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  I was riding home from church with my dad on Sunday afternoon, just after Erin and I had two hours sharing about our year in France with the congregation of Burlington First Church of the Nazarene (the church where I grew up) when I made the startled comment to my dad, “that house has a French flag flying from the front porch.” The house was off the highway and part of the flag was covered, but I could clearly see the blue, white and red of the French tri-couleur.  I had no idea why that flag was flying, but it made me a bit homesick France sick and left me wondering whether there was another Francophone in rural Iowa.

That evening we passed by the same house and I pointed it out to Erin, who saw the three colors but wondered why the white stripe in the middle was bigger than the other two stripes.  That’s when it dawned on me that the flag I was seeing was actually the Iowa state flag.  But due to the distance from the highway and the trees covering part of the flag, I hadn’t been able to see the eagle in the middle of the state flag.  The fact that I would mistake the Iowa state flag for the French flag shows that while I’m physically back in the Midwest, some part of me is back in France.

I’m working to embrace being back in the Midwest, though but I keep being reminded of the place we’ve left and still miss.  There are several things I’ve missed that I’m glad to be able to experience again.  For example, last Friday night, after arriving back in Kansas City after spending about 9 days at my parents’ in southeast Iowa, I was enjoying being able to listen to my favorite radio station 96.5 The Buzz when I noticed a new band the station was premiering is named “The Bastille.”  I unexpectedly became a little France-sick again.

The next night, I was sitting at my sister-in-laws, thinking about how nice it is to be in KC  and to be able to watch the Royals (I really missed watching Baseball while in France) when an updated leaders list for Le Tour de France scrolled across the bottom of the screen.   Another reminder of a place we’re currently missing.  The next night, we watched coverage of Le Tour and saw the racers go through several places in Provence, the pictures of which can be found in the “Provence 14” blog post.

We are home, and we’re very glad to be home, but we’re missing the place and people we’ve just left.  We miss the country because, to be honest, it’s a much more ascetically pleasing place than the Midwest – for various reasons.  We also miss the people we left behind because we realize that we may never again be a part of the Versailles Church and the Palaiseau community.  We will be able to visit both places in October while we are working for MNU Europe in Switzerland, but we’re not sure whether we’ll ever actually live there again.  It’s hard to say goodbye to friends, especially when you’re not sure when you will see them again.

The fact that we say “goodbye” to friends demonstrates the difference between friends and family. While we did say “goodbye” to family last summer, it was really just a “see you later” because we will always be family and we will always make being together a priority.  Friends however, come in and out of your lives during different seasons of your life.  Maybe we will share life with them again someday or maybe this past year was the only season in which we’ll be together.  The unknown of the future makes the loss a bit more acute.

For a great description of what it’s like to return home, check out this post by a friend of mine who writes a travel blog about her experiences living in New Zealand.   Denise’s post is also called “Home,” which I just realized after finding the link to share.

Moving onto the positive now, it’s wonderful to be around family and friends.  My dad and a good friend from the church picked us up at the Chicago airport two weeks ago and drove us the four hours to my parents’ farm.  A few days later, we were surrounded by the church family of my home church.  Burlington First is not an exceptionally large church nor is it a wealthy church, but that congregation provided a third of the support for the past year and even surprised us by taking an offering for us last Sunday.  I didn’t expect the offering, but I wasn’t really surprised, that congregation (as they do with all of their “kids”, continues to shower us with love and support.  The offering was quite timely, too as we won’t get paid until September and are starting to run out of money.  I also was able to spend a few days helping with the sweet corn harvest, the sales of which they invest into missions projects all over the world – including our past year in France.  Those few days picking sweetcorn was a highlight, so far, of our brief stay back home.

Last Sunday we were with our home church in Gardner, Indian Creek Gardner and again, we were overwhelmed by their gracious welcoming.  While it was wonderful to hug family and see them in person, it was a different experience than seeing friends we haven’t talked to for the past year.  We stayed in touch with immediate family and knew what was going on in each other’s lives and we were even more aware of missing family.  When you reconnect with friends however, you realize just how much you missed them, even though you hadn’t been consciously aware of how much you’ve missed them.  For this reason, we were giving a lot of hugs last Sunday.  We were also able to participate in the dedication of our godson, whose family is a part of that church.  I have to say though, that even though we basically stayed in touch with immediate family, nothing can beat physically being with them.   Watching the joy and comfort on Dawson’s face while he has been playing with his cousins is a wonderful experience.

