Missionary-ish

It was my last full day in France and I still had my French Book of Mormon, but I had a plan! I'd made a list. I'd prayed. I'd fasted. I'd done it all. I knew the name. I knew my friend. And now I had to act.

When the time came, though, things weren't as cool as you would think. Nothing that came out of my mouth was profound; in fact, I hardly said anything at all. I just handed it to her and...that was about it. Nevertheless, the feeling that came afterward as I was contemplating the event that, That wasn't even me. None of it was me. I had nothing to do with it! It was the Lord. He's the one who worked in me to 1) give me a desire to follow a challenge to give a Book of Mormon to someone, 2) go to France for this internship in the first place, 3) ask my internship partner for advice about giving it out, 4) make the list, pray, and fast, AND 5) do it. It was all Him. He just gave me the chance to be a part of His work. What a loving Man.

So the cool part wasn't me. But part of the cool part was definitely her--my friend. Arguably the only real French friend we'd made outside of the Church during our time in France. And when I told her I had a book to give her, she didn't hesitate. She took it. She said immediately that she'd read it. She acted excited, even. She let the pages fall through her fingers and noted that I'd written "quelques petits mots" at the front. She thanked me, hugged us, and wished us well. Then she left. Then we left.

But none of us, I'd wager, will ever be the same. I'm no fancy shmancy gospel preacher, but giving a Book of Mormon to someone could be one of the best decisions you (I, we, everyone) ever make.

Because it's the truth. And I know it.

Late-ish

I awoke to my doorbell ringing and looked at the time on my phone. It was terrifyingly 8:49: our train for Marseille left at 9:24. I opened the door to see my internship partner standing expectantly in the hallway. I must've been a sight in my pink-patterned pajamas, undone hair, and puffy sleep-eyes. I clearly wasn't ready for the day, and I spoke in English to top it all off.

"I just woke up."

As if she couldn't tell.

In a miracle of all miracles, we made it to the station at about 9:22. We took our seats on the train in relief and then watched as a family trooped in and sat down near us. Three little boys--10, 6, and 4 I would later hear--confidently took their seats and their mother followed after.

I tried to be covert as I watched and listened to the scene that played out as the train sped along. 6-year-old boy (after having chosen a seat behind his family next to a random guy) decided to take a different row all to himself, and played a game of pretend. The 10-year-old sat patiently in his seat across from his mom, quiet and polite. Little 4-year-old in the window seat sat quietly, too, moving only occasionally to put his head against his mother's ample shoulder. Despite my attempted subtlety, my gaze crossed hers twice or thrice, and we shared a grin each time. Her teeth were bright against her skin and her eyes were pleasant and content.

What a beautiful family. What a beautiful family. I felt blessed to watch their interactions during the one-hour ride: they were all full of love. Mom had to correct the boys every once in a while, sure. But how they smiled! How they enjoyed each other! That's what a family should do; that's how a family should be.

I'm glad we weren't late for the train. We would've missed them.

Broken-ish

It was just another regular normal typical internship day...cleaning tile.

Another volunteer, an older-ish guy from the Czech Republic, had put in some new tile at a vacation house that Les Petits Frères owns near the beach. He didn't want anyone helping him--except for us, the American girls, who he decided to trust to help him swab up the extra chalky grout on each carré. We'd already done another room, in fact, with much success.

This room, on the other hand, was more difficult despite its relative smallness. The white paste refused to give under our water-and-vinegar-soaked towels. We were using the metal spatula a lot more to scrape chunks of grout from the corners, passing it back and forth across the room. So it wasn't surprising when my internship partner asked for it and I slid it a couple feet across the floor to her. What was surprising--and slightly horrifying--and completely stupid in hindsight--was when the metal spatula caught on a raised tile and chipped the side.

Are you kidding me? I whispered, breaking out of French in frustration and fear. I knew how hard Czech Man had worked on this (all by himself, no less) and I was supposed to be being careful with his project. So, wondering what he would do, I called out to him. "I ruined your tile," I told him in French when he stepped into the doorway.

To my great relief, he didn't even look surprised. "Don't you worry one more minute about it," he said in his halting French. "It's not your problem, it's a problem with the tile. But next time, could you crack one on the edge over there?"

