.  I was two days out from E Day (exchange day) and desperation started to set in.  Money spent so far on the 30 coats including the sewing machine:  over $250.  And I have seven irregular patchwork/glue gun coats to show for it.

At the height of my frustration Wednesday night, I had Walker falling apart emotionally from his failed glitter river in the pilgrim diorama he was working on and unable to assist him as I was blinded by my own craft rage.  In addition, I needed Dean home 30 minutes prior, dinner needed serving, there was a pile of blue glitter in my kitchen sink, I had 15 people due to my house in an hour and a half for CollegeLIFE and then that would be my Wednesday night gone.  Things reached fever pitch as Dean finally walked in the door, Walker was crying, I had all the toppings set out for taco salad and then went to grab the bag of blue corn chips I bought two days prior, only to find 90% OF THE BAG WAS EATEN.  I threw my hands in the air, exclaimed something tragic about never being able to cook a freaking meal in my house and stormed into the bedroom with a grand finale tantrum door slam.  Yes!!  Well done, well done!!  And what was this all about?  An ornament?  Meant to contribute to an advent tradition?  Meant to focus my heart on the coming of Christ?  NIIIICE.

During and after dinner, I was racking my brain about Switch #4.  What in my life was multicolored?  Please, God, please.  I need a Jesse Tree miracle.  And then, as if by divine implantation, a thought entered my mind:  sprinkles.  Sprinkles!!!  Oh, thank you, God, THIS IS IT.  I had already cut all the little coat shapes out of red felt.  I would only need to brush glue on each one, sprinkle sprinkle sprinkle, and then let dry.  I churned out 7 within 30 minutes.  The sprinkles were sticking, it was multicolored, not fragile and semi-cute.  This was going to work!!  Then in God's mercy, bestowed not long after my blue corn chip rant, my CollegeLIFE girls showed up and two of them insisted on taking over sprinkle coat production.  Before we even started our group time, they had finished all but two.  All I had to do was seal them with modge podge on Thursday and let them dry so they'd be ready by Friday morning.  I was at the finish line!!

Except I brushed the first coat with modge podge on Thursday aaaaaand it took the color off of the sprinkles!!!!!!

Are you hearing me?!???  Insanity draws nigh....

Thankfully, in God's mercy, I had read the modge podge instructions while standing in the craft store and it said to use a clear acrylic sealer after using modge podge, so I grabbed some of that before I left the store and I was able to use that spray to seal and finish the ornaments.  If I had been forced to return to the craft store once more that day, I would've ended up on the evening news.

I have an internal panic that sets in every time I get near the craft store and it doesn't fully calm until I'm back in my car.  There's a mental battle waging the whole time I'm physically in the store.  I tell myself, "You will get out, you WILL get out of here, Lesli."  And also, "These employees aren't equipped on any level--personally, professionally, socially--to be working here.  Yes, it's true.  But Jesus died for me and for them.  Grace is needed."  I alternate between praying and cussing when I'm standing in the longest & slowest checkout lines known to the modern age and then OF COURSE there is that *one* lady--holding up the line with discrepancies about her coupon(s) and what the sale price really was on that most tacky piece of crap she dug up from the clearance bin.

Five coats of the clear acrylic spray later and a few hours of ventilating my house and...it was over.  I walked with head held high into the ornament exchange the next day knowing I had given myself, body and soul, to these 30 colorful coats that would go on to be a part of so many families' advent traditions.

And now every December 7th, 30 someones in Knoxville will hang Joseph's colorful coat on their Jesse tree and for those who know me and are acquainted with this laborious tale, they will pause for a half-second in remembrance and reverence.  I don't feel like that's too much to ask.

The important thing is my craft storm has calmed, I have a wonderful set of Jesse Tree ornaments thanks to the efforts of 24 other ladies and for the first time this Christmas season, my family will participate in the anticipation of Christ's birth in a very meaningful and intentional way.  I am truly thrilled about this and look forward to seeing Christ shine brighter in all of us because of it!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a sewing machine to sell (cough)--I mean....get to know better.    

            

Day 3: Moving to Maison 1400

It's moving day! 