Speaking of Dawson, he had a meltdown on Saturday morning.  It seems that all the transitions finally got to him.  We were heading up to Independence Avenue to meet some people with whom we might be ministering when we return (for good?) to the US in December, Dawson kept asking when he would see the Ketchum kids again, why his Palaiseau friends couldn’t come to the “dance party” he wanted to throw and why we had to talk with some kids he didn’t know before we finally saw the Garcia cousins he hadn’t seen for the past year.  When we got to the house in KC, it took about an hour from Dawson to go from being violently angry to playing with the other kids in his usual out-going manner.  The fact that we’ve been sleeping in various different houses the past two weeks hasn’t helped, either.  Yet one more example of Dawson’s minor experience as a “third culture kid.”

There is a saying that has been attributed to Thomas Jefferson but he never actually said, though he certainly loved France, “Every man has two countries: his own and France.”  The saying actually comes from a French play in the 19^th century, of which the French translation is, “Tout homme a deux pays, le sien et puis la France.”  Jefferson did write this, however: “So ask the travelled inhabitant of any nation, In what country on earth would you rather live?  Certainly in my own, where are all my friends, my relations, and the earliest & sweetest affections and recollections of my life. Which would be your second choice? France.” I have to say that I understand where Jefferson was coming from.  While there is certainly no place like home (especially when home is Kansas) it’s also true that you can never really return home, because while you may be returning to the same place you’re not coming back as the same person.  What doesn’t change though is the affection you have for family and close friends.  No matter where you are physically, I think home is defined by the closeness of those relationships.  In that way, we are truly home.

As a fun side note, we had a 22 hour layover in Dublin, so we were able to walk around the city and even have a meal in an irish pub.  All the pubs there have traditional Irish music every night, well except for nights where they are showing a world cup match.  The food was great, though and even though we weren’t there for long, my wife had a huge glow about her because the “Irish Girl” (which is what the name Erin actually means) was able to touch the same soil from which her great-Grandfather immigrated during the Potato Famine. Here are some pictures from Dublin, followed by some pictures of us picking and selling sweet corn with Burlington First
Church.

  And now the sweetcorn that helped pay the expenses our of year in France.

My Uncle Frank and Aunt Karen, who have been leading Burlington First’s missionary efforts for decades and are up every morning to pick sweet corn.

A Walk in the Countryside

French people take great pride in the beauty and longevity of everything around them.  My biggest reverse culture shock will be missing all of the beauty that is constantly surrounding us, whether it be a flower box hidden around a corner, a glimpse of a secret garden peeking out over a fence, turning a corner onto a ccobblestone alley, the displays in the local butcher and baker shops, or medieval towers rising up from the middle of a downtown.  In France, people aren’t allowed to build with wood, so almost every single building is made with beautiful stone, which was one of the first things my dad noticed when they got here.  There are also a lot of trails all over the countryside, winding through the many nature reserves or just along planted fields.

Growing up on a farm, I’ve always enjoyed viewing beautiful fiends out in the country, but France adds another dimension you don’t find in Iowa or Kansas, which is the sight of an 800 year old church, abbey or castle rising out of the middle of the field.  That’s when you know that you’re in the old world.

With time winding down, I’ve been more intentional about doing the things I wanted to do, which includes exploring more of the trails around here.  So last week, I put in a lot of miles on the hiking trails.  I didn’t always take pictures, but here are a few I took with my phone while walking one beautiful evening.

While I’m talking about walking, it might be interesting to know that all of the walking has taken a toll on my feet.  I’ve had plantar fasciitis in my left foot since October, though the pain comes and goes partly depending upon some basic treatment.  But just on Saturday morning, I woke up with some serious pain in my right foot, though it lessens after I walk around a little bit.  The pain is in a different part of the right foot than the left, so I’m not sure what it is.  I will be visiting a foot doctor when I get home, a friend we met in a French class who has been giving me advice via facebook and even hung out with us a bit last summer when visiting Paris.

Un Jeune Homme Brave

I’ve always liked my son, I think he’s got a hilarious personality and an inquisitive mind, but I’ve gained a new respect for him the past few months, with him bravely facing, and succeeding in, his complete immersion into a French public school.  Now he did have a really rough time getting back into the routine after the two week fall vacation, but when I dropped him off this morning, he walked right into the classroom, with a small protestation, but not bad for a Monday.

