Written 10am Tuesday, Paris time. La Reunion: 12pm. Missouri: 3am.
Ours is a world that thrives on contrast. Philosophically profound and pleasing to the eye, we love seeing blue against orange (like the fire-sun of morning rising over the ocean), green against brown (and every imaginable hue in between in the deepest of forests), black against white (have you ever seen a Ugandan smile?) I think Paris, especially, is a city of black and white, which is why someone out there is making a ton of money on black and white photography used for postcards.
Any comprehensive, generalized idea of the French public transportation system is something I know nothing about: I have had two ENTIRELY different experiences, and my Reunionized self has become so accustomed to the Car Jaune (similar to the ones we used to go on choir trips on, identical on the inside with that horrible zigzag upholstery, but with unmistakable solid sunshine yellow exteriors), to clapping for my stop, for always standing, standing, waiting, waiting, and usually being mistaken for a German by the native creoles and looked at in the way that country boys look at city girls - with a bit of fascination and a great deal of amusement. I admit I feel a little more in my element among the Parisians, clad in neutrals and helpful enough if asked, but will remain entirely indifferent to you until your initial, proactive contact.
Everyone I encounter is efficient and fashionable, quick-stepped, navigating the metro system without a second glance a the signs pointing this way and that. By my fourth connection, I felt like I was one of them - entirely the same in my neutral colors and impatient manor, only slightly less tight-lipped and significantly more open-eyed.
They talk in books and movies about something happening, "and the he/she was on the next plane/train/bus out of there/home/to ____." Well congrats, self, you just make your life a little more like a movie. Saturday morning I woke to find messages telling me of my dad's poor state of health. All of Saturday I thought "I wish I could be there, but at least we already decided I wouldn't go home if anything happened. At least I don't have to make a decision at this point." Then Sunday brought a surprise. Along with news informing me that Dad was continuing to deteriorate, I found another message: Icthus, my community and spiritual family, had been praying and decided they wanted to bring me home so I could be there, both for me and for my family. I spent the entire day waiting to hear my mom and sister's opinions, praying, considering... At 10pm Sunday night I thought this decision was beyond me, that I was so torn, and then the reassurance came.
I think that especially among Christians, we like to make people make decisions on their own. "Follow your heart. Listen to God." Yeah, that's good advice. But the problem is that the heart is sometimes in two places at once, and we are deafened to God's voice by fear or expectations. After with a little loving encouragement and the characteristic Bible reference, Icthus flat out TOLD me to come home. OKay. Done.
Since then, everything has fallen into place. I'm currently sitting in Charles de Gaulle airport, Gate 21, well rested, well watered (WHY isn't there a toilet on this side of the security checkpoint?!), and just a little hungry. In something like 14 hours I'll be in St. Louis, hugging three of the sweetest, strongest, most beautiful friends anyone could ever ask for. Also, they've promised me Mexican food. Yes!
I love you all, and I'll see you very soon.
PS. It BETTER be warmer in Missouri than here. I'm freezing. 7 degrees Celsius?! Come on.
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