Heavenly Bodies
Stitched loops hold together the interlacings of the constellations. Lights that lustrously
illuminate through curtains of darkness. Angel doors from heaven that send ethereal art to the
earth. La joie de l’arte! What a gracious gift from God. Then, there are the etoiles of the ballet.
Born to fairily float across the stage as emblems of the beauty of creation. Yet. Stages grow
darker. Shadows began to pull. The etoiles. Formed in a mirrorball nebula to be glimmers of light
against the dark grand drape only shimmer from the sweat of their formation. Personified
clusters of glitter made elegant through dizzying pirouettes in an endless theatrical orbit. Clouds
creep in, attempting to block out the light. Etoiles resist the gravitational pull that desires to drag
them into the black hole. Finally, seen for a moment. Then pressured until they collapse. Center
stage in the sky until the spotlight goes out.
What people gain from all their labors…
I gave away my Bible yesterday. The one thing that never leaves my side. Within
minutes, my most prized possession traveled from my bag to the arms of Ines, the waitress at the
café I happened to be sitting in. It still is engraved into my heard, but I felt it needed to be in her
hands.
So, now I start a quest for a new Bible. I haven’t found one yet, but I did find a sachet of
lavender.
I board the train at Paris’ Gare de Lyon at 7:14 am to journey to Avignon. I need to inhale the
country air as early as possible. It is a last-minute trip, but I have a constant headache from the
clouds of cigarette smoke that loom over the city. My train trip is rather unremarkable: I fall
asleep briefly and awake to visions of the approaching Provincial town. The first phase of the
mission is coffee. I cannot continue my quest without a touch of caffeine. My espresso tonic, half
tonic water and half espresso, finds me, and the bubbly coffee renews my enthusiasm for
adventure, preparing me to wander the aisles of books at the street market. I find myths, fairy
tales, and English classics translated into French. A copy of The Great Gatsby tempts me, but
still no Bible. I arrive at my accommodation, a small bed-and-breakfast hidden by an olive grove
that rivals Belle’s home in the Beauty and the Beast. I weave my way through the branches and
find a garden filled with everything from watermelon to rosemary. You are my private garden,
my treasure. A cultivated beehive dripping with honey sits just behind it. I have given you every
seed-bearing plant throughout the earth and all the fruit trees for your food. My back begins to
feel the weight of my bags, so I check into my room. The door opens, and I see a small sachet of
lavender on the bed that fills the space with a restful scent. Something feels familiar here. A
scene from a show? A memory lost? While I ponder what that is, I bike to Ménerbes with its
fields of lavender. I embrace the delicious scent as I frolic through seas of purple. Yes, there will
be an abundance of flowers and singing and joy! Memory hits me like a wave. I stayed with the
same hotel company a few years prior, just in another location a few hours away. My heart swells
with gratitude as I remember how, on that trip, I wept at the dinner table in the midst of a panic
attack for who knows why, yet today, I travel alone and joyously run through a field. He turns
mourning into dancing. Moments of pain and brokenness had been planted into the Earth and
bloomed into a scent of calm. The grass withers, and the flowers fade, but the word of our God
stands forever. I found God’s peace.
I haven’t found a Bible yet, it’s a rather difficult task to find an English Bible in France,
but I did find a macaron pistache.
Being in Paris on the 4th of July is an odd experience for an American, specifically a proud
Texan who grew up smoking BBQ and shooting glowing blue fireworks off by the lake, yet I am
determined to make the most of it. My loneliness and desire to belong in a city that does not want
me will not get the better of me. I refuse. Determined, I remove my ruby red satin dress from my
closet and adorn my ears with sapphire hoops. I will clothe you with strength and dignity. I will
rebuild you with precious jewels. I venture to the nearest American bar and join the queue. When
I go places alone, I always bring a book, so that is what I did, not expecting anything more from
my evening than a celebratory drink and a few chapters of sound literature. Until a woman in line
behind me offers to fix the strap of my dress. Not to be weird, but if you want a new friend, want
to sit together? Perfect. The bar feels like a journey to someone else’s memories. English
newspapers cover the walls in gilded gold frames, and typewriters sit on bookshelves. They add
an air of academia to the atmosphere. I think Hemingway would appreciate this place. Every
drink has a freshly cut flower on top, and the blooms’ perfume mixes with the dizzying scent of
alcohol to add to the intoxication of the place. Sumin and I soon giggle over our matching honey
martinis in the dimly lit bar and make plans to spend the next day together. Two people are better
off than one. When we reconvene the following sunny afternoon, Parisian paths lead us to one of
the most miraculous stores in the world, the Galeries Lafayette. The lift takes us immediately to
the fifth floor, where we enter a child’s wonderland. Everything here exudes joy and light. Plush
toys of all kinds cover the walls, only interrupted by windows that showcase the rest of the store
below. We wander the halls until we encounter the stand we are looking for. A corner adorned
with bright blue bakery cases and counters, all filled with soft toys shaped like French pastries.
Other shoppers in the store oddly glare as two women in their twenties jump up and down over a
stack of stuffed toys. We spend an hour analyzing every plush delight. How could one possibly
decide between a rose and pistachio macaron? Sumin and I leave with matching macarons in
hand, carrying them in our palms the entire time we skip to dinner, laughing about how we went
from strangers to owning matching macarons within less than 24 hours. He will once again fill
your mouth with laughter. I have found joy.