I respect him not only for bravely facing 7 1/2 hours, 5 days a week, of not understanding much of what is said, but for finding non-verbal ways to make friends, trying new foods, reading English books to his classmates and doing so well with his French vocabulary work that his teacher has good reports for us when we pick him up at the end of the day.  It’s not easy, what he’s been forced to do, but he’s succeeding.  I knew he could succeed, but I still fight some occasional feelings of guilt for putting him in this situation.  I just keep thinking of the long-term benefits, not only the mental benefits of learning a new language but also the life skill of being able to adapt to a foreign environment.

Another thing helping him is that now, three days a week, Erin spends some time in the classroom teaching the class some English through songs, games and books.  The teacher told the class, “Since He has such a hard time learning French, we are going to learn some English words.”  The Boy thinks it’s pretty cool to have mom in his class and I think Erin doing this adds to the novelty factor that The Boy seems to have among his classmates.

When Public Transportation Is Not So Convenient

Public Transportation certainly has its perks, especially in the city, where stops are close together and buses run almost all night.  Even in the “environs” where we live, “le transport en commun” is still pretty convenient, especially since there is a bus stop right next to our apartment complex and the train is just  a five minute walk (though it’s at the bottom of a huge hill).  There are times, however when it’s not so convenient.

Take today, for example when Erin decided to set a doctor’s appointment for our son since he’s had a fever for three days, which is basically required before a doctor will see you.  The doctor’s office (which is an apartment staffed by just a few doctors, no support staff or nurses) is a block away from a stop on the bus line that runs right by our place.  On Tuesdays, however, for some reason we aren’t yet aware of, the bus doesn’t run during the middle of the day, so Erin had to cancel the appointment.  That was obviously quite frustrating.

What happened last week, however was quite the inconvenience, though much more for those commuting to and from work than for us.  I was coming home from a tutoring appointment (actually more of a language exchange, which I’ll eventually explain in more detail) when the train failed to take off after one of the stops.  After sitting there for about 15 minutes, an announcement came over the PA of which I (per the usual) only understood a little bit.  I did catch something about “20” though, so thinking it was just going to be a 20 minute stop, I was surprised to see everyone rush off the train in an exasperated rush.  After wandering around the neighborhood a bit (the train stop was a few stops south of Paris proper, in the “banlieue”), checking out a local park named after Robespierre and grabbing a baguette and some quiche from the bakery just outside the train stop.  When I checked back in on the train, I read the info monitor and realized that due to an accident down the line, the next two stops were closed until “20” hours, 8:00 PM.

So armed with enough time to get home before bedtime and the GPS on my phone, I set off toward the 2nd stop down the line.  While walking, I got to see a new part of the outskirts of the city and found a neighborhood of Asian restaurants, to one of which I took Erin for her birthday the next day.  I’m sure I could’ve taken the bus to this stop but two things stopped me: 1) the HUGE line at the bus from everyone who had just ran off the train and 2) I don’t have a bus map for this part of the city.  Had I taken the bus, though I would’ve missed a nice walk through a new part of the city.  Paris is a very colorful city, to put it mildly.  I also would’ve missed the chance to buy an ear of corn being grilled and sold by a guy on the street.  The corn was terrible, by the way.  I’m a food snob about only one thing, and that’s sweet corn.

When I finally arrived at the train stop, there were thousands of people trying to get onto the train.  One of whom was Melody, from the church, meaning I happened to run into one of the 40 or so Parisians that I know.  I had to wait for a few trains before getting close enough to cram into a car.  When I was able to force myself onto a car, I was barely able to get in and I know from previous experience, that the doors will shut on whatever part of your body or bag (in my case) is sticking out.  But just when I thought I wasn’t going to fit, I felt a rough push from behind as another guy rammed his way into the car.  I wanted to take a picture to try to show what the crowd in that car was like, but there was no way I could get my arms over my head.  I have never been in that tight of proximity to a group of people.  I couldn’t hold onto anything but didn’t need to, as I couldn’t have moved anywhere even had I wanted to.  We just swayed back and forth with the movement of the train as one, single unit of people, who even by French standards, were well into each other’s personal space.  While riding in that car, waiting for it to eventually thin out before we got to my stop, I was glad for two things: 1) That French people are so skinny and that 2) it was cool that day, as deodorant isn’t as popular here as in the US.

