Julie and the elephants

Last September, my niece Julie married Quentin. Yes, I was there – in my liturgical robe and for the first time pastorally involved with my French family. (( emotion mixed with pride in a totally not Calvinist way ))

A few months later, Julie officially became a veterinarian and was hired by the Musée de l’homme in Paris, in the research department. Her mission of 3 years : study elephants. This means living 4 months a year, in 2 installments, in a place where they live in the wild. (I regretted instantly that that hordes of wild elephants do not roam free in the Olympic peninsula)

A few weeks ago, Julie arrived in Uganda, in the research station located at the north of the national park of Kibale. She went along with a friend who studies chimpanzees. They flew to Entebbe via Bruxelles. We know she made it ok and now receive collective news when the internet accepts to collaborate.

Julie ready to fly off. All the suitcases are not hers! 

Her mission is to study elephants, but she is also in charge of working with farmers on the damages that elephants have been causing in fields and crops for the past 10 years. She met villagers about it, some of them upset and frustrated. Scientists have been coming and asking them questions over the years – for their researches, not for providing help. People affected by the situation feel, understandably, that they got forgotten in the process.

Julie’s project will be different: support will be included. But she cannot mention it yet because all the papers are not all signed, and she does not know when this program will be able to start.

Elephant met in the forest 

As for the daily life at the research station, there are ups and downs. Water and power come and go. The closest road across the forest is in construction – it will be larger. The pipes bringing water were buried along the road and suffer from the work being done so close. Water has been turned down a lot, which means no flush and no showers. Rain is rare, this is dry season.

The research station 

But Julie’s enthusiasm is intact. She is delighted with the discoveries that this new life brings, including meeting Jerome, a chameleon. He spent a few days with Julie and her friends, but after a standoff with a colony of ants, he went on to live in a banana tree close by.

Jerome 

To be followed…

The North Wind and the Pendleton blanket.

Being the pastor officiating at your niece’s wedding provides unbelievable privileges! For instance, you get to present your gift during the ceremony!

Ok, it is not exactly the way it happened….

Irvin and I concluded the ceremony with a Native tradition: a Pendleton blanket that is being wrapped around the young couple, a warm symbol of the comfort they bring to each other from now on.

Credit Doug Crawford

Then Irvin and I blessed them with a prayer said first by Irvin, that I translated in French afterward.

  

Now for you the North wind does not blow; You are shelter to one another.

Now for you there is no hunger; each brings what the other needs.

Now for you there is no darkness; You have learned to see with the heart.

Now for you there is no loneliness; Two have become one.

Credit Marie-Laure Mourier 

The blanket is made of thick wool. Before we headed back to the US, Julie and Quentin told us they tried it and appreciated how warm it was. 

“It is true, the North Wind does not reach us anymore, commented Quentin, tongue in cheek. We have the blanket now!” 

I was in France.

I was in France.

Rain was supposed to dominate the day and flooding risks had been mentioned. However, a bold sunshine was breaking through, transforming faces and the light around us.

My niece was standing in front of me – she had just come in with her Dad. She smiled to me. The pews of the Protestant church surrounded the altar. So many familiar faces around us, many smiles, a few movements.

A moment of absolute clarity, simple, pure. The fresh smile of a very young and wise couple.

I was dressed in pastoral authority, black robe and red stole. Yet, I understood two things.

I would not be able to speak without crying – but could not stay silent either.

Also, I was living one of the most beautiful moments of my life.

I was in France.

My roots, my maternal language – and the shift of not being “at home” anywhere – and yet, also at home, more than ever.

In Paris, in Burgundy, in Champagne, with the joy of the reunion, I was also catching up with myself and somehow was “re-membering” myself.  

I was in France.

DNA Scrutiny

In January, Irvin and I ordered a DNA research for each of us. That was our mutual Christmas gift! We filled the little jug with our saliva and sent the two small boxes. As I told him, “if they ever mix up our results, it will not be too hard to fix!” I cannot have Native American ancestry. Irvin has only one grandmother from European descent.

Irvin was out of town when an email informed me that my results were available. I have to say I did not wait for him to be back, I was too impatient. No romantic discovery by the two of us together!

