African Journeys

There are a lot of stereotypes about the French. Some people say they are rude, proud, wear berets all the time, and carry around baguettes. From living in France, I have found that all of those are either exaggerated or culturally misunderstood…except for one. The French love their bread. And, in my opinion, they have reason to. It is incredible. No joke, I could eat a whole baguette with nothing more than water and some cheese for my entire meal.

The French love their baguettes and flutes (a baguette super-sized) so much that they have a word for the soft, white center of a loaf, “la mie”. Bakeries are as common as houses, it feels like. And, if you want to start a very opinionated conversation with a Frenchman, just ask their opinion on the best bakery around. I guarantee they have their personal favorite. Baguettes are bought daily and at least one bakery in the area stays open on Sunday so no one is forced to consume a day old baguette.

So, when you think about the French and all the stereotypes that you hear, just know that most are blown out of proportion, except for their love affair with a fresh baguette.

There are some days here in France that I feel like a genius. I say exactly what I need to, the French understand me completely and I receive an unsolicited smile from the local baker. Those are very encouraging days. But then there are the days where I stumble over my words. The days where even simple French phrases come spilling out of my mouth haphazardly and I quickly receive a correction from the person I am speaking with. These are the days where I am forced to revert back to basic sentences, feeling like a child as I strain to remember simple, daily vocabulary. I am unable to say, “Could you please pass me the bread?’, so I blurt out, “Bread, please?” It is these days where I feel more like a 4 year-old than a linguist.

The most interesting part about all this is that I am sure God places these days in my life on purpose. One reason is because these days, the childlike ones, closely follow the days where I am on top of the world. You see, God knows how quickly I am to congratulate myself and to tell myself how great a job I am doing, as if it wasn’t God who provides the ability to learn language in the first place. So even though these days are tough, I know that God simply wants his child to learn a little humility with his French.

Being a father has taught me quite a bit about God’s relationship with his children. I have begun to understand a little more about how he must love us as our Father. How he can be caring, firm, comforting or disciplinary and still embody love because he shows himself to us different ways at different times for different reasons for our benefit. Well one of those moments of realization came today.

While Jo was at class, I got to watch Ayla. I tried a few things with her: reading books, playing with her stuffed animals, etc, but she became bored with all of them. Then, I thought she might want to walk around. Yes, it began as a ploy to tire her out for her afternoon nap, but after we started walking while holding onto my pinky, she didn’t want to let go. So we made a lap around the living room, then the kitchen, then the hallway a couple times. I think in all, we walked around our apartment 6 or so times. She was loving holding onto a solitary finger as we made lap after lap. I thoroughly enjoyed every second of our time, taking a half-step for every 3 of hers. Walking is a new thing for her. She doesn’t run yet, or at least when she tries, she falls over. Each step is deliberate, uncoordinated and awkward, but she never tired of walking knowing she was holding her daddy’s finger.

Now I could take the analogy of God’s relationship with his children in a couple different directions here, but this is the one that struck me. God is willing to walk with us. And though we are clumsy at times and need to hold his hand, he is patient and willing. He wants to walk with us. In I John 3:1, Christians are called ‘children of God’ and part of being his children is being taught, growing, relying on him, etc. And he has patience far outlasting that of any earthly father.

A few nights ago, we went to the house of some of our french friends for dinner. They have a little girl around the same age as Ayla, so whenever we get together we have a lot of fun with each other, and watching our girls play together is so cute. We spent a great evening eating wonderful food, and having a surprisingly easy time conversing in French with them, both of us. We got home a little later than we thought we would, so we went to bed not long after we put Ayla to bed. Nate and I talked about how much fun we’d had laughing and hanging out with them, then we both went to sleep. I spent a very restless night of lively dreams, reliving our evening with our friends. I was dreaming in French, and it was EXHAUSTING! I kept waking up thinking, “This is so hard, it’s making me more tired than ever cause I have to concentrate so hard to understand what’s going on! Dream in English, Jo! English!”

I’ve heard that dreaming in whatever language you’re learning is a good sign, and I agree. This is not the first time I’ve done it in my French career. But man is it exhausting!