The next day, the train workers went on strike.  I don’t know what the strike was for, though I know they happen a lot in France, but it only lasted one day and reduced the number of trains by about 1/4 the regular amount.  So when we went back toward the south of Paris for that lunch at the above referenced, and very good and economical, Asian restaurant, we were again packed into the train.  It wasn’t as tight as the night before, but it was tight enough that I told Erin that a part of another lady’s anatomy was in a rather uncomfortable place in relationship to my anatomy.  We were on the other side of the open door when we got to our stop, so half the car had to get off to let us out.

What I think was most noticeable about those uncomfortable trips, though was what I didn’t hear;  I didn’t hear any complaints during any of the trips.  Now, I could tell by looking in the eyes of the other passengers that they were not happy to be having so much trouble just getting home and most people’s body language showed the fatigue resulting from a long and difficult commute topping off a long day of work, but no audible complaints were heard.  On Friday morning’s commute, some people were even cracking jokes.  I’m not sure what the lack of complaints can be attributed to, maybe Parisians, like all inhabitants of big cities, are used to the occasional disruptions that come with mass transit or maybe it’s from the French culture itself; a culture that is much more reserved in their verbal expression and used to the periodic “manifs” and strikes.  Whatever the reason, I was impressed by the civility expressed on that train.

You would not have been impressed by the lack of civility that I expressed the next morning, though as we ran down the steps to the train only to end up about 15 seconds too late.  We left the house in time, but I apparently didn’t keep us on pace while moving toward the train that would take us to Sunday morning worship with the Versailles Community.  Due to the Sunday morning train schedule and then just missing the bus outside the Versailles station by about 30 seconds, we ended up arriving an hour later than usual, though just in time for Erin to teach Sunday School.  As we sat in the station, waiting for the train that wasn’t coming for another 50 minutes, I was a bit frustrated by the irony of how being 15 seconds late cost us a full hour.

Friendly French (? or !)

We all know the stereotypes Americans have for the French, that they are rude and don’t like foreigners. I can’t speak for everyone’s experiences, but I’ve found the exact opposite to be true.  I think that what often happens is that when Americans vacation in Paris and are in full “tourist mode” (i.e. forgetting common courtesies), they understandably often receive rudeness in return.  A BIG part of the perception of rudeness however, is the large difference between French and American cultures, at least according to this book I read, “French or Foe.”  To be VERY brief, American, German and British cultures are Low-Context cultures while France, and most of the rest of the world, is a High-Context culture.  Which is to say that prior relationship is of a much higher importance to an interaction than efficiency or immediate need.  So, from our perspective, French people can be rude.  But from their perspective, Americans are shallow.  On the positive side, French people tend to have deeper relationships while Americans are able to be friendly with just about anyone.

With all of that said, I’ve learned that French culture has changed a bit, as globalization has shortened the gap between the two cultures.  France has also had a high influx of immigrants from their former colonies, which has caused a lot of change in their culture (at least, according to the book, “Contemporary France“).  Or to put it more bluntly, all the French people I’ve interacted with here have been very gracious and patient toward this bumbling, confused, talks-like-a-toddler, American – and his family.  I can give two brief examples.

Two weeks ago, Erin and I had to run a few errands in the “centre commercial” – downtown.  The first was to set up payment at the City Hall (Marie) for Dawson’s lunches.  The last time we were in the Marie, we had Brian with us to do most of the talking, that day, it was just us.  As usual, the lady there was very patient with us, doing whatever was necessary to make sure she understood us and that we understood her.  The price of lunches is based upon your income, but since we aren’t paying income tax here, I assumed we’d be paying full price.  When the lady in the Marie realized we don’t have the correct paperwork to show an income, she just took our word for it when we told her how much money had been donated to pay for our year here.  We just wrote it on a piece of paper (she even had us do it in English) and signed it.  We did qualify for reduced lunches 🙂

Right after that, we had to pick an insurance agent’s office to drop into for purchasing a liability plan for The Boy (insurance laws and methods work quite differently here).  The two Americans walked into the office of an unsuspecting agent, who rather than shunning us for all of our communication struggles, was very patient and helped us get exactly what we needed for the school year.  It cost us a whopping 20 Euro.  After we’d finished our commercial exchange (and maybe this is where High Context comes in), the agent sat and talked with us for awhile.  He explained that his brother-in-law is also a pastor.  He even invited us to drop in again in the future, just to talk.  Seriously – a French guy wanting to hang out with an American.

And then, there was this experience that Erin had last week.  She will explain it in her own words.