We moved out of our hotel and into the apartment today.  But before we did that, we had a little bit of time--that is, after I was forced to crack the whip on Dean to get him out of the bed at 11:00 (!).  Jet lag still in effect.  So we went for a stroll to hunt down a lunch lead based on the recommendation of the lady at our hotel.  

We found the restaurant she had suggested, but it looked a little too fancy for what we were wanting, so we fumbled around for a minute with our phones and maps.  We'd been standing in front of the Bourse for about 5 minutes trying to make a decision when Dean looked up and said, "How 'bout that place?"  I did my discerning traveler quick-study of the proposed eatery a block away:  looked popular but not crowded, nice windows with baked goods in them, not touristy...we moved in closer.  The menu looked perfect so we stayed.  Lovely place!

 

This was the kind of place I would go every morning if I lived close by.  I had a jambon (ham) & emmenthal cheese tartine with a salade vert and some tea au lait.  Dean had a smoked chicken tartine and salade vert with some coffee.  But guess what?  The coffee and tea came in:  BOWLS.  Like big teacups with no handles.  I never knew to be excited about this, but cupping that bowl of hot tea in both my hands and drinking it was supremely comforting.  I asked Dean to take my picture so I could remember the cozy moment.

 

As I ate my food, it was good, but I kept thinking, "something is missing.”  Contributing to this thought was the fact that in very casual groups on the big community table were several jars of different jams and condiments, and among them something chocolatey called, "Choco." 

Looking at the food I had ordered, I sadly realized I had no use for the Choco.  I had a growing desire to know more about the Choco.  I summoned my courage and French accent to order a croissant.  "Je voudrais un croissant {qwass-ahh}, s'il vous plait?"  

Do you see how this croissant is kind of flat in shape?  We later learned that this is a sign it is an all-butter croissant.  Very good boulangeries will only sell all-butter croissants.  But some lesser boulangeries will offer croissants made with butter substitute, which makes them rounder in the middle.  These are not desirable.  If you get your tummy all the way to Paris, you better make sure you are delighting in the virtues of croissants au beurre.  

Once delivered, some bites of this insanely flaky croissant got a smudge of Choco, some got a smear of apricot preserves, then back to the Choco.  These were not difficult decisions.  

And when I say the croissant was flaky, I mean there was a tiny snow shower of croissant flakes every time I tore a piece off to eat.  It was beautiful.  It was snowing food on my lap, the table, my plate, the floor.  Wait a minute:  SNOW FLAKES.  

Once we finished, we headed over to Galeries Lafayette because I had an errand to run--forgot to pack a belt!  Galeries Lafayette--how to describe this place?  It's like a department store and a Ritz Carlton got married.  Absolutely palatial!  Oh la la!
  

Had a ball walking around their children's section--clothing, toys and books.  All my favorite French characters & labels were there!  Le Petit Prince, Corolle babies, Babar books, Moulin Roty toys, Petit Bateau pajamas in Mamie's size (!), eeeeek!!

 Finally, we completed our shopping and made our way back to the hotel to get our bags and call a taxi for transport to Maison 1400, my home for the coming fortnight.  We arrived and met our landlord, Michael, who was a complete treasure and insisted on having us into his downstairs apartment for coffee and conversation.  It was thrilling to be able to unpack and think, “This is really my home for the next two weeks!!  Can that even be true??"  Let's get comfy and pretend this is really our home.

Maison 1400 is in the 4th arrondissement in the heart of the Marais and is a restored 15th century residence.  Michael was the architect on the redo and said it is probably one of the 5 oldest homes in Paris that is still standing--which means it wasn't demolished by the reconstruction under Haussmann.  As mentioned in the Day 2 post, George Haussmann was a city planner hired by Napoleon III to come in and restructure Paris in the mid 1800s.  He is the reason for Paris's wide, stretching boulevards and impeccable symmetry...and, consequently, the reason for the absence of much of what used to be medieval Paris because much of it was torn down to make for more space at that time.

Our townhouse is an exception to that--timber and plaster ceilings, slanted spiral staircase, absolutely chocked full of refined character.  I was a carnival of internal squealing.

Because of the way the apartment was laid out, we had three bedrooms, each self-contained with its own bathroom and kitchenette and each connected with a spiraling timber staircase.  One of the bedrooms had a large living and kitchen area.  My sister, Amber Beckham, is a professional photographer and she took this collage of photos of those rooms during her stay.