I had a pretty clear idea of my origins but the dance of the genes has its own logic. 

This is what I found out. I am 64% “Jewish European”. That brought my childhood back to my mind where I have always felt this connection with the world of Judaism, while knowing very little about it. Later on, when I studied biblical Hebrew at seminary, I felt fascinated from the start.

But I am wondering how the percentage can be over 50% when only one of my parents is of Jewish descent?

Then I was told I am 19% from Great Britain. This is weird – although the blue circle over the country includes, in a lighter shade, the north of France and even Paris. Or would it be this great-grand-father from Valenciennes on my mother side?

Then 10% between Spain and Italy. This includes the south of France and it sounds logical since I have family from the Nice (Mediterranean coast) area.

A few percents from Scandinavia and Irland.

Then it was Irvin’s turn to discover his genes. He is 69% Native American, he knew that much.

20% from Great Britain? His non-Indian grand-mother was Norwegian. He found out he had English ancestors only by going up high in his genealogical tree. And he has only 3% genes from Scandinavia!

5% from Central Asia. Could it be a trace of great migrations by the Behring Detroit?

A few Irish percents.

Why do we want to know more about our heritage? Does it change who we are? Or the way we look at our family and ourselves?

We may find the beginning of an answer in the words written by poet and writer Linda Hogan, from the Chickasaw tribe.

“Walking. I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands."

A week in February

I made a resolution for 2015 and I want to keep it, in a flexible way. The resolution is to write a post in my blog at least once a week. It is so much harder to break months of silence. When it happens, I feel like I hardly let a few weeks go by, and realize suddenly that it has been 5 months of not blogging! Getting back to it is like running after a galloping horse and try to crawl back on its back.

So what happened this week?

An important event in the life of UPPC (University Place Presbyterian Church) where I work: the installation of our new Senior Pastor, Aaron Stewart, last Sunday. Aaron was picked for this position on the last Sunday of November – the same day I got ordained actually. This is an audacious and wise choice. Audacious because in the Presbyterian tradition, churches usually hire an outsider (it actually used to be the absolute rule) and Aaron has been part of the life of UPPC for the past 18 years. Wise because he is a great leader. He was the executive pastor during the transition that preceded his nomination. I appreciate his open and dynamic style. A new page of the life of UPPC just started.

And today is Friday the 13^th.

February the 13^th is Saint Beatrice day. My family never celebrated those days, in French “fêtes” – where you congratulate the bearer of the name of the Saint of the day.  But two have remained in my memories, February the 13^th and December 1^st, after the names of my Catholic friends! I was 8 when Beatrice and I met. We have often lived far away geographically from each other ever since but never stopped send each other letters, fax and emails, depending on the years.

Beatrice, in white, during one of our visits in Troyes, France, where she lives
with her husband Max who took the picture. 

February 13^th is also an anniversary. In 2001, Irvin and I got engaged on that day. Today afternoon, while enjoying some fresh oysters on a tavern by the water under a hesitant sky (clouds and sunshine) I was thinking that whatever people say, Fridays 13^th are actually propitious days. 

Denali is coming

Dogs come into our lives to teach us about love, they depart to teach us about loss. A new dog never replaces an old dog; it merely expands the heart. If you have loved many dogs, your heart is very big. (Erica Jong)

This is not about «replacing» Tashina. Simply, we have enjoyed so much having eight paws running at home and two muzzles around us that we have started to inquire about the litters of puppies in our area.

Debbie, in whose home Tashina was born, told us about a litter in Oregon. The father belongs to her. Seven cocker spaniels puppies, all black, were born at the end of the year. Some may become show dogs.

But not this little girl: her belly and throat are white. This is considered a flaw in the breed. A black cocker should be solid black. So she must go to a pet family, not interested in show competition. This is exactly us. We find her very cute as she is. We are going to call her Denali – as in Denali mountain, in Alaska. We will go and pick her up early March.

Of course, we are not sure what Sitka will think about this. She has settled quickly in her new routine of only pup of the house and enjoys our full attention. She may grind her teeth a little. We hope she will have fun going back to her playful puppy self.

As for us, we are bracing ourself for the accidental pees in the house, nibbled shoes and furnitures. It will be fine. Spring will be almost here. 