We laughed, and to add to my comfort, I found other chipped tiles as I continued cleaning. I wasn't the only one making mistakes around here. But I was the grateful recipient of the forgiveness we all seek, for the little things and the big things, from our friends and from our Father in Heaven.

Junior-ish

This week I have been praying to know who to give a Book of Mormon to.

Actually, I've been praying to know that for a long time.

Once upon a time, before winter semester ended, a guy in our ward challenged us to give a Book of Mormon to somebody. No timeline, no check-up date. Just a challenge for life. I started praying, got lazy, then started again. I wanted to do it. I've never done it before. And when I knew I was going to do this internship in France, the thought came that why not give someone a Book of Mormon (or, rather, un Livre de Mormon) here?

But this week, as I prayed, I kept feeling like I needed to ask my internship partner about it. So I finally did, and when I did, I understood why the feeling had come.

She spoke plainly about the gospel and about how it worked giving out copies of the Book of Mormon when she was a missionary. She suggested that I make a list of people and then pray about who from that list. She then read me D&C 84:85 and 88, testifying that the verses were true, and that it had happened to her on her mission--that words came like *that* when she needed them, and that they weren't even hers. She added that I could fast about it, too.

Good advice, clear and Spirit-filled. Just like a senior companion is supposed to give.

Prayer-ish

This week, a good ish that I'd already noticed came into full focus.

When me and my friend/partner/companion have meals together, we take turns praying over them in French. It's nice to have one little moment where 1) I don't really have to feel embarrassed about my French--even if sometimes I still do--and 2) we get to talk to the Lord plainly in the way we know how, since no one we interact with on a day-to-day basis shares our religion.

What I'd noticed and greatly admired was that my friend/partner/companion says detailed and sincere prayers. Every time.

On Monday we'd gone to a little morning meeting about day trips coming up. The trips include taking some of our old people to a little villa and doing some activities with them like bingo and karaoke. And during the meeting the other volunteers brought up watching the movie Les Intouchables. My friend wrote in the margins on the schedule packet in front of her, "It's rated R, I think." I nodded. I'd heard that it was an awesome movie to see--edited. After the meeting, she looked it up, and indeed, there's a whopping twenty-something of the worst swears, not even counting the other words they'd thrown in in between.

So my friend took charge. She asked one of the other volunteers if the movie would be edited, explained our feelings, and voilà. He said it probably wouldn't be, that we could go to the beach instead while they watched it.

But the best part was, in the afternoon over our food, she thanked the Lord for it. She thanked Him that the volunteer understood, that we could go to the beach instead of watching the movie. For me it was all a relief and a happy circumstance indeed, but I hadn't even thought to pray about it.

I have more than a few things to learn while here in France.

Work-ish

Marie is an old French woman who we joined for lunch on Friday. She's eighty-something, I think, but as spunky and independent as ever. She worried me with the way she waved the knives around for cutting her rotisserie chicken and watermelon. But though she's more active than most if not all the other old people we visit, she still does what the rest of them do--that is, she tells us all of her pains and suffering.

For Marie, the big stuff is behind her, but boy is it some big stuff: her husband abused her, she lost a daughter, she lost a grandson, and now she lives with some bitterness toward God for those difficulties. She asked us exasperatedly, If He's there, why doesn't He show Himself?

My friend answered with exactly what was in my head: He doesn't show Himself because He wants us to have faith. Marie responded that she knew, but that it was tough. My friend testified again: But He's still there.

I'm glad we could be there as witnesses to the Lord's love and power. Marie needs what we all need--hope--and if we can help give some to her, we'll not only be doing what our internship requires. We'll be doing the work of the Lord. And that is most important.

Hot-ish

Today was my first time attending church (in its fullness) in France.

The hot topic nowadays is the temperature outside (Haha. Get it? Hot?) because hoo wee, it gets a little steamy in our non-AC-equipped apartments. So naturally, several of the members posed a question like, "Il fait pas trop chaud?" ("It's not too hot for you, is it?") to which we would respond, "Si!" ("Yes it is!"). Then, after meetings were over, we watched as they set to work asking around for a fan that someone could spare for us to borrow. One man insisted that his family could give us one of theirs, and set up the whole thing: his daughter would pick it up from their house and drive it and us back to our apartments.

