Come and See What God Has Done

“My troubles are all over,

And I am at home.”

- Anna Sewell

It all began over Bahama Buck’s Italian ice. I was seven months pregnant with Elissa, and Nathan had taken me out to celebrate our fourth anniversary. His eyes danced and he was so excited he was practically bouncing in the booth as he slipped a card across the table.

“Happy anniversary!” he crowed as I opened the card and unfolded…a map of the trip I’d dreamed of taking for a lifetime. “An Adventure for Kindred Spirits” was spelled across the top. We’d land in Boston, bop around Harvard, Bar Harbor, and Bay of Fundy, and then – wonder of wonders – end up in Prince Edward Island, the land of my dreams.

A month earlier, Nate had asked me: “Where would you go if you could go anywhere in the world?”

“Prince Edward Island!” I responded without missing a beat. I had devoured the Anne of Green Gables movies and books countless times since I was five years old, and the landscapes studded with unbelievable color and utter serenity had made up my dreams ever since. Nate had already taken one unforgettable trip to PEI with his family. He planned this trip as a total surprise, our last hurrah before becoming a family of three. We left the next day.

The whole vacation was magical, but PEI felt like coming home. I spent that weekend in a state of perpetual ecstasy, feeling simultaneously that this couldn’t possibly be real life, and that my dreams had come true. All too soon, it was time to leave, but I carried a piece of the Island – L.M. Montgomery’s “land of ruby, emerald, and sapphire” – irrevocably in my heart forever afterwards.

Fast forward to 2016. Nate had been gone a year and a half, and I was suffocating. An abundance of family and friends had housed me and Elissa, supporting us every moment of every day while I struggled to make sense of this new reality, the nightmare that never ended. My period of numbness was finally over, and I was desperate to be alone with my grief, surrounded by the salt water that Isak Dinesen calls “the cure for anything: sweat, tears or the sea.”

I needed it all, needed it now. So I put 18-month-old Elissa and our clothes in my car, and drove 16 hours north. Physically crossing the Confederation Bridge to my beloved PEI unlocked something in me. I cried for weeks: washing dishes, walking by the sea, biking through meadows studded with wild lupins, every naptime and bedtime. I feverishly re-read our love story, recorded so meticulously in dozens of journals kept over our eight years together, with all the fervor of a new romance impossible to put down. Then I would come up for air, gasping with the gut punch of how it all ended, in disbelief over what had happened to us when we were so happy. And I wrote. Feverishly, in ever spare moment, pages and pages of my devastation, disappointment, distrust.

The end of that summer brought no magic healing or resolution, but for the first time there was peace. I readied myself to reengage with society, already dreaming of my next trip north. We repeated the drill in 2017, ’18, and ’19, each summer returning to familiar places and growing friendships with a deepening sense of home. And I began to look at properties.

All the major life decisions I was considering felt incomplete without a permanent haven in PEI. So when I stumbled across the yellow-doored white house in New London while perusing my friend Heidi’s Instagram during the early days of Covid, I knew. Close to the water. Check. Nestled in the heart of a small town, minutes from our favorite people and attractions. Check. Fully furnished, with a guest cottage. Check, check. This was It – the home I’d so long imagined; the “two-story house with a yard” of Elissa’s dreams. Hands shaking and heart pounding, I texted Heidi. The house was still for sale, and she walked me through on Skype. The whole world was at a standstill, we were locked down in France, and I bought a house in Canada – never imagining it would be two years before we could get there.

Elissa didn’t know about the house. Even last month when I packed a U-haul trailer full of furniture and pictures and books, she didn’t suspect a thing. Sweet, trusting girl that she is, she accepted my explanations: “We’ll be in PEI all summer, so we’ll need a lot of stuff.”  

We spent a week at Kindred Spirits, the inn Nathan took me to eight years ago, reuniting with our favorite places and people for the first time in three years. Then, on the first Saturday in June, we drove to The House, allegedly to meet the exquisite Island photographer, Simon, for our annual photo shoot. Simon snapped away as Elissa, blissfully unaware, picked dandelions and explored the yard of her new home. Then, while his tripod covertly filmed away in the background, I asked her a question:

“Elissa, do you believe that God loves you, and knows the desires of your heart before you even ask Him?”