Ordained !

Finally, a few years after starting to study theology (this was in…. 1996 at the Institut Protestant de Theologie, in Paris) the day of the ordination arrived.

Of course,  since then I had moved in a new country, switched languages, went from French Reformed Church to PC(USA), went through the Dubuque (Iowa) seminary. I also married, moved on the West Coast of the USA and discovered the world and culture of Native Americans.

I had been “certified ready to be ordained” for the past three years, which means that I had also passed the ordination exams and did the internships in church and hospital, wrote my statement of faith – in other words, I was ready.

But I still had one condition to fill : I needed a call. When the Commission on Ministry accepted to consider my work as “Director of Spiritual Formation” as a validated ministry, the path to ordination was eventually opened.

So I defended my statement of faith in front of the Presbytery. I was apprehensive but it went very well, in a friendly atmosphere.

On November 30^th, I was surrounded by my family and my friends when I became a “Minister of word and sacrament” also called “Teaching Elder”, as pastors were called in the 16^th century, an expression recently brought back to life in our denomination.

My brother Frederic came all the way from France and read a psalm in French during the service, along with Zohndra, one of the endearing teenagers of the church. 

My uncle Jean-Loup, his wife Diane and my cousins from Seattle were also there. Danielle’s little boys (3 and 6 year old) under their father Imad’s supervision, were really good! I entrusted Shawn with my camera and she was diligent, taking many pictures that remain great memories of an event that will remain an important step of my life.

The ordination takes place when the Moderator of the Presbytery, that would be Rev. Julie Johnson here, lays her hand on the head of the ordinand, at the conclusion of a prayer. Julie invited those already ordained (pastors and Elders) to come, join the prayer and also lay their hands on me, or the person next to them if they are out of reach. She also invited everyone involved in my journey to join the group. Almost the whole assembly gathered around us.

An image and emotion I will not forget. 

Good Bye Tashina

This was completely unexpected. We thought she would live at least 15 years. When we noticed that Tashina, our 11-year old pup, was a bit slow to climb the stairs and was less upbeat than usual, we thought it might be arthritis. 

But the vet diagnosed a big cancerous tumor in her stomach. We were crushed.

Tashina lived a few more comfortable days, thanks to a pain-killer. I cooked some tasty, easy to digest, meals for my girl who still had some appetite. Then we said farewell to our companion of so many days as she was getting close to her end.

It happened on the Christmas week.

God Made the earth, the sky and the water, the moon and the sun, says a Native American saying. He made man and bird and beast.

But He didn't make the dog. He already had one.

SShhh, it is a surprise!

Last Saturday, we furtively left at dawn. Before dawn actually. We got up at 4:00 AM, which is quite an achievement when you are not a morning person. (I am not a morning person). We left quickly for Seattle airport. Our flight was at 7:00. 

I thought I would sleep during the flight but I remained 45 minutes in torpor. We landed at Spokane and from there drove. Irvin had mentioned our arrival on his facebook page then quickly deleted the post. We could have been noticed by the wrong person.

We arrived in Kamiah, Idaho, a little town on the Nez Perce reservation where we caught up with our coconspirators. The secret had been well kept.

And a little later, Irvin’s older sister, Chris, came in. She thought she was going to celebrate her 60^th birthday with her family and friends living in the area. She discovered that her brothers from Arizona, from Kentucky, and us – from Washington state – had come to party with her, along with beloved cousins.

Chris can't believe her eyes! 

Chris and Fred, the brother who lives in Kentucky

She had not suspected anything and overwhelmed with joy and emotion, she kept repeating that she did not want any presents, that her family was her gifts.

Still, there were presents. Her siblings all pinched in to offer her a Pendleton blanket, a Native tradition. They picked up the one called “dancing baskets”, a reminder of the Pima heritage of their family. They wrapped Chris in the blanket as it is customary to do.

There were lots of joy and fun to share – which made it really worth it to wake up before the sun rose.

From left to right : Luther (Buzz) and Ron, from Arizona, Grace (who had the initial idea) Irvin, Chris and Fred. Kendrick, the youngest brother, could not make it from Arizona. John and Randy passed away. 

