Facial Hair Ahead

This sign warns drivers of a speed bump ahead. But the kid pointed to it the other day and announced, "Mustache!"

Why yes, of course, be on the lookout for triangles with mustaches.

FedEx Friend

The FedEx man told us something we already knew---our name isn't in the call box outside our building. Someone else let him in. You should put a sign by the box with your name on it, he suggested.

We did that, but our neighbors didn't like it, we said. They removed it.

Ah yes, that's French. The French are special, he said. Where do you come from? Ah, see, I know what it's like for you, I lived in New York for a while, and I watched the TV show Friends. The French are not like that. They are special.

Bonjour Banjo

It's March, after 8:00 PM, and the sun has not yet set. And so today, the cat has already claimed his summer post, next to the open balcony doors, watching pigeons fly from one building to another.

Tomorrow's Itinerary*

1. Go to language school.
2. Download THIS with high expectations. Listen.
3. Go watch France vs. Croatia at my first football game, Stade de France**, begin undoing my antijockness.

*Non-exhaustive
**Trivia: Stade de France holds 80,000 people. The town in which I live holds 40,000 people.

Try Again

You've got it backwards, Google Ads.
But maybe this is a good sign of how many emails I've been writing in French?
(Don't be too impressed....it hasn't been that many.)

Quittance

Got a piece of mail from our landlords. The paper inside said "QUITTANCE" in big scary letters.

For a minute or two we thought we were being evicted, which in some ways would just feel like par for the course.

Turns out quittance just means receipt. They got our rent check.

Whew.

Raising a Grammar Nerd

On the train, I said to the kid, "Man, this train is moving slow, huh?"

He said, "SlowLY, Papa."

I kid you not. And I have never been so simultaneously ashamed and proud.

Sure the kid can't speak in complete sentences yet, but at least he apparently knows how to use a good adverb.

Poetic Life

I talked with 4th and 5th grade students on Skype the other day, answering one question after another for 30 minutes straight. Two boys asked a question together because wondered the same thing: "Do you miss teaching?"

I didn't answer quite this way, but the answer is: most days no, some days more than I can stand.

And with spring weather comes the intense desire to teach physics and poetry. I miss teaching.

I like poetry--if you've been visiting this page for a while you probably know that--but in most of my circles, I'm usually a little embarrassed to admit it. To most people, especially in the Evangelical church, poetry is at best too complicated and at worst just plain weird.

I'm not much of a poet and I don't even read poetry very often. It's complicated for me too, it takes some work. But I guess the reason I keep coming back to it from time to time is that there are emotions in life that must be expressed somehow. It's the same reason we sing in church, because your average spoken sentences and paragraphs simply cannot fully portray the glory of the Lord.

(And for every 99 poems that go over my head, the 1 treasure I find tends to make it worth it--like that line from TS Eliot shared here the other week that continues to send my mind reeling.)

So I was surprised, yesterday, to find John Piper talking to his staff about the importance of poetry. I guess I knew he liked poetry--but enough to be talking to his staff about its importance? That doesn't seem like him. Isn't poetry just a hobby?

Most in Evangelical circles would laugh at me for my love of poetry, but they wouldn't dare laugh at John Piper, would they?

He quotes Leland Ryken: "At least a third of the Bible is written in poetic form. Its prevalence shows that God wants people to understand and enjoy it."

We are obliged to know something about poetry to at.the.very.least understand the Bible in its fullest. But I have a feeling, with Piper, that there's even more to it than just that...in appreciating the world around us, in expressing ourselves, in communicating God, in communicating with God...

So, April is coming, and if you still live in the United States, it's National Poetry Month again. Maybe it's time to find a few things to read. Maybe you should try your hand at writing a thing or two.

On Being Less Eloquent and Less Polite than a 10 Year Old

The three of us entered our apartment building with our cart of groceries. A boy, appearing to be about 10 years old, who lives on the fourth floor, entered with us coming home from school.

We took the elevator because of the groceries. He took the elevator because he lives on the fourth floor.

He greeted us so assertively, so politely, so eloquently by saying, "Bonsoir!"

I choked back my "Bonjour!" and changed it to "Bonsoir!" just in time.

We rode in silence, which I guess is typical for an elevator, but it was really because I was speechless.

We got off on the 2nd floor and he said so assertively, so politely, so eloquently, "Au revoir! Bonne soirée!"

To be honest, I really can't remember if I said anything in response. One third stunned by his sweet elegance, one third with a total mind blank of what to say and how to say it, one third wrestling a cart of groceries and a two year old out the door, I was mostly speechless.

(I've realized recently how much of our communication right now actually consists of awkward gestures and incoherent grunts and mumbles. We think we're saying something--some sort of mix of English and French in our minds--but what comes out in the speed of the moment are really just odd stutters and stammers. So when a boy says "Goodbye, Have a nice evening" your head says something like "Goodbye...Bonsoir...Goodnight..Bon soiree...Have a good day...no, it's evening now stupid...Merci...good evening...salut...what's the word for...Bonjour...You too...thank you...toi aussi..." and in the midst of flipping through all of that, it's hard to tell what actually really comes out in the end of that split second. To top it off, we sort of randomly wave our hands in the air along with it as if that makes things more clear. Or, the split second passes without us saying a n y t h i n g at all---the other person wonders why we're so rudely mute and we think of what should have been said several minutes later.)

