by Sandra Byrd
Yes, Lord, you are the God that cares about the one. And so do I.
I closed my Bible and let myself get carried away by the cellist. We stood and sang Christmas carols—in English. I felt homesick and home-settled all at once. It made me even more confused.
After church, we dropped Gabby off at her house before returning to Maman’s.
“I’m opening gifts tonight and tomorrow,” Céline said. “We are going to my grandparents’ house in London. More presents!”
“Well, if you have too many, I can forget about the one I got for you,” I teased.
“Non, merci,” Céline said in all seriousness. The three of us laughed.
I went into the cottage alone to grab the gifts I had for Céline and Philippe, and then walked up to the big house. I knocked on the door, and Maman opened it and greeted me with two big kisses on each cheek.
“Welcome! Joyeux Noël !” she said. She relieved me of my gifts, and after quickly checking the tags to see whom they were for, led me into the big kitchen.
I hadn’t been in a huge French house before. This house, while updated, was at least three hundred years old. Large beams held up the vaulted ceilings, and windows were everywhere, with the shutters pulled back. The floor was polished hard wood, and the kitchen was, well, amazing. A beautiful, tomato red Lacanche oven. Normally, I wasn’t an envious person, but oh, for that oven.
Because I’d worked with everyone there, I felt perfectly at home and comfortable. Having her family around her—even though Dominique was nuzzling her boyfriend in a corner—made Maman happy. Only Luc and Marianne weren’t there.
“So Luc and Marianne are at her maman’s house?”
“Yes,” Maman said. “For now, of course, her mother wants to be near her. And I can understand that,” she said, indulgently.
I did too. I bet my mother would want me nearby if I’d been away for six months.
We gathered around the huge farm table and Maman and Patricia brought out the courses.
First, we had the entrées, what Americans think of as appetizers. Fresh shucked oysters, small platters of beautifully arranged fresh vegetables. Next came the roasts—turkey, duck, and beef. I stuck with the duck. I grinned. I was certain my father would not be serving duck in Seattle.
Then came the salade—fresh greens lightly tossed with vinaigrette. No Frenchwoman would dream of buying store-bought salad dressing, at least none I had met. Each woman mixed up an alchemy of oil, vinegar, seasonings, and mustard. Maman’s tasted especially good. When I asked her about the secret ingredient, she told me there were two and whispered them into my ear—champagne vinegar instead of balsamic and yeast.
Then came the cheese course, and the beautiful Bûche de Noël. It was a large log—half a tree trunk, I’d have joked, if I thought a joke would go over well. It had been decorated with carefully sculpted marzipan woodland creatures and meringue mushrooms. There were piped icing leaves, weeds, and a sprinkling of ladybugs.
“It’s gorgeous!” I exclaimed. Maman straightened in pride.
“Thank you,” she said.
After dinner, we scattered through various parts of the sitting and living rooms and opened gifts. Since I had only two to offer, I brought them to Céline and Philippe.
“Me first?” Céline asked.
“Sure,” her papa said. Céline took my box and very carefully opened it. Inside were dress-up gowns, costume jewelry, feather boas, and a false tiara left over from the Princess Diana age.
Her face went pale with surprise and then pink with pleasure. She put the tiara on her head. “Is it beautiful? Do I look like a fairy?” she asked after kissing my cheek.
“Très jolie,” Philippe assured her. “You look very pretty”.
Next, I handed a gift to Philippe.
“For me?” he said, genuinely touched.
“Of course!”
He slowly opened his gift, Georges Seurat, 1859–1891: The Master of Pointillism.
“Merci!” he said, and leaned over to kiss my cheek softly.
Céline handed me a wrapped package. “This is from me”.
I unwrapped a small tin, one I recognized from the flea market. Inside were some tiny Christmas cookies. “Did you bake these?” I asked.
She nodded.
“But I thought you hated baking!”
“I do,” she said. “But I like you !” She smiled her gap-toothed grin, which betrayed her very grownup tone of voice.
Philippe cleared his throat a bit awkwardly and handed over a gift. “Here”.
The package was square, but too light to be a book.
“What is it?” I peeled back the paper and opened a box. Inside was a watercolor of the Musée d’Orsay and the Bridge of the Arts with the sun setting in the distance.
“It’s an original,” Philippe said. “I saw you looking at them the Sunday we visited and thought you might like to have one of your own”.
The colors were so vivid, the orange of the sun reflected and then slickly dispersed on the water of the Seine like oil.
“It’s beautiful,” I said softly. “It’s my favorite part of Paris. In no small part due to you two”. I gently kissed each of their cheeks in thanks.
“Enough kissing,” Patricia said, coming up behind us, but she didn’t sound as if she meant it. “I have a gift for Lexi too”.
“You do?” She handed me a box, roughly but with affection. Her style. It was a small red case, like a cosmetic case, but I was certain there was no Lancôme inside. I unlatched it and opened it up. Inside, in perfectly formed compartments, were three offset spatulas with wide angles for more effective frosting of any size cake. There were decorating tips and nails, pastry bags and combs, and little knives for intricate sculpting.