Tashina and her lifebuoy

Last Tuesday, our pup Tashina had a small surgery: extraction of a big wart which kept growing up close to her eye. It was not a big deal. But it had consequences: we had to prevent the animal from scratching the scar, in other word, putting on the “cone of shame”. 

We were sad to see our girl, who had been all frisky when she came out from the vet clinic suddenly still and stunned by the E-collar. She would stay motionless, fearing an impact between the sides of the cone and the outside world. 

She looked so distressed that we looked for a less drastic solution. And we found it: the inflatable collar. You put it on and blow air in it. It prevents Tashina from scratching the zone of the incision. When she tries, her paw actually scratches the surface of the collar.

Tashina got used of this new addition straightaway and does not seem to even notice it is on now. As for us, we feel like we have a dog ready to dive into an imaginary swimming pool, which is nice. Tashina invites us, with her buoy, to stay pleasantly afloat the events of our lives. 

Across the Stream

A dream brought me to pray. I saw a narrow bridge, a foot path over a wide stream, sturdy built but narrow, a place of both beauty and choice. Here an elder kept watch, bidding travelers to lay down their burdens before crossing the bridge.

The vision is simple and clear. Let us leave as much as we can here, on this side of time, before we cross over to tomorrow. Let us come to the end of this year without regrets, worries, fears or anger. Let what needs to be left behind be released that our steps are as light as innocent hope, our hearts as free as first felt love. - Rev. Steven Charleston, Choctaw

9 hours after France, it is our turn to enter into year 2013.

Happy New Year to all!

Christmas Tree 2012

Over the years, Irvin has gathered an impressive collection of Christmas ornaments. A small army of Christmas Trees would be needed to show them all! This year, because we were both so busy, I came back home one night to find a small tree he put up decorated with ornaments he purchased recently at the cultural center in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

And of course, a few additional ones celebrating our family faithful companions. Merry Christmas to all! 

This Alien Has American Roots

My baby cousin Younis is going on 4 and since Christmas Eve, he has a baby brother, Adam. Last Saturday, we were invited by his parents, my first cousin Danielle and her husband Imad, to celebrate Adam’s arrival.

Shawn

Every time I have the opportunity to spend time with my American family in Seattle, several side effects occur: long-lasting joyfulness, intellectual stimulation and gleeful taste buds. Danielle and Imad made up delightful children and every time I see them, the happiness surrounding them is infectious.

My cousin Shawn, Danielle’s sister, speaks 3 languages and she travels around the world, part of the micro financing movement that grants loans and study grants to people, allowing them to realize their dreams and change their lives. On Saturday night, I also chatted with their own first cousin Marisol, who is a MD becoming a psychiatrist in Portland.

Marisol

There was an impressive cake welcoming Adam to the world. Is there is a better way to welcome anyone to the world than scrumptious chocolate ganache?

Last September, a small crowd of family and friends gathered to celebrate the 75^th birthday of my uncle Jean-Loup in a French restaurant of Seattle. We all had a great time.

That was a great opportunity to catch up with my cousin Marc, his wife Hannah and their beautiful children Sebastian and Olivia who are growing up so fast. They live in Los Angeles. Danielle and Shawn had prepared a trivia game about their dad, his tastes and pet peeves, his trips and his life. There were fun French prizes for those who had most good answers. I discovered a few things about my uncle – and on the world around us. I never knew foie gras flavored chewing-gum existed for instance… (I did not try it)

This alien is very lucky… 

Younis and Adam

Working on my inner cocker spaniel

It is said that, after a while, puppies and their owners tend to look alike. This week, out of utter dedication, I made a decisive step toward canine condition, as I found out I had an ear inflammation. My physician prescribed antibiotic drops and recommended that I would tilt my head when applying them so that they would reach out the irritated area – the same advices our vet gave us in similar circumstances. Cockers spaniels often need ear drops…

So I spent a week surrounded with haze – sounds would reach me beyond a padded distance. It is also painful. Aleve does its work but at night, my ear still wakes me up. So I will confess it. I also used some stronger medicine leftover from the prescription made by my dentist earlier this month after he pulled out one of my premolars.

