It’s been over a month since we arrived in France, and I’m getting antsy. I feel the three months of our allotted stay ticking by while we’re sequestered away in a tiny apartment, under a lockdown that was recently extended until May 11. Breathing in the spring air from a secluded garden while yearning for the fields of Provence, the Mediterranean coast, and the majestic Alps can feel like torture. But, while I yearn for the splendor of long-anticipated wonders, my eyes have been uniquely drawn to the equally breathtaking beauty that surrounds us every day: diamond dew drops trembling on flawless spider webs, the intricate patterns and shading of each flower petal, irridescent wings on mayflies, soft clouds of orange pollen coating the legs of buzzing honeybees. While strolling down the driveway with a bag of recycling, the beauty of the late-afternoon sunlight playing on an ancient moss-covered stone wall brings tears to my eyes. How long has it been since life was slow enough and simple enough to stop, to notice the myriad small gifts that surround us on every side, and to give thanks for them?
Years ago I started Anne Voskamp’s 1,000 Gifts challenge in an empty notebook. For a little while I regularly jotted down small blessings that I wouldn’t normally notice, in an attempt to capture 1,000 of God’s gifts to me. But the exercise was soon swallowed up in the busyness of life before it ever had a chance to become habit. Two months of lockdown, on the other hand, is plenty of time to form some long-haul habits. And daily gratitude is one of the most important. Max Lucado says that gratitude keeps us focused on the present, instead of allowing worry to scatter our thoughts and our concentration in a dozen different directions.
Corrie Ten Boom and her sister Betsie gave thanks for the fleas in Ravensbruck concentration camp. Their barracks were so infested that the guards refused to enter, and so the sisters were able to read the Bible twice a day to their fellow inmates. Even Jesus, knowing that the hour of His deepest suffering was at hand, took bread and wine and gave thanks. These days, most of us find ourselves in circumstances that we never wanted or imagined. How can we start making a habit of thankfulness, today? How can we be fully present in these uncomfortable, unprecedented moments instead of wasting them in distraction or anxiety?
One thing that I have often given thanks for is the two perfect days that Elissa and I spent in France before the country went on lockdown. I had stressed about finding our luggage and rental car in a foreign airport, making it through customs with my exceedingly limited French, getting separated from Elissa in the mayhem, navigating the highways, jet lag…yet the actual logistics of our arrival were an absolute dream. Our flight was nearly empty and there were no lines at the airport (because, Corona). In record time we were snug in our rental car, cruising down country roads beside cow pastures and meandering brooks and driving through storybook towns, each more adorable than the last.
Long before we tired of the scenery, we had arrived at our destination: the gorgeous Aigle Noir Hotel facing the gates of Fontainebleau, a magnificent palace frequented by Marie Antoinette and Napoleon. After traveling through big cities where masks were beginning to make normal appearances and people everywhere whispered about the threatening virus, it was such a relief to arrive in a small village where locals sprawled leisurely at sidewalk cafes, kissed each other in greeting, and shopped in the marketplace. “Business as usual,” though short-lived, was comforting and gave us the opportunity to have a short but immensely sweet taste of authentic France.
Elissa immediately tried to order room service…
Heading out on the town with my trusty sidekick.
We settled in to our palatial hotel room, changed out of our overnight-flight clothes, and set out to explore the town. Elissa immediately took possession of an adorable antique carousel in front of the hotel. We meandered through market stalls straight out of the movies — even the butcher’s chickens still sported their heads and feet, as Julia Child had warned me to expect. We bought a baguette from a boulangerie, cheese from a fromagerie, and chocolate from a patisseire, and had a simple but satisfying picnic that just tasted of France. The breakast buffet the next morning was a sight to behold: baskets piled high with fresh baguettes and croissants, tiny pots of jam, honey, and mayonnaise, juices, charcuterie, individual coffee and tea service, and a self-serve omelette/egg poaching station because obviously every French person is a home chef. I was so busy covertly watching and copying all the diners that I didn’t end up eating very much!
At a flower stall in the market, with my arms full of fresh French purchases…I honestly thought I’d died and gone to heaven.
After breakfast we strolled across to breathtaking Fontainebleau. The ornate ballrooms and bedchambers were nearly empty; signs everywhere warned us to stay one meter away from others and forecasted that the castle would close indefinitely in two days. It was increasingly obvious that things were about to change, and I was so thankful that we’d made it in on the crest of a tidal wave, able to experience some normalcy to start off our stay.
That afternoon we drove to Sancerre, a hilltop mountain town in the Loire Valley surrounded by vineyards and a winding river. We found the 400-year-old chateau that hosted our language school, climbed a winding stone staircase to our lovely “Margeaux” apartment, and made ourselves at home in the sleepy little town. After unpacking we set out for our first (and, unbeknownst to us, only) restaurant meal in town: a sort of Last Supper before everything changed. We’d been told that pizza in France is good…but oh my, I was not prepared for the heaven that arrived at our table accompanied by an enormous salad. The simplest pizza was transformed into something out of cheese heaven: fresh, creamy blue, goat, gruyere, and I don’t even know what were piled in oozy layers on a decadent crust and served with knives and forks, as they do in France. We dug in. We feasted. And I had the distinct thought: even if we had to turn around and go home right now, I wouldn’t be too disappointed. I’d be able to say that we had experienced France.
It was a good thing too, because we arrived back home to an email from the language school: the president had just shut down the country, our language classes were canceled, and all businesses were closed until further notice. The tentative end date is May 11, but no one really knows how long this will last. And so, while we thank God for small blessings like lilacs and audiobooks and art projects and French chocolate, I continue to relive the beauty we’ve already seen and dream of future adventures…