I haven’t found a Bible yet, maybe I’ll look on my Scotland trip, but I did find a hairy
coo.
It’s 7:00 a.m. and 45 degrees Fahrenheit in Edinburgh, Scotland. My Texas brain struggles to
wrap my mind around the idea of wearing a scarf in the summertime. Coffee shops and castles
alternate along the hazy streets. The hills here laugh at me as I struggle to find my tour bus with
my heavy backpack. Ah. Finally. A man in a kilt with a sign and an eclectic band of travelers:
just what I’m looking for. I meet a history-buff urban planner, a spiritual grandpa giving me
prophesies from an alternate universe that I do not understand, and two families that speak no
English… this should be fun. Most people in the group are here to see castles… I am here to see
a cow. You know, the cute fluffy ones that have a beautiful orange coat? The kind my best friend
and I painted ceramic versions of last summer. Day one in Scotland is filled with sheep. Did you
know sheep outnumber humans in Scotland? Feel free to fact-check me; I am walking in the
truth. The wooly walking clouds prance around the mountains and end up joyfully plaguing my
camera roll, yet still no cows. For all the animals of the forest are mine, and I own the cattle on a
thousand hills. I see hills…where are the cattle? My evening ends in Inverness as I check in to a
quaint bed and breakfast where the host endearingly calls me darling every time I see him. Sleep
is short and sweet, as all good missions require rising with the sun. His mercies begin afresh
each morning. Day 2. The Isle of Skye. I have faith. Cliffs: I see rocks, beautiful rocks, but
rocks. Castles: stunning but void of inhabitants. Waterfalls: the fish begin to laugh at me as they
swim down. Even Fairy Pools: magical, but not quite what I am here for. Another day without
my beautiful bundle of bovine bliss. Day 3. Hope is dwindling. Nine hours traveled, and I will
miss the one thing I journeyed for. The bus is heading to drop me off at the train station in
Inverness so I can make it to London by the morning. While the magic of Scotland may have
revitalized my soul, I am saddened to leave without accomplishing my goal. The bus stops. I
expect to see a train. Instead, I see a hairy coo: that’s what the Scottish call them anyway. Just for
you, Shelby. Enjoy. Maybe it is embarrassing for a 20-year-old woman to run down the bus aisles
with her camera in tow and skip down a field to take a selfie with a petting zoo animal, but I
have no shame. Everything God made is waiting with excitement. I embrace my childlike state. I
journey as close to my new friend as possible without disturbing its peace, which is not hard
given its quest for snacks. We share my apple. God loves a person who gives cheerfully. My new
friend and I find delightful contentment.
I haven’t found a Bible yet, a long beach walk will help me think, but I did find a pebble.
The cliffs of Étretat feel like Neverland. I half expect Peter Pan to grab my hand and sweep me
off my feet. Few things leave me without words, yet the caves capture my body, and the waves
wash my voice into the sea. Salty air sails through my nostrils and steals my exhale like a pirate.
Even the winds and waves obey Him. Still in awe, I stumble down the rocky beach, choosing to
laugh as I continuously fall instead of feeling the pain of the stones against my toes. It is the Lord
your God who goes with you. The shore is empty. Unsurprisingly, given the cool breeze, gray
clouds, and the journey required to reach the water. My tote bag weighs down my overalls as I
struggle over layers of shells in my cerulean blue swimsuit to get to the freezing water. I dive in.
A wave knocks me off my feet, and I laugh as I play a game with the ocean that goes on forever.
The tide allows a pebble to be tossed towards me. It rests on my palm, and the weight of it
grounds me amidst the waves. I am leaving you with a gift- peace of mind and heart. The waters
still. You subdue the storm-tossed waves. I am renewed and in awe of the expanse of creation. I
am baptized both by water and the Holy Spirit. I find humility.
I haven’t found a Bible yet, maybe museums stock Bibles, but I did find Winged Victory.
Six weeks living in Paris and I have never been to the Louvre. That is an issue that needs fixing.
I find one of the last online ticket reservations and stand in an hour long line to enter what might
be the most famous museum in all the world. I travel through the class pyramids and am
overwhelmed by the endless halls of paintings and sculptures. The Greco-Roman marble works
are always my favorite, so I spend hours admiring the pure stone art. Something about carved
sculptures always resonates with me. He is a master at every craft. The beauty of a single
attempt. Once chipped away, no stone can be added. An endless process of refining to create art
without the ability to undo. I turn down a hallway and am brought to tears. A staircase gives me
a perfectly unobstructed view of Winged Victory. The way the wings are carved and the draping
of the attire leave me with a feeling that I am experiencing heaven on Earth. The strength the
marble possesses is a glimpse of God. Art that holds triumph and beauty simultaneously. But
those who trust in the Lord will find new strength. They will soar high on wings. Art that
protects. Thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. I find
confidence and assurance.
I don’t have it anymore, but when I did, I took it everywhere. Heaven and Earth will
pass away, but Jesus’ words will not. I still haven’t found a new Bible, so my quest continues.
Through the encouragement of the Scriptures, we might have hope. Something about having
God’s Word on me comforts my soul. The navy-blue soft leather of my old precious book makes
a web of stars underneath a gold-gilded rose. I hope Ines cherishes its beauty as much as I do.
The inside holds an odd-ball collection of index cards and margin notes that tell how God has
woven the thread of my life… I wonder if she’s read any of them.