  
I started scoping apartments before I even had my airline ticket booked.  I scrolled til I couldn't scroll no more (!), combing hundreds of apartments available for rent.  When I landed on Maison 1400, my heart did a back flip.  This was the one.  Maison 1400 so far surpassed all of our expectations.  It really felt like home and was so charming, safe and beautiful.  

Dean and I can't help it--we just default to lazy on a vacation.  Even in Paris!  Eventually, after we felt like we'd honored our need for rest in our cozy new space, we made our way to dinner.  

Dinner:  time to hit Lesli's food list again.  Three weeks ago, I tried to get a reservation at Spring with no luck.  But I had heard tales of people showing up when they opened the doors at 7:00 and possibly getting a table downstairs.  I google-translated, practiced my phrasing, gathered my bravery and then gave them my best, "Est-il possible pour deux personnes pour diner sans reservation, s'il vous plait?"  

There was a friendly exchange, a consulation with the computer, concerning facial expressions with some low-level fast talking and finally...an offer to sit at the bar downstairs.  I’m not sure they normally seat people at the bar for dinner so we were thankful.  Two glasses of champagne were presented, consequently clinked and we were settled.  Oui, oui!!  And, as luck would have it, by the time we'd finished our first starters, they'd had a cancellation and could move us to an actual table.  C'est merveilleux!  We are pictured below in the typical traveling couples solo portraits ensemble.  You take one of me.  Now I'll get one of you.    

Spring is a place where you get what you get and you don't pitch a fit, as I am fond of telling my children from time to time.  Chef-chosen menu every night, five courses plus an optional cheese course.  Magnifique!!  My pics weren't amazing because of the lighting, but here was the list of the plates:

Pickled eggplant with ham
Foie gras with figs
Potato, mustard and buckwheat soup
Cabbage, cauliflower and white fish 
Prawn, spring onion, leeks, foie gras sauce
Fried oyster
Veal, hoof & foot, porcini mushroom purée, veal jus
Cacao tart
Chocolat sorbet with rum granita
Lemon something 
Hazelnut something
Choux pastry w coffee cream

Thoroughly enjoyed every bite of every plate even though some of the terms probably would've turned me off if I'd had a choice on a menu.  It was wonderful to try some new things.  And it actually took the stress off of ordering and pronouncing words and deciphering the menu.  We dined downstairs surrounded by old, bumpy stone walls and candlelight.  I didn’t want to leave.    

Once we finished, we walked a mile and a half to the Latin Quarter where I'd found an old cinema called Le Grand Action which sometimes shows old American movies.  The movie playing that night was, "Paper Moon," with Ryan and Tatum O'Neal (father and daughter who play a father and daughter in the movie).

 

It was the original movie with French subtitles.  It was actually made in 1973 (the year we were born) but is a period piece which took place in the 30s, so it's in black and white.  It was so great!  Why have we never seen it before?  Very funny and quick!  It was a soft place to land and let the wine wear off a bit.  

And that's it for today!  My first group of ladies arrives tomorrow and I couldn't be more excited!!  I hope I can sleep tonight!  Bonsoir!!

Vélib'-ing, Poilâne, Le Marais, & Paris by Night

If the airplane deprives me of my quality time with the Sandman, then the first night’s sleep once I’ve crossed the pond is always blessedly deep.  And so it was the morning of the 27th, our first full day in Paris.  We eventually forced our eyes open and tried to make a little plan for the day.  

In 17 years of marriage, Dean and I have learned some things about our relational dynamics where travel is concerned:  a.)  we don’t insist on spending every waking moment together and b.) sightseeing isn’t our strong suit.  If we make the sacrifice of planning, preparations for childcare, time away from home and work and expect to have any profit on our investment which results in a sense of feeling refueled prior to our return, sightseeing is not the way to arrive there.  It results in constant mapping, researching, arguing, feeling emptied instead of energized and both of us resenting the other for basically doing what we each naturally default to based on who God made us to be:  planner and plan-ee.  But the bottom line is museums and crossing off the 20 “you really should see the ______”s just don’t really do it for us.  Which is why when we do get the chance to get away together, we normally pick something very low-key and relaxing—nothing to map or strategize or figure out.  