The small ward that encompasses the entire city of Toulon seem to be a tight-knit bunch. A member of the bishopric introduced us and welcomed us to the ward family in sacrament meeting, and we're not even missionaries or permanent members or anything. So I guess it was just natural for them to take care of us. Needless to say, we uttered several "Merci"'s and "C'est gentil"'s throughout the day. And my apartment? It's full of cool air and warm feelings.

Home-ish

Anybody who's ever been to a foreign country knows that it's kinda hard.

You have to deal with different customs, different tastes, different language, different food, different streets, different people, and different differences, and sometimes it just seems altogether too...different.

That's what I was feeling yesterday at the end of my first week in France. I yearned for comfort, for familiarity, for someone who spoke English and someone who loved my country like I did and knew it was Independence Day like I did.

So what a blessing it was when my attention was drawn to my window around 10:45 last night. Fireworks. Someone was setting off fireworks, somewhere a ways away on the beach. I ran to tell my internship partner next door. Then I went back to my spot by the window and watched. I watched, and heard my friend singing softly "America the Beautiful," until they finished and the sky was black again once more.

I was still in a foreign country, but suddenly home was much closer than it had been before.

Awake-ish

The little boy in the airport was dead OUT. Asleep, asleep, in the deepest deepest sleep. His mother cuddled him for a while, then lay him beside her with his head in her lap. His back curved over her leg and his arm hung, totally limp, off the bench.

I was so tired. The sun told me it was the morning, but my body moaned, "Oh my gosh, I didn't get more than a wee four and a half hours of sleep last night, and now I have to do daytime all over again..."

The boy woke up with the happiest smile on his face. Wherever he had come from, however far he had to go, he was beaming and ready to go.

The lesson for the girl working in France for the next two months: Wake up with a smile.

Faith-ish

I have a daily quote book that I flip through, and it was one day this week that this one came up: "You need never be discouraged or afraid. The way through difficulties has always been prepared for you, and you will find it if you exercise faith." (Henry B. Eyring) The next day when I went to flip to the next quote, I didn't. I needed this one. So I kept it up for several days.

The best part was when it came true on Thursday. I had volunteered to speak French for this foreign language-judge training conference at BYU, and I was so excited. To get it over with. These things are definitely classified for me as "difficulties" in terms of President Eyring's quote.

I waited in the hallway until the French door opened, and who would it be but my old French professor herself! Things seemed a little worse (because she's intimidating) but they were so much better (because she likes me and she's nice). Then the man practicing to be a oral proficiency-judge-guy sat across from me and began to ask me questions.

I felt calm. I felt a smile on my face. I felt embarrassed a few times when I forgot how to say certain things...but I felt okay. My heart wasn't even pumping fast. It was amazing. It sounds silly, but I cannot explain to you how much of a miracle it was. There were at least seven other people sitting around us--to watch him, granted, not me--but I could speak. The way had been prepared, and I could SPEAK!

Afterward Madame took me outside to tell me what I could've done better and to declare me undoubtedly an Advanced-Mid language speaker (that's like, high!). She told me I was ready to go to France.

Maybe I am.

Courage-ish

I tried to listen to the Senegalese man at the front of the auditorium, but even though he was speaking French, his accent was a little funny and my vocabulary didn't match his.

My friend, sitting behind me, tapped my shoulder. He had to leave for a class. That meant it was almost 4:30. Which meant it was almost 4:50. Which meant it was almost 5:00. Which meant it was almost time.

An urge to use the loo struck me across the face (or, bladder?) once the presentation ended and I was leaving the auditorium. But I couldn't stop! It was too late! I needed to make my way up to the third floor.

I met my old French professor at the elevator. We took up a brief conversation (in French, of course) while waiting for the old lift to make its way down to us. He was pleasant and encouraging when I explained the situation. He left me on the third floor at the professor's office.

I had to wait a few minutes for the previous meeting to end. Then, it was my turn.

My turn for the interview. The interview in French. The interview in French, the language I've studied for years but still don't speak very well. The interview in French, the language I don't speak, for the Les Petits Freres des Pauvres internship in France this summer.

Me? Go to France? Me? By myself? During a summer? This summer? Me?

My heart was beating, my mind was whirling, my thoughts were praying.

But, oh good ish--the interview wasn't in French.