“Thank you,” I said, truly touched.
“It’s nothing at all,” she said, walking away. “You’re welcome”.
Céline went to open a gift from Maman, and Philippe and I sat by ourselves for a minute. He didn’t bring up the job in Rambouillet—or in Seattle—so neither did I. I needed time to think.
“You’re getting up pretty early,” I said. “London?”
“Yes,” he said. “We’ll take the Chunnel and stay with Andrea’s parents until early January. Then we’ll be back”.
His voice had an odd inflection to it, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was.
“I’ll look forward to seeing you guys then,” I said. “Thanks again for the beautiful painting”.
He smiled. “It was all my pleasure”. A cousin pulled him away, and I went to find Patricia.
She was standing alone, smiling. I wondered if she was thinking that next Christmas she’d be in Provence with Xavier.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything,” I said, truly remorseful at my oversight. “You’ve been so good to me, and so helpful. Your mentorship means a lot to me, and I thank you for that”.
She patted me on the shoulder and looked at Céline and Philippe. “You have already given me the most marvelous gift,” she said.
I wasn’t sure what she meant, but not wanting to wade more deeply into that water right now, I let it slide. I did, however, begin to pray about a gift idea that had just sprung into my mind.
The next day, I talked my situation over with Tanya, who was officially an engaged woman.
“So, what are your choices?” she asked.
“Almost anything. It’s hard to make sense of them all,” I said. “I feel really confused. I almost wish someone had made the choice for me”.
She laughed. “At least this way, if you don’t like what you get, you only have yourself to blame”. I heard some scuffling on the other side of the line. “Listen, here’s what you do. Write out two lists. On one, put the pros and cons of staying in France. On the other, put the pros and cons of moving back to Seattle. Then pray over them for a few days. Call me on Sunday, and we’ll talk some more”.
“Yes, teacher,” I said, teasing her for being her ever-organ
ized self. After we hung up, though, I had to admit it was a good idea and might give me some focus. So with soft jazz playing in the background, I sat down and started making my lists.
After writing it all out, I wasn’t really any closer to a decision than I was before. I put the papers away. I decided to enjoy being in the village and in Rambouillet for a few days while I cleared my head.
That afternoon, Anne and I met in Paris for lunch and went shopping together.
“How is the job?” I asked.
“Part-time, still,” she said. “But I have about a month left of money, and I’m looking elsewhere too. I saw Désirée”.
“Really?”
“Oui. Working at one of her family bakeries in this Arrondissement”.
“I guess she passed then,” I said.
Anne nodded.
“I’m relieved for her,” I said.
“Me too,” Anne agreed. I wondered if she was thinking of her own father.
On Sunday, I went to church. It was kind of lonely. No Buki, no Philippe, no Céline. In a way, it was like when I came to France months ago. No one to prop me up. Just me and God.
I bowed my head. “Lord, help me make a decision”.
I expected something solemn to pop into my mind. A Bible verse or an impression from the Holy Spirit, as I’d had before. Instead, I got a joke.
I started to grin as I went over it in my head.
An angel appears at a bakery and tells the chef that in return for her heavenly concoctions, the Lord will reward her with her choice of infinite wealth, wisdom, or beauty.
Without hesitating, the chef selects infinite wisdom.
“Done!” says the angel, and disappears in a cloud of smoke and a bolt of lightning. All heads turn toward the chef, who sits surrounded by a faint halo of light. One of her colleagues whispers, “Say something”.
The chef sighs and says, “I should have taken the money”.
I didn’t want to laugh in church, but I smiled. It was as Tanya had said. I had a choice—God trusted me with a choice. No solution was perfect. I needed to choose the one I wanted.
I called her later that night, and we talked through the issues.
“Job?” she asked.
“Both have possibilities. Seattle is more immediate and rewarding,” I said.
“Culture?”
“Hands down, France”.
“Guys?”
I sighed. “I don’t know”.
“Do you like Philippe for Philippe, or for Céline?”
“I don’t know. I know Céline needs a mother”. I thought of how she’d held onto the hand of her school teacher at the bakery that one day, and how she clung to me and Patricia.
“Is it supposed to be you? You’d be with Philippe, not just Céline”.
“I know,” I said. “I like Philippe too. And I feel called to them in some way”.
“And what about Dan?” she asked. “You said something was still there—maybe stronger than ever”.
I nodded. “The truth is, Tanya, I just haven’t had enough time to explore which one of them is ‘it.’ ”
“Maybe it’s neither,” she said.
She couldn’t see me, but I shook my head. “No. I think it is one of them. I’m just not clear which one”.
Seventeen
The appetite grows with eating.
François Rabelais
Anne spent New Year’s with her family, and I spent mine packing. Dominique wanted her cottage back and, no matter what I chose to do, I would have to move soon. I packed nearly everything except my clothes into boxes for the move. Then I met Anne in Paris for a day together.
There were a few things I really wanted to see and didn’t want to do alone. We met near the Palais Royale and planned our day together. It was glorious not to have school or work for a few days after the past month of double-timing.