I've met plenty of scary 10 year olds in my day, but I'm not sure I've ever been so intimidated by one. Oh, to have the class and the eloquence of a 10-year old!

An Open Letter to the Pickle Companies of America and Europe

Dear Pickle Companies of America and Europe,

America, you have some of the best pickles in the world. But you make us fish for them with hopeless stabs of forks that are too short. It's a frustration.

Europe, you have invented the ingenious pickle-lifter, so that consumers can grasp their chosen pickle from the top of the jar with ease. But your pickles really aren't that great. It's a disappointment.

Therefore, I propose a simple and fair trade. Pickle lifter for the pickle recipe. Even steven. Everyone wins. The world rejoices.

Think about it.

Sincerely yours.

If you want to know the embarrassing truth...

I guess I haven't shied away lately from telling the embarrassing truth, so why stop here.

First embarrassing truth: I've never watched The Godfather.

So when I was invited to watch it with a bunch of other guys who spoke English and would provide the spaghetti and cannoli, how could I turn it down?

Second embarrassing truth: Those of you who know me well know that there is very little chance of me staying awake while watching a 3 hour movie on a Friday night. The week is exhausting, the couch is comfortable, the chances are slim. I'm just a sleepy guy.

And so that was my worst fear, going in to meet these strangers for the first time, going to watch this classic movie for the first time, and being that guy who sleeps through it.

But two plates of spaghetti and two large cannolis only make matters worse.

So I tried to fake it as best I could, but I'm pretty sure at least the guy next to me saw me jolting myself awake every few minutes.

Third embarrassing truth that I remembered just now: As I dozed, in that preliminary dream-state, I heard the characters in the movie start to speak French.

On Not Knowing One's Place

And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.
-TS Eliot


When Israel was a child, I loved him,
and out of Egypt I called my son.
The more they were called,
the more they went away;
they kept burning offerings to idols.
Yet it was I who taught Ephraim to walk;
I took them up by their arms,
but they did not know that I healed them.
I led them with cords of kindness,
with the bands of love,
and I became to them as one who eases the yoke on their jaws,
and I bent down to them and fed them.
My people are bent on turning away from me.
-The Prophet Hosea

On Knowing One's Place

By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread,
till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken;
for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.

For my days pass away like smoke, and my bones burn like a furnace.

Remember that my life is a breath

For my life is spent with sorrow, and my years with sighing;
my strength fails because of my iniquity, and my bones waste away.

Man who is born of a woman is few of days and full of trouble.
He comes out like a flower and withers; he flees like a shadow and continues not.

He remembered that they were but flesh, a wind that passes and comes not again.

O LORD, make me know my end and what is the measure of my days;
let me know how fleeting I am!

For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust.

So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.

Not sorry, there's nothing to say.

Official Announcement

I keep finding friends that haven't heard about this yet, so here it is:

My wife is having a baby soon!!!

Consider yourself informed.

Differences between Boys and Girls

A boy carries a baguette home and pretends it's a rifle, holding it up, pointing, aiming, and yelling in his 'mean voice,' "Shoot over there!"
(I know from experience.)

A girl carries a baguette home, and well, I don't really actually know. Carries it gingerly and daintily, imagining its perfect display for the evening meal?
(I'm guessing.)

A father finds the baguette-rifle hilariously inventive and giggles repetitively at the sight. He doesn't notice the perfect display at the evening meal; let's eat.
(I know from experience.)

A mother finds the baguette-rifle completely appalling and is concerned for the psychological well-being of her son. She takes pride in the perfect display at the evening meal and is crushed when no one notices.
(I'm guessing.)

Some people get the lucky jobs.

un quiet

The French word for the verb "to worry" is s'inquiéter.

So that makes me look up the English word "inquietude" which my dictionary defines as "physical or mental restlessness or disturbance," sure enough taken from Old French or Late Latin for a lack of quiet.

When I first saw it I got really excited, because have you ever heard a more perfectly beautiful and truthful description of worry? It's something that disrupts our sense of peace, rest, stillness, quiet.

And that, in my mind, immediately registers a whole list of scriptures based on those words---being still to know that He is God or God is in his holy temple let us all be silent or Peace I leave with you, peace I give you---and compare that with Christ's blunt questioning:

"Qui de vous, par ses inquiétudes, peut ajouter une coudée à la durée de sa vie?"

Who of you, by his inquietude, can add a cubit to the duration of his life?

We make a lot of noise on our own, in our worries, with our anxieties, and what good does it do us?

PS

Our new washing machine was delivered on Thursday. No hitches. The kid, upon seeing their tools, pulled one of the delivery men into his room to show him his tools. They sat and played for a little while and the other guy did all the work.

It has successfully washed more than two loads of laundry.

We're allowed to be excited about it now.