So, naturally, I had a few reservations about us doing Paris together.  Many of these stemmed from the fact that for several months leading up to the trip, I repeatedly asked Dean for ideas on what he would like to do while in Paris…and all in vain as he just continued to (gasp) be exactly who he’s always been:  quite happy to just go along.  I would even leave guide books in strategic places to try to lure him into planning mode.  He was never tempted.  

I began asking what he did *not* want to do.  Better tactic.  No museums, no wait-in-this-line tourist attractions.  We settled on experience-type activities—where we both just showed up and someone else was in charge.  We planned one or two per day, allowed time for resting and made reservations for some long, leisurely dinners.  Best decision.  

The first of those activities was the previously mentioned car tour with Antoine.  Antoine was a hard act to follow, but we had to try.  We booked a walking tour in the Marais, which is the neighborhood where my apartment would be once we checked in the next day.  We thought it would be a great way to learn more about the area and its history.  The tour was led by a local Parisian lady through an organization called Paris Greeters.  Completely volunteer-based group of locals who love Paris and want to share it with visitors (the friendly word for tourists).  And complimentary!  

So we knew we had the walking tour in the afternoon but nothing beforehand.  We decided to conquer the Vélib' bikes, which is the amazing public bikes system in Paris.  There are banks of these bikes all over Paris, usually within a 5-minute walk from wherever you happen to be standing at any given point in the city.  There is an 8€ charge for a week’s pass and as long as your bike journey is completed within 30 minutes, no extra charges are filed.  If you go over 30 minutes, it’s like 1€ for every half-hour.  But honestly, I used the Vélib' bikes for two weeks and I don’t think I went over the 30 minutes one time.  Wonderful, exhilarating way to see the city and get around.  Heavy on the fresh air and visuals when compared to taking the Metro.

Once we checked out our bikes, we realized we were hungry--so what better time to start chipping away at Lesli’s mammoth wish list of Paris food joints?  Very near the top of the list was Cuisine de Bar, the cafe arm of Poilâne, home of the best bread in Paris.  Seemed like an ideal field trip.

We mapped our route to Poilâne and took off on our bikes, probably breaking all kinds of cycling-in-traffic protocol, but whatever.  Deal, Frenchies.  We were biking in freaking Paris, y’all!!   

We arrived at Cuisine de Bar and I approached it with the reverence that some probably reserve for the Van Goghs in the Musée d’Orsay.  It was a very simple but modern cafe with seating for around 30 people.  We were seated and began to examine the menu, although I knew what I wanted before I even sat down.  The open-faced tartines are what they are known for and Dean and I both chose the Tartine For’bon.  Poilane bread toasted with Bayonne ham, whole ripe Saint Marcellin cheese, olive oil and marjoram.  Very simple but poised to redefine all prior perceptions about ham and cheese in my food memory.  Essentially, mouth-watering.  

Fresh greens with a tangy mustard vinaigrette dressing to start.

 Tartine For'bon.

  
Oh, good heavens.

Two people worked at Cuisine de Bar:  the cook and the server.  One cook, one server.  And the server was a very busy lady I would later come to know as "Isabelle."  Isabelle seated customers, took orders, delivered food, cashed out checks, bussed tables, cleaned up messes, everything that needed doing except for the cooking.  Even though she was working away, she presented as joyful.  She beautifully displayed a sense of purpose that was inspiring to watch.  More on Isabelle later in the blog….

Spotted around Poilâne....

I am told by my baker enthusiast friend, Tricia, that the scoring of the bread in this way takes great skill.

Edible utensils!

#France

{The Art of Bread}

From lunch, we headed over to the Marais in the 4th arrondissement to meet our greeter for the walking tour.  She told me in an e-mail that she would be wearing sunglasses, had red hair and looked “sporty.”  Her name was Gillian.  Here she is:

Gillian took us, along with two other couples, walking around the Marais and explained much about the history of the Marais.  We learned about George Haussmann and his restructuring of Paris in the mid-1800s under Napoleon III.
  
