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'....