Joking in French

We spent probably about one hour of class time recognizing and practicing the extremely subtle difference between the sounds [e] and [ɛ]. It’s the sort of discussion that, just when you thought your pronunciation was doing pretty well, reduces you to a frustrated, hopeless, blabbering, stammering mess, wondering if you actually really in fact say anything correctly.

So, appropriately, it ended with an introduction to the words encouragé and découragé. We were each asked to tell if we were in that moment encouragé or découragé. Next, when asked if the word découragement was masculine or feminine (because every noun in the French language is assigned a gender) my wife quickly gave the answer. “Masculine, of course…” She not only made the professor chuckle, she was right in her answer.

This led to a conversation with our professor over the coffee break.

Prof: “Why did your wife say discouragement was masculine?”
Me: (Nervous laughter.) “Maybe because I am often discouraged.”
Prof: “Ah ha! I understand.”
Me: “Not always, but often.”
Erica joined.
Prof: “Is Nathan often discouraged?”
Me: “You can tell the truth.”
Erica: “Yes, he is often discouraged. I have known him for 13 years…and he is often discouraged.”
Prof: “So, you have known him for 13 years, and for a total of 12 years he has been discouraged?”
Me: “Yes. It was the first year that I was happy, when I was young.”
Prof: “Are you a pessimist?”
Me: “Maybe.”
Erica: “He is a realist.”
Me: “Yes, I prefer realist.”
Prof: “Ah! A realist. And you Erica, are you an optimist?”
Erica: “Yes.”
Nathan: “She has a lot of ideas, and she tells them to me, and I say, ‘Maybe...but no.’”
Erica: “It’s true.”
Prof: “She has lots of ideas, huh?”
Erica: “And because I am an optimist, I think Nathan is a realist.”
Me: “Yes, if she were a realist, I would be a pessimist.”

And we laughed together.

It took me a second to realize the whole conversation happened in French. It felt good to laugh in French. It made me feel a bit encouragé.

(Back in class after the break, all of this led to an interesting conversation, maybe even a debate, on whether or not Jesus was ever discouraged. I pulled up my Louis Segond Bible app to give some textual evidence. If you want to know my answer, I guess it all depends on your definition of the word discouraged. But when a man says, “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death,” it sounds a bit like discouragement to me.)

On a different but still humorous topic, we later came across a new adjective, “doux.” The prof asked me if my wife was “doux.” I didn’t really know what it meant, but it seemed like the kind of adjective to which I should say yes, so I said, “Yes, my wife is doux.”

Erica and I looked it up together and laughed, discovering the real answer.

Mellow, soft, mild, gentle, tender, sweet.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted the prof. “I must correct my answer. I have looked at the word in the dictionary, and my wife is not doux.”

That was in French too.

Wandering in French

[I wrote this the other day.]

I woke up hating French. The poor night’s sleep had something to do with it. But it was mostly the line from a song we sang in church yesterday morning ringing in my head incessantly.

“Comme un soufflé fragile…”

Why would we be singing about soufflés in church, I wondered. I know the French love their food, but how could that really make for a compelling spiritual metaphor? I cooked my first soufflé last week—with bleu cheese—and the experience taught me enough to know that they are in fact a bit fragile, but seriously.

Looked it up in the dictionary, at 7:45 AM mind you. If the song won’t go away might as well learn something from it. Souffle without the accent is a wind or a breeze. OK, but what is a fragile wind and why are we singing about it? I have to go back to the song to figure it out, I guess, don’t remember the other words.

In class Erica and I discovered all that we missed in our absence the day before vacation. We had learned a rule for conjugating verbs in the past tense several weeks back. This morning we learned the exceptions. As is frequently the case, just when you feel comfortable with a concept, you are told that, sorry, you actually only know the half of it.

In the afternoon, my teacher told me I was saying l’aéroport incorrectly. She’d say “Non!” and repeat it. I would say it in what seemed to be (and some classmates agreed) in the same exact way and she’d still say “Non!” and repeat it. Finally I changed something (I’m still not sure what) and she said simply, “Voila,” and I breathed a confused sigh of relief.

Somewhere along the line things turned. I left school and went back to the post office for the second time. I almost chickened out and handled all the matters with the self-service machine. Pathetic, I know, but I finally forced myself to go to the desk. The clerk was a girl who seemed about 10 years younger than me. Am I really old enough to be ten years older than a person employed by the postal service? She smirked at my question as if question was odd or my accent was amusing or the fact that I was an American sending postcards was either cute or laughable. She seemed new at the job, asked for help. I got cool looking Marie Curie stamps. The kind you lick.

It seems an odd thing to get excited about, but I like that this country still uses stamps that must be torn apart carefully and licked. Something tactile, something aesthetic.

I took the long way home through centre ville, dropping the cards in a mailbox next to the brasserie through the slot marked “etranger,” walking past the only remaining column of a church bombed out in WWII, spying on the French men smoking outside the bureau de tabac, weaving my way through the children and their parents who were heading home from school.

French children are mostly the same as kids everywhere else, but just different enough in a way that makes them a curious, intriguing species.

Somewhere in that walk I started smiling, liking this place where I can currently be found, reciting a few new French words under my breath without really knowing it, and still kind of singing that one line over and over again about fragile soufflés.