Many of the tight and winding streets in Paris were taken out along with many of the medieval buildings during that time.  Waste would very often get dumped in the streets and the cramped and narrow alleys and lanes contributed to disease, in addition to making homes hard to access in the event of a fire.  During the reconstruction, tens of thousands of Parisians were displaced outside the city walls…and then returned to a very different Paris—parks, various public works and the wide, grand boulevards with a very symmetrical layout, for which Paris is known today.  If you get to an intersection and look straight behind you to find the Eiffel Tower standing smack dab in the middle of your line of sight, that’s no accident.  That is a credit to Haussmann.  

The Marais has the highest concentration of medieval buildings left intact during that period and therefore, has some of the oldest residences in Paris.  Dean and I both loved learning about Paris in this way—walking around, having architecture and idiosyncrasies explained in a historical light by someone who is passionate and knowledgeable about the city.  

Some kind of fruit tree, growing in the tiny front garden of a residence.  Rarely are little sections of lawn spotted in front of these buildings!

Garden shop in the Marais.  Some of the most snap-worthy spots in Paris are garden shops.  Only most of them do not take kindly to photos inside their stores.  But they make me swooooooon.

An example of an "hôtel particulier" in the Marais.  They aren't hotels, like people know hotels today.  They were once opulent private residences and most were freestanding mansions with private courtyards in the front and gardens behind, like this one.  Most have been sold off because the upkeep and taxes on such properties makes them difficult to maintain.    

Inside the courtyard of a group of private residences/apartment buildings.  There was a gate closing this off as private but it happened to be cracked open so we stepped inside....

We had to cut out from the walking tour a little early because we had made a special nighttime activity plan for that evening:  an evening bike tour around the lights of Paris.  This was with a company called Fat Tire Bike Tours and was the first of three bike tours I ended up doing with them.  Wonderful company!  Cannot recommend them highly enough.  We felt completely safe, learned so much from our amazing guide, Theo, and again, I cannot overstate the thrill of riding a bike around the streets of Paris.

The meeting spot for the bike tour was under the Eiffel Tower.  This was as close as we'd been to it!  Pics from the night bike tour to follow.  Paris after dark is just a truly beautiful place to be....

 Our awesome guide Theo (on the right) and the rest of our group.  Yes, we had to wear reflective vests while biking and yes, that hurt.

When I look at this photo, I want to jump straight in, a la Mary Poppins & Bert.

  

Snack stop on the night bike tour:  Berthillon.  The best ice cream in Paris.  Handmade in small batches, both ice creams and sorbets, naturally-flavored and flavors change weekly.  I picked the mandarin sorbet and c'est delicieux!

This was on the bridge near Berthillon where we milled around lapping up our ice cream.  It's hard to tell exactly what this is, but there is a man dressed in black, seated just left of center.  He is seen playing a flute.  He is surrounded by various...contraptions.  Lights, little fountains in upside-down umbrellas, a bicycle with "wings" and messages and a trailer attached to the bike that carries a generator to power everything.  Apparently, he makes a habit of setting up his "office" and offering anyone within earshot a selection of flute tunes, original poetry or readings from literature.  As we left him on this night, he had finished the flute and was reading in French from "Le Petit Prince" to a small audience.  Most intriguing.  I wished we could've stayed to see him pack everything up and actually ride away on his bicycle/flying machine.

Giving my best smile on the Bateaux Mouches.  

The Fat Tire night bike tour is 3 hours of touring and finishes with a cruise on the Seine with the Bateaux Mouches.  Selling point:  they pass out red wine at the end for the boat ride.  And all of this for 30€, I think.  Such an amazing value.  Our guide, Theo, was lovely.  Raised in Paris by a French father and an American mother, he was effortlessly bilingual, gracious, conscientious and a fount of information.  Not only was this a really enjoyable tour, it was a great way to get oriented to the city in the beginning stages of knowing how the arrondissements (districts within the city) are laid out and a genius thing to do at the beginning of a trip.  It also gave us confidence on bikes and some useful hand gestures and protocol to employ when riding in traffic—which then only made us more eager to use the Vélib' system.  Have I said “highly recommend” yet?  I did.

That does it for today!  Tomorrow is moving day to the apartment!  Onward and upward....