Identity
Can you believe it is possible to forget you are in another country, away from home? I have moments of it. We drove to Isle sur la Sourgue (don’t ask me to pronounce that) this morning. On the way back, I got to sit up front, the window half down, the view all around. The mountains began to look like Hendersonville (where I grew up) after awhile. That notion was quickly dismissed with the passing fields of yellow dandelions and white cherry orchards.
In public it’s a whole nother story. Each week I am bombarded by streams of people in the market place – I swim upstream, racing to get back to my bus. My time in each town is limited. The moment I open my mouth to say “bonjour” or “pardon,” I am pegged as an outsider… if the backpack, camera, or my deer-in-headlights expressions didn’t give me away first. Rapid-fire French is terrifying when directed at you. As I push through crowds of people, it bubbles thickly in my ears – not a buzzing like English sounds in a densely packed area.
I long for the communication skills of a small child. I long to engage with this culture… beyond the limits of my travel French, beyond the shops easily accessible to visitors, and beyond the realm of business transaction. So far that has meant observation and re-evaluating much of what I know about myself. The fear that rises up in me as our van pulls into a new town. The pretty pictures I have been making instead of the ones Rachel would take.
What if I had been raised over here? If my French daddy tucked me under his coat, my head nestled underneath his big chin, legs dangling from underneath. Driving fast down narrow roads with me in the back seat. Gawking at the silly Americans who come to buy junk, who can’t understand a word said behind their backs. Possibly being just as afraid of having to speak English as they are of mustering up some acceptable French. Living in a stone house with all these vineyards and back roads to explore.
Who would I be? Would I still write the same? What would my mailbox look like? My handwriting? Would I care about making pictures? About drawing, about strangers, about God?
And that is where I come to rest. My identity is in Christ – not bound up in a place, a culture, a language – neither in objects nor in other people- relationships. Not my past, not my weaknesses. My Kingdom is not of this world. And at this point in time, my perception of this world and how I fit into it is changing rapidly – expanding. As I live my same life in a new place, discovering new facets of myself, dealing with old ones… the love of my Jesus remains the same. Through the ages and across landmasses. There are no insiders or outsiders – foreigner or local – to God. All boundaries have been torn down in Christ. And the love of Jesus… well that is the one hope of the boundaries we still see in our world today. Oooh He is so good. God’s house goes with me, even to the boonies of southern France.
Images
1. La Baux
2. La Baux – Louis Jou Foundation
3-5. Roussillon