This last weekend we had a visitor stay with us (that’s you Tim), and we were able to travel around a little. See some of Italy, a little more of France. But besides having a great weekend, I noticed  two other things. One, it felt like coming home when we returned to our apartment at the end of our day trips. And secondly, we no longer notice things that seem strange or new to outsiders. Walking down the street, it was Tim who pointed out the snow-capped mountains surrounding our town. And though there is a little sadness at not continually experiencing the excitement and wonder of a newcomer, it is comforting to feel at home. When we returned at the end of the day, we knew where we were headed. We felt comfortable and at peace.

We know what it feels like to live out of a suitcase and to pack up our stuff and move to a new location and I’ll be honest, it is nice to have a place we call home. So even though I no longer stare at the mountains as I walk to school (don’t worry, I still look at them), I think I can accept that for a place to call home.

…is hard to do!

This one of the many lessons we’re learning currently. As a couple who has moved a lot since getting married, not to mention the recent trek overseas, we are experiencing, yet again, what it’s like to try to “make new friends and keep the old”. Maintaining relationships is hard when you’re so far away.

Skype is great, and Facebook a little too consuming, but nothing can replace the good ole’ face-to-face conversation in the same room. And while it’s hard to say goodbye to friends, God has blessed us with new people who are quickly becoming close friends here. But it’s still hard. I had this exact conversation a few days ago with one of those “new friends”. We both are in the same boat. We both have friends back home who know us better than anyone else. But they’re not here right now. They’re not experiencing this with me, the daily life of learning to live in France as a  Christian American. She and I were there, sitting at that table, bonding over something as silly as card-making. But it was good.

Getting to know someone is hard. And believe me, it doesn’t happen overnight. It takes time, effort, patience, and selflessness. It’s an investment, one that can yield huge returns.

Jo and Ayla with new friends

Yesterday, Jo went to the store to buy a toy for Ayla to encourage her in her new endeavor of walking. Upon arriving at the store, she saw the options were limited, but found a two-wheeled grocery bag thing, somewhat resembling a golf bag cart. (These are the norm in France since every0ne uses them to carry their groceries as they walk home from the store) Along with the grocery cart there were some plastic foods. Now up until now, this is very much like something you would find in the states. A little grocery cart (albeit in a different form) with plastic foods. And for the most part the foods are what would be included with a similar stateside purchase. An apple, a pear, a lemon, an artichoke…wait a second, an artichoke?

It is not a big difference, but it is one more reminder that even the toys exhibit some cultural differences. I think in place of an artichoke you might find quite a few other foods, like a banana, a carrot, a frozen pizza maybe. The other French staple that was in there was something that no sane French person would forget, a baguette. I am actually a little surprised there wasn’t a wheel of Brie.

I (Jo) have this thought often as I sit in class and try to navigate French through my American English lens. It’s usually because I’m lost or too tired to follow the Australian sitting next to me speaking French in his thick accent, and I think how odd it is that we all speak different languages. Wouldn’t it all be easier, and by ‘all’ I mean all of life and every aspect of it, if we all spoke the same language. There would be no need for that little red book I have a love/hate relationship with, my French-English dictionary. I wouldn’t need to pause every so often in frustration when speaking to someone about my eye problems, thinking “What is the word for retina?” Shoot, there wouldn’t be any need at all for my job, for that matter. We wouldn’t need to be learning French so we can move to Africa so we can communicate with them sufficiently enough to learn their native language so we can translate the Bible into that native language. I’d be unemployed!

And though I do not claim to know God’s reasons for doing… well… anything, I think that all these languages show God’s creativity. I mean, who else could have come up with all of these languages except an almighty being? Those guys who made up the languages for Lord of the Rings and Star Wars and any other stories with fake languages should even be impressed. “Oh, you made up a language for the Elves? Big deal. My God made up THOUSANDS of languages. And He created everything else that ever was or will be! Booyah!”

Anyway, the thing in class that caught my attention and made me even start thinking about how weird languages are in the first place was a conversation about how to describe being full of oneself. In English, we say “He’s getting a big head!” In french, they say “He’s getting swollen ankles!” And my teacher spoke about it like, “Duh, swollen ankles! So he can’t pull his boots on! It makes total sense!” as if it were completely normal to talk about one’s ankles when saying that that person if conceited. Because an over-sized head makes much more sense, right?