“So,” Anne said. “What did you have in mind?”
“Sainte-Chapelle,” I said. “I want to see the stained glass”.
“Bon,” Anne said. “I’d like to visit it too. I think it’s the cathédrale that Louis XIII built to house the true crown of thorns”.
I grinned. “I heard once that if you added together all the supposed pieces of the true cross, the supposed crowns of thorns, and other relics scattered across Europe, you’d have enough wood to build a large building. Still,” I said, “it shows me that at their heart and in their history, the French people have always known there is a God”.
Anne nodded. “You know what’s next door to the Sainte-Chapelle, don’t you?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “I’ve been saving that for a good time. The Conciergerie. The last jail of Marie Antoinette before she was beheaded. Let’s go there too”.
We found our route on the map on the wall of the Métro station, and boarded the next train that came along. We sat and chatted in French, and I was so glad for our growing friendship. A year ago, I’d never have imagined I’d be living in France, have a close French friend, dream in French, and have a diplôme from a French pastry school. Almost like the cliché, I had to pinch myself to believe it was true.
We got to the Sainte-Chapelle, and it wasn’t too busy. We hiked up a narrow, thin, curving stairwell seven hundred years old. It still took my breath away to think my feet trod the same ground as pilgrims half an eon ago.
Once we arrived in the chapelle, Anne exclaimed, “C’est fantastique!”
Indeed, it was. Light filtered through the thousands of panels that told the entire story of the Bible in stained glass, Genesis to Revelation.
“There is no place like France,” I said. Anne, good Frenchwoman that she was, heartily agreed.
Afterward we grabbed a hot crêpe spread with Nutella from a street vendor and sat on a bench, eating them together.
“How is the job going?” I asked her.
“Okay,” she said. “I don’t want to complain. It’s a job, it’s in Paris. And who knows? Maybe it’ll lead to something better”.
“But it’s not super ?” I asked. “Not exactly what you wanted?”
She shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t get to do much. As you’ve probably noticed, most bakeries in France are family owned. I do a lot of decorating and prepping but not much baking. The family does most of that”.
I nodded sympathetically.
“No job is a perfect solution, though, right?” she asked, looking for confirmation, I think. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had two job offers.
“I have two Christmas gifts for you,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get them to you before you left for the holiday”.
“I’m sorry!” she said. “I didn’t buy anything for you”.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Your company while I explore Paris and your friendship are great gifts. And these were not expensive”.
She took the first box from me and opened it. Inside was a pair of white hoop earrings she’d admired at the secondhand designer shop we’d visited.
“Merci!” she said. “How kind of you to remember”.
Then she opened the second gift, an envelope with a small piece of paper in it.
48 rue G. Lenotre Rambouillet
“I don’t recognize the address,” she said. “Should I?”
I shook my hand. “I don’t think you’ve ever been there. Meet me there on the seventh”.
“Okay,” she said, looking confused but too polite to press me.
We finished our crêpes and headed to the Conciergerie. It was eerie. The huge building had been run by the concierge, or keeper of the keys. Originally built as a royal palace, the royal family abandoned it when they moved into the new palace at the Louvre. Over time, it had become a prison. It was here that the most famous member of the French royal family, Marie Antoinette and her children, spent the last days before her death.
We walked around, our voices echoing off the yellowed walls, the flying buttresses silent witnesses to royal privilege and horror. We event
ually came to Marie Antoinette’s final cell. A picture of her, hair turned stark white by horror while in her midthirties, gazed out at me.
Live each day well, she seemed to say. You never know how many you’ll have.
Anne and I—indeed, every visitor in the chamber—were hushed into silence.
Afterward, we ate a late lunch at a café.
“I’d better get going,” Anne said. “Work tomorrow, you know”.
“Me too,” I said. “See you on the seventh?”
“See you on the seventh,” she promised, looking confused and curious.
For irreligious people, the French have a lot of religious holidays. Certainly more than the United States. January Sixth was the Feast of Epiphany, the day that celebrates the visit of the three wise men to the Baby Jesus.
That morning I woke up and thanked God for the epiphanies He’d led me to over the course of the last year. One year ago nearly to the day, I’d been working in a dead-end job I hated, living with my parents, and had a vacuum for a romantic life. I’d been blasé, at best, in my relationship with God.
I grinned. He took me out of myself to find Him, and ultimately, I hoped, to find me.
Before I got out of bed, I opened my Bible to the last chapter of John. I grinned, thinking of the wise pastor at the English church. Of course, the book ended with food! Jesus and his disciples were on the beach, and Jesus was making breakfast for them.
Lord, I prayed, You sent me to France with a verse at the end of Matthew. Do You have a verse for me now?
I read, and when one section caught my eye, I stopped.
When they had finished eating, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you truly love me more than these?”
“Yes, Lord,” he said, “you know that I love you”.
Jesus said, “Feed my lambs”.
Again Jesus said, “Simon son of John, do you truly love me?”
He answered, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you”.
Jesus said, “Take care of my sheep”.
The third time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?”