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After shopping at the huge super market, Cora, in Massy for two hours, I realized that I had gotten way too much for myself to carry easily.  The rolling bag and the shoulder bag that I brought with me were heavier than the last time I had done a big shopping trip, and Donnie had come to help carry the bags that time.  Little d was with me, and he was tired.  I tried several ways to balance the bags and my purse together so that I could also hold my little guy’s hand. After a few attempts, I had to coerce him into holding the rolling bag convincing him that it was just as safe as holding my hand.

At this point in the story, I should remind you that our route from the store to home involves walking to a bus stop, getting on a crowded bus, walking to the train station from the bus, getting the bags through the turn styles, dragging them down the steps, getting them onto the train, all while helping a preschooler be content.  As we were waiting for the train on the platform in Massy to go to Palaiseau, I was thinking about how I wish my phone were working and that I could call Donnie to come down and help me get all of the groceries up to the apartment.

When we arrived at the train station, we decided to use the elevator.  Little d loves the elevators and escalators at the various train stations, but I think my love for it went to a new level that day.

Walking up the hill, little d kept wanting to take breaks, have a drink, sit down.  We walked a little slowly, but I think the timing actually was perfect.  When we reached the bottom of the “green staircase” as I like to call it (the railings are green), I noticed a woman sitting there, smoking.  We stopped so that little d could sit and take a drink and the lady commented that I was doing a lot of work.  She then asked me if my son went to a certain school.  I said yes, and she mentioned that her daughter also went to that school.  I told her where we lived and she said that she also had an apartment in that same complex.  Her next statement was that she would help me carry the bags up the stairs when she finished her cigarette. While we stood there, she talked to little d about school and tried to see if he remembered her daughter.  They are in the same class.

As soon as she finished her cigarette, she grabbed the smaller bag and tried to help me lift the bigger bag up the stairs.  That didn’t quite work, so she just walked slowly with me, chatting about school, learning another language (she took 8 years of English in school) and about kids.  We exchanged names, and while I struggled with pulling up the heavy bag, she walked slowly keeping me and little d company.

She arrived at the top of the stairs first.  I had about 8 more stairs to climb, and when I was nearly at the top, I heard her asking two young gentlemen if they would help me with my bag.  It was Saturday and these guys were dressed to go out for the evening.  Immediately, they agreed with smiles on their faces, turned around in the opposite direction of where they were heading and started taking my bag up the hill.  When we reached the staircase that leads to our apartment, they asked where to and headed straight up the stairs and all the way to our building.  I offered them a “Goutee”, a snack of cookiesfrom our grocery bag and they smiled and laughed.  When we arrived at the building I thanked them several times and told them that I had observed “chevaliers” (knights) in action in Palaiseau.  My new friend told them they were gentlemen and as she set her bag down, she told me where she lived and told me that if I ever needed anything, I knew where I could find her.

I don’t think that it is a coincidence that an entire church was praying for us last week and that we met so many friendly people.  Besides this example, I could tell you about the other mom from the school that helped me understand what was being said at the parent meeting at little d’s  school.  Or I could tell you about the many people on the buses that have sat and talked with us while we are traveling to our stops.  Everywhere we go, there are people who are happy to help, even go out of their way to assist you.  Being on time is not so important here as what is happening in the present moment.  People forgive you if you are late… really they don’t seem bothered at all.

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As hard as it is to contradict the greatest movie ever made, I think that Harry Dunne got it all wrong regarding the French.  We’ve found the French to be very gracious toward foreigners.

Tres Americaine

From the top of the Queen of Hearts castle.

Tonight we’re having a new American friend over for dinner and will be serving hamburgers, french fries and chocolate chip cookies (though Erin had to cut up chocolate into little pieces as actual chocolate chips apparently aren’t sold here).  This is a lady we met in a park one day who has lived in France since she was 15, has a son about our son’s age and was very excited to run into an American at a park in Palaiseau.  On Sunday, Erin will be bringing a to-be-determined American meal to our church’s “repas de rentree” on Sunday.