Which leads me to some vernacular translation. In France, when you get hurt, you cry “aïe” (pronounced “i”). I took me a little while to realize that in the US, you should utter “ouch”.

Another notable difference with France: how to get your medicine. In France, pharmacies are stores of their own, usually painted with green colors as it goes with its national ensign, a green cross. You bring your prescription and you don’t have to wait or come back: the pharmacist straightaway brings up and gives you the box of the medicine you need. No counting of pills.  The first time I needed a prescription when I started living in the US, I was puzzled by the statement “it will be ready in one hour”. How come picking up a box on a shelf required this amount of time???

My ear is now healing – to my relief. After improving my listening skills this summer during my internship at the hospital, not being able to simply hear properly was frustrating! And I now care for two sets of silky furry ears with a renewed compassion. 

Blueberry Thief!

We are very happy with our blueberry bush this year. Summer was rainy and cold so it bloomed late but with fortitude and its fruits came to maturity early this September. Even before harvest, I noticed that bunches of fruits would vanish, as if delicately picked while no leaves would be damaged. The mystery just got solved… No comment.

Death is Nothing

The funeral service for my uncle will take place today, in Saint Eustache Church – a beautiful  church built in the center of Paris on the 16^th century. I will be over there with my all heart. It so happens that I know this church well, I sang with its choir for several years.

For the past few days, I have felt inhabited with memories, the faces of my cousins, the laugh of my uncle, some conversations we had. The words that come to my mind were written by Charles Péguy, one of the most prominent writer and poet of the 19^th century. When his mother, who raised him singlehandedly, passed away, he felt in his heart what she would want to tell him from beyond the grave.

Death is nothing.

I only left to go into the next room.

What we were for each others,

We still are.

Continue to call me with the name you always used for me.

Keep talking to me the way you always did.

Don’t use another tone.

Don’t take a solemn or sad look.

Keep laughing about what used to make us laugh together.

Keep praying, keep smiling,

Keep thinking of me.

May my name be said at home like it always was,

Without any awkwardness and no trace of shadow.

Life continues to mean what it has always meant.

The thread between us is not cut out.

Why would I be out of your thoughts

When I am only out of your sight?

I am waiting for you.

I am not far : just on the other side of the road.

You see, everything is fine.

He was my uncle.

«Concerto for Mother in Wrath and Orchestra» - with this repartee, my uncle Claude, then a teenager, undermined the righteous fury of his mother. Taken by surprise, she could not help laughing in the midst of her legitimate vehemence. Already at this age, he used to deliver his spiritual replies with great seriousness.

The memories of my uncle and his family are connected to several towns throughout France – they often moved due to professional transfers. We would go and see them for a weekend or a week and it would always be a special time – those days are now among my best childhood memories. My uncle has been, along my father, the man I most admired while growing up.

The last time I saw him was in 2005, when I defended my Master dissertation at the Theological Institute of Paris. I felt so supported by my family and my friends that day. I was touched by his and my aunt presences and their interest for my subject.

During those last years, I knew he was not well. I found out last August how serious this illness was. I was on my way to the session of First Pres, the church where I interned this summer. The meeting ends with a time of intercessory prayer. I requested prayers for my uncle Claude. When the prayer followed I was overwhelmed with sorrow. When the prayer ended, the elders acted no differently than French associates would have: they were kind and thoughtful, and pretended not noticing any trace of emotion on my face. They encouraged me for the coming ordination exams that were to come a few days later. When I got into my car, I even thought “I hope they don’t think I was crying because of those exams…”

My uncle died on Tuesday morning. On the last conversation he had with his sister, my mom, he was holding the picture of one of his grandchildren and he was describing it to her, in what of those phone calls they had where they would chat as if they had just met the day before.

His name was Claude Giordan. He was my uncle.

The Metro that Never Was.

In 2001, when Irvin and I drove from Dubuque, Iowa to Tacoma, Washington in three days, our families warmly welcomed us and put us up until we found a place to live.

Early morning, in Charlie and Peggy guest room in Tacoma, the familiar vibration audible in some old Parisian buildings woke me up. This vibration comes from the subway – the underground train we call “Metro” that runs every few minutes. It took me an instant to realize that I was a bit far from Paris to hear those trains. I mentioned my experience to Charlie, Irvin’s uncle, and he smiled. “That was an earthquake, he said. I felt it too.”