A curious, tentative “yess…”

“Do you believe that He LOVES to give you good gifts?”

“Yes?!”

“What if I told you that He had a two-story house, with a yard, on PEI? For you!”

She gasped and stared with disbelief. I produced the keys and gestured grandly.

“THIS is your house! Welcome home!!”

I will never forget the next few moments. Elissa flew into my arms and stayed there, motionless, tears of joy and disbelief glistening on her lashes. “Thank you,” she finally whispered, and we set off to explore our house – the Island summer home of our dreams, where we will rest and discover and create and continue to build a beautiful life together. This house is a gift from our Father. It is a gift from Nate, who first brought our little family here eight years ago. One day, I dream of sharing this gift with others in need of the same peace and respite that I’ve found here.

As I type this, we’ve been in our summer home for one month. Rain is pattering on the windows; a cool breeze stirs the maple trees and whips the waves of the ocean on the horizon. I am overwhelmed by God’s faithfulness. “Weeping may remain for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” Here, on Prince Edward Island, is peace…is home.

Two Perfect Days in France

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…

A New Normal

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the wildflower-dotted fields of southern France are begging to be explored…and we are entering Week Three of French lock-down. The government announced an extension until April 15, which means no movement outside the home for a full month, except for taking approved short exercise or a solo trip to the grocery store for essentials. We managed to make it to an apartment we’d rented in the south, where we’ll stay indefinitely until all this blows over. We are beyond thankful to be near old friends and new, practicing French with our host and reuniting with my dear friend Chelsea’s parents at the local grocery store (a 1-meter distance was carefully observed!).

Our sunrise journey through the mountains to the south.

At the home of our host, Marie-Pierre.

Learning French with Marie-Pierre in her jardin.

Living through a tumultuous, historical time while traveling abroad is complicated, unnerving, and sometimes downright uncomfortable. The language barrier takes social distancing to another level. I miss being able to put our dishes in the dishwasher and our clothes in the dryer. I miss luxuriating in a long, hot shower after a hard day. I miss the faces of dear ones back home, our cozy condo, walks around our neighborhood and favorite staples at Trader Joe’s. But I’m learning so much from watching Elissa embrace each new day’s trials and triumphs with boundless enthusiasm. Her joie de vivre is contagious; she is thriving in this new unencumbered life.

Every familiar luxury that we’re now living without reminds me of exactly why I wanted to take this trip in the first place. Sure, I wanted to learn French and buy daily fresh baguettes and visit vineyards and chateaux. But more than that, I wanted to learn a different way of living. I wanted to practice doing without so many American “essentials,” slow the hectic pace of life, and show Elissa that the way we do things is just one of a million different ways of living. Little did I imagine that this trip would take place right in the middle of a global pandemic. Whether we planned to or not, millions of us are now being forced to learn a different way of life. No one knows how long the tests and quarantines and social distancing will last, but I’m convinced that we will emerge from this crisis with new eyes, living a New Normal. And I am hopeful that this Normal will be more substantial, more authentic, more intentional and gratitude-infused than ever before.

Almost overnight, life became quieter and more simple than anything I can remember before. All the extras have been stripped away. There is no schedule to keep, no commitments to rush to, no need to put on makeup, no tasks pulling me in a hundred directions at once. I want to take full advantage of this season of simplicity. Even when most of our normal life choices have been temporarily denied us, we can still choose between drowning out reality in the noise of media, or silencing the clamor of news and entertainment to be fully present with our loved ones. For once in my life I can take some deep breaths and just BE. I can revel in the pure, unbridled joy on the face of my daughter when I play tag with her, help dress her doll, read her a story or color with her. It brings me to tears when I realize that, while much of the world is riddled with fear and anxiety, these are some of the best days of Elissa’s life…because she’s with me. Me! Who cares whether the dishes are done or if I don’t take a single Instagram-worthy photo because I’m too busy playing hide-and-seek? May these historic moments of isolation be opportunities for meditation…on what is meaningful in life, and what new habits we can form now that will redefine us when we all re-emerge one day into a New Normal.

Only in France does “essential shopping” include a walk to the boulangerie for the day’s fresh baguette!

Elissa’s invention: Carrot Soup (she does not recommend it).

The breakfast she made for me: baguette (bread is obviously the highlight of our days), veggies, apricots, pretzels, and a vitamin.