While Erin did dare me to dress more French the other day, I have occasionally been intentional about looking American.  For example, last Saturday I took The Boy to the Jardin d’acclimation, which was a lot of fun, but since it was a fall Saturday I was wearing my Hawkeye football jersey, American football.   While at that park, I re-ran into a guy who just moved here from Boston and has, like me, been taking his son to different parks all over the city.  Based upon our previous conversation at the Tuilieries Garden a few days earlier (which has a very cool playground for kids, probably The Boy’s favorite), he asked why I was wearing a Steelers jersey if I’m from Kansas City.  I then explained Hayden Fry’s decision back in the late 70’s, but I’ll spare you the details.  But while I knew I was very conspicuous walking around Paris with an (American) football jersey, I didn’t care.  The only time I really feel strange are the times I’ve been in parks and noticed that I’m surrounded by people who probably have more money in their pockets at that moment than the amount of my life’s cumulative earnings (and there are plenty of places like that in Paris).

I also stick out in the gym that I’ve just joined.  I stick out because I’m the dude wearing a shirt with an American sports team that isn’t the Dodges or Yankees and who is doing the big, bulky exercises like deadlifts and squats.  Though I’m pretty sure I’d stick out in an American gym, too as most people in a gym stick to the “curls for the girls” type of lifts.

Another time in which I intentionally embraced my American-ness was walking about Disneyland Paris a few days ago.  We spent a day there with the Ketchum family and I was pleasantly surprised by my experience, mostly because there was just enough rain and was cold enough to result in a fairly small crowd but not so bad that we couldn’t enjoy ourselves, which we did.  The Boy couldn’t decide which ride was better, the Buzz Light Year ride (which we did twice) or the Star Wars ride.  We stayed so late that he immediately fell asleep at the start of the 90 minute train ride home, but I think that carrying him up the steep hill home was worth watching the park’s fireworks and laser show that happened at 9:00.  The American-ness though, was that I proudly wore my Hawkeye sweatshirt, tennis shoes and Royals hat to Disneyland. What was even more American, though was that as we walked through the “Main Street USA” part of the park, many familiar Broadway musical songs were being played.  I took no shame in singing along to “Kansas City (from “Oklahoma”) and “Wells Fargo Wagon” (from “The Music Man”).

To watch the laser light show, click here or here.

The funny part of it all, at least to us, is how quickly people recognize that we’re American.  Our English accent is evident when we’re speaking French but after we switch to English (or American, as our dialect is officially called), the French people whom themselves have a working knowledge of English can immediately tell we’re American.  When someone comments that our accent is a little strange, I point out that at least we’re understandable, since we’re from the Midwest and that were we from the Deep South or Boston, they’d likely have no chance of understanding us.

While it’s not surprising, due to the American origin of the company, it is nice to hear “Kansas City” being played while walking around Disneyland Paris.  It’s even nicer that almost every time we walk into a store, we hear an American song being played.  We then watch the native French people singing along to the song.

Zurg!

Which way?

Pirates of the Caribbean has gone full circle, from an attraction into a movie and back into an attraction based upon the movie.

Toy Story characters are clearly the celebrities of Disneyland.

The Alice in Wonderland Maze was Erin’s favorite part.

We kind of got to meet Buzz.

Laser light shows are all the rage in Europe and this one was incredible.

Notre Apartement

On Wednesday night, July 3rd we moved out of our house.  On Friday, August 9th, we moved into our new apartment.  It was 3 weeks from the time we told the rental agent (the renter pays the service fees for an apartment agency, btw) that we wanted the apartment until we finally moved in.  I could give a lot of strange details, but just know that things move VERY slowly in France, at least from a red-tape perspective.  Brian said it’s like on needs to find the key to unlock the bureaucratic system.  Once that key is found, the door opens easily, it’s just a long and difficult process for locating said key.

We chose our apartment over the others we looked at for many reasons: 1) the rent is the cheapest and a bit under budget 2) It was the only one with closets and a full-sized refrigerator 3) there is a park in the middle of the complex, as well as a chateau that serves as a library 4) It is a 5 minute walk from the school 5) it is right next to a train stop and a bus stop 6) It is in the middle of the Ardony Forest and right next to a 64 acre national nature preserve 7) the town of Palaiseau is a very pretty town.  8) we have a large deck that overlooks the town (we are at the top of a pretty steep hill) and 9) there is a little grocery store right next to our complex.  We really like where we live, with a few exceptions.

It seems that the owner isn’t too concerned with upkeep of the apartment but thankfully, Brian is handy and has helped us fix it up fixed it up by himself.  The grocery store is pretty expensive and the larger, cheaper ones are hard to get to by bus.  What’s even harder, though is hauling the laundry to the laundry mat, which is a bit of a walk from the bus stop.