The «underground-Metro-in-Tacoma effect» provides from the Juan de Fuca Plate plunging beaneath the North American Plate. Obviously, this sometimes produces a more noticeable effect than a discreet tremor.
But this morning, at 25 miles south of Tacoma, it was again hardly discernable in our neighborhood. 4.2 on Richter scale and no damages. One more time, Charlie is the one that informed us. We did not feel anything in Puyallup.

The Dog Lovers Society

An invisible yet discernible affection connects people who love dogs and find comfort in their close by presence. This complicity has opened the doors of our Presbytery where dogs are allowed to some of the meetings with their owners, a rare permission in the US.

The Committee on Preparation for Ministry enjoys the presence of a little white dog, Bijou, who looks like a lamb. Bijou graciously allows us to share the company of her owner.

However, Bijou has immediately shown irritation when a rival joined us at our meetings. Hannah Murray is a tall pup, with a spotted brown fur, typical of her breed : Hanna is a Louisiana Catahoula Leopard dog, an AKC (American Kennel Club) registered breed – you will find them under the category “unusual breeds”.
Catahoula Leopards dogs are called that way because they originate from the Catahoula County in Louisiana, and because the spots of their fur are often reminiscent of leopards. They are untiring and loyal shepherd dogs.

Max, her owner, found her about ten years ago – she was alone, wandering by Camp Murray.
Hannah is gentle and benevolently accepts to be patted ; she does not show any annoyance when Bijou barks right in front of her.

Our monthly meetings last 6 hours and Hannah serenely spread herself out while we discuss, waiting for the breaks during which she will enjoy a short walk. When she realizes she is going to stretch her paws, she smiles, a wide smile that shows her teeth.

I tried to take pictures of the smile, but as soon as she saw my camera, Hannah lowered her head and moved away. Max explained that she fears flash lights and cameras. I took several pictures without flashes – those pictures are not that great. I can discern her back, some paws, a blur of ears, but no smile. Hannah consented to pose by Max but you can tell she is not exactly comfortable.

An invisible yet discernible affection connects people who love dogs. Since yesterday, I am thinking of my friend Brandi and her pup Maka. We have not seen each other for several years but we communicate through facebook. We have often exchanged posts and comments about our pups and their little mischievous acts, and the joy to live with them.

On Wednesday night, Maka did not come home. Later, Brandi found out that she would not see Maka again. She wrote on her facebook page “Rest in Peace Maka…” I never got to meet Maka but I feel so sad...

Oh no, I won the raffle!

I have accepted it for years. I have absolutely no luck in games or gambling. When I would go into the casino of Trouville, France with my girlfriends, years ago, my coins would be swallowed by the machines without ever provoking ringing sounds and cascades of earnings. I take part into raffles without second thoughts, just for the joy of contributing to a good cause. Each time, it is confirmed to me: winners are always the others ones, never myself. Not that I am bitter or anything.

At Curves where I work out day after day at building steel muscles under my curves, members regularly have the opportunity to be part of charity actions. Sometimes we can bring cans for a food bank, or newborns diapers for an intensive care unit specialized in caring for infants. Or we can purchase raffles tickets whose profits will go to research against cancer. I felt very comfortable buying two tickets, $5 apiece, at the end of October. The grand prize of the raffle was a weekend in a cabin in the countryside. I enjoy my own home for weekends, which usually are the busiest time of the week and countryside depresses me. I was particularly serene when I purchased those tickets.

But the specific irony of chance caught up with me after all those years. On Monday, a joyful voice on our recorder let me know that my ticket had won me the envied grand prize. Uh oh. And since Irvin also heard the message and immediately rejoiced at the news, I could not discreetly decline the prize.

So let’s be positive. We probably will be able to spend this weekend in the middle of the week in a not too rainy time in the coming months. According to the depiction of the place, the cabin is located not far from the scenic town of Poulsbo, close to a beach (something that will immediately raise my moral) with views on the mountains.
And I have to admit it since I just experimented it : winning the big prize also provides a rush of excitement and unexpected joy. Whatever the grand prize may be.