Erin has fixed the place up and it looks very homey.  We have a bunch of furniture and kitchen stuff, most of which was given to us.  We both have beds, too.  Eventually, we can post some pictures of the apartment when it’s all set up.  Or, like most pictures, we’ll probably just post them on our Facebook page.  So if you want to see more pictures than are on this blog, like our MillerMissionCorps page.

The Cost of the Calling

Missionaries pay a high price in the cost of their familial relationships.
I experience this a bit over the weekend as “Miller-palooza” was happening on my parents’ farm and my family was one of the very few not able to make it.  My sister told me that when dad introduced his family and talked about us (mostly when talking about The Boy) he almost started crying.  I think it’s harder to watch my parents miss The Boy than it is to actually miss my parents.  I was able to skype with my cousins, however and mom even took the laptop all around the shed where all of the Millers were eating sweet corn and got to say hi to everyone.  Which of course, goes to show how the internet, particularly wireless internet in a farm shed, helps bride relationships over the Atlantic.  In fact, before we got on Skpye, Brian was skyping with his parents, who were enjoying watching their grandkids run around the backyard.  Incidentally, both Brian and Erin were raised as missionary kids, so they understand this cost on various levels.
We will likely only experience this distance for one year, but career missionaries experience it their entire lives, it’s a high price to pay.
Brian said the hardest part about being a missionary is the toll it places on your kids.  You are never sure how the kids will react to the culture (get along in school, make friends, feel at home, etc.).  As a parent, it’s hard to watch your kids live as “third culture kids;” people who aren’t at home in their parent’s home culture, nor the culture in which they are living.  Thankfully, the Ketchum kids have done well so far in social setting like school, etc.

I also must add that while many of my relatives were trying to taunt me with their ears of corn, I told them that last Friday, in class, I learned the meaning of the phrase, “you haven’t eaten cheese until you’ve been to France.”  So, I do have that on them…

Posted by Donnie

With a Year of Waiting in the Past, Next Up is France

As I’ve shared in a few posts like this one , this one and this one 2012 has been a year of waiting.  While those blog posts hint at that fact, I never actually declared on this blog that 2012 was my year of waiting, but that’s what it has been.  While praying sometime early in this year, I had a clear sense that 2012 was to be a year of waiting; that God was teaching me patience, to trust him to guide my future (rather than trying to force things to happen) and to seek my significance in who I am as his child rather than what I do for him.  I’ve had to remind myself that 2012 is a year of waiting as I’ve spent the past year working an incredibly unfulfilling job and have been wrestling through thoughts and experiments for how to best use my ministry gifts.  All of 2012 has been a year of waiting.  In the exact middle of 2012, I was very close to landing a great job in a university setting.  In fact, I already had one foot out of the door of my current job and was thinking that I’d gotten off easy in this year of waiting; I would only have to wait 6 months for the next major step in my journey.  Then, in a way that was both humorous and painful, I found myself on the wrong side of nepotism and didn’t get the job.  Again, God reminded me (I wish He could do it more gently sometimes) that ALL of 2012 is about waiting.  So I kept waiting and seeking and praying and waiting some more.

In late summer of this year, as we were sitting in our living room folding clothes, Erin announces “you know, if we’re really going to consider serving a year with Nazarene Mission Corps , the next academic year would be the time to do it, since it will be Dawson’s last year before kindergarten.  Erin’s statement was completely out of the blue; I never expected to hear her say that.  I’d been talking with her about this idea for a few years but she had been a bit hesitant.  Honestly, I was hesitant, too.  While it sounded like a good idea, I wasn’t sure we’d ever really decided to pursue it.  I had tried to get Erin to attend the Cross Cultural Orientation required for those considering Mission Corps, but she remained hesitant.  In fact, I tried pushing it pretty hard last spring but she told me, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t ready to consider that major of a life change as we were not yet far enough removed from the previous painful life changes.  Last summer, however when she announced that it was time to think about it, I knew two things: 1) We’d both fully recovered from our season of loss and transition and 2) God was clearly speaking to my wife.

Even after that conversation, we wrestled with our doubts.  After one difficult conversation on a Saturday night, God immediately addressed Erin’s fears.  The very next morning, God spoke to Erin through our pastor’s morning message and a quote from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. that she heard on PBS, “Faith is taking the first step, even when you can’t see the whole staircase.”  As I’m tempted to interpret challenges as a sign from God that we need to stop pursuing this, I heard my mom’s admonition, “now that you’ve committed to this because you know God is leading you, don’t let the inevitable challenges stop you from doing it.” So despite the numerous challenges we face in moving overseas to spend a year volunteering for our Denomination, we’re determined to do our best not to back down from the challenges.
After committing to spend a year with Mission Corps, our next big challenge was to decide where to spend that year.  My first two thoughts were: 1) I’d love to go to France and 2) No way we could consider a year in France as mission work.  So we started exploring all the other options.  We talked with Dave and Betsy Scott in Croatia , the Sunbergs about Budapest and a coffee shop in Krakow, Poland   CaribbeanNazarene College  and some teaching opportunities in the AfricaSouth region .  We knew all along, though that our hearts were with the Eurasia region.

While all of those opportunities seemed exciting, they also all had obstacles that didn’t exist with the opportunity in Versailles, France.  So after all those opportunities faded away, we were left with our original hope, a year in France.

Our decision to choose France was the result of two factors.  First of all, we’re intrigued by the culture.  Several years ago, we spent some time in France and really liked the culture.  I realize that a week touring a country doesn’t give one a true sense of the culture, but just like we felt in 2003 when feeling drawn to Gardner, something seems to be drawing us to France.  When talking with the Missionary in France, Brian Ketchum , he told me that if I were talking about Hungary the way I was talking about France, he’d tell me to get off the phone with him and immediately call the Sunbergs, but since we seem to have a draw toward France, we need to trust that God has a reason for planting that desire in us.  Randy and Lorie Beckum, mentors of our from college and who also served as missionaries in France, told us to not assume that mission work means we go somewhere we’d rather not be but rather pick a place where we would enjoy living and to know that God will use us anywhere.  For us, that’s France.  Really, could you choose a better place to spend a year of one’s life than Paris?

Secondly, and this was the main factor, we already have a solid base in the language.  At the end of a year in Budapest, we might have finally mastered the basics of the difficult Hungarian language. We’re going to France with a basis in the language and with the possibility of being close to fluent by the end of the year.  While English is the international business language (meaning people across Europe speak English) and we can serve despite language barriers, we’re excited about both serving in a place where we can have simple conversations and where we can become fluent in a second language (a language spoken in many other parts of the world, too).

I started my French studies in the fall of 2008 on a bit of a whim.  While working on French homework one day, I had a congregation member, Joe Kumor ask me why I was doing all this work.  I told him I wasn’t quite sure but that maybe God was preparing me for some future mission work and that I’ve found that God has always turned my hobbies into service opportunities.  As I look back through some blog entries like this one here , I see that four years ago, I was already thinking about the possibility of serving in France. In this entry, I explain the possibility of serving and teaching in Versailles, which is exactly what I’ll be doing next year.  Finally, this blog entry makes me laugh. I was writing about starting my semester at KU and I finish the blog entry wondering how God will use this intense language study.  Well, now I know.

I became convinced that France is the place for us about two weeks before Erin came to the same conclusion.  Her decision was made on the fact that we can fill a ministry need in France.  Our year in France will be spent doing three things: 1) Serving the Versailles Community Church of the Nazarene, helping them during a pastoral transition and helping them think through ways to serve their surrounding community.  2) Helping train future pastors for the France District.  Currently, there are no trained pastors to take the place of current pastors (should they leave) nor to start new churches.  There are people on the District who have answered the call to ministry but now need the training.  I’m pumped to have the chance to teach and spend time with future pastors.  3) Learn how to build partnerships between US churches and French churches.  There are already some partnerships growing but we’ll have the chance to deepen and expand those partnerships.  French pastors can be a great resource to American pastors since American pasors will eventually face the same cultural challenges pastors in France are already facing.  The possibility of a long-term relationship with the France District helps us know that our ministry in France will extend past this one year.

After Brian explained all the ways we could serve and help the France District, Erin became convinced that we really would be doing mission work, not just going on a long vacation.  I have to admit though, we will be doing mission work in the country visited by more tourists each year than any other country.  I guess that’s called, “suffering for Jesus.”

As I shared with my home church in Burlington, IA last Sunday, I believe that my experience planting/ pastoring Trinity Family has brought us to a place where we are open to and possibly even partly prepared for the ministry context of France.  As this post is already too long, however I won’t go into all of those details.  Maybe later.  For now, we have two big challenges to overcome before we leave sometime in July.  1) Raise the $30K necessary for a year serving in France and 2) Find someone to rent our house.  Prayer and donations (a website will be set up soon) will be appreciate.