I’ve been to Europe twice in the past two years, and one of the impressions that rests most heavily while I’m there and after I’ve left is how eternal it feels.  Probably because I compare it to growing up in Montgomery, a city whose most ancient piece of history is Old Alabama Town, where we went for school field trips and learned how butter was churned in the olden days.  When I moved to New York, I loved to walk around downtown and study the old townhouses in the West Village, thinking of all the history they contained and the years they had seen.  But none of that holds a candle to the biographies of the Notre Dame or the Colosseum.  There’s something infinitely comforting about being in a place with a story that echoes through the ages; all the books I pored over growing up are proven in front of my eyes, and the story is now a part of mine.

That’s the upside of travel.  But on a rainy French afternoon, when my turquoise canvas flats have nearly disintegrated on my feet and there is no easy or dry or in-English way to get from Point A to Point B, being in a foreign city can feel like hanging around the edges of a birthday party without an invitation.  Persistent jet lag can feel like a nauseating hangover. And the BF’s unconditional acceptance of me can begin to feel like evidence of a serious lack of judgment.  Then, against all odds, the pair of us arrive at the Rodin museum after a forty-five minute bus ride, moods buoyed by the promise of beautiful sculptures and a working bathroom.  And then, the surly French guard throws his weight against the glass door I just exultantly pushed and growls through it, “CLOSED!” And we are back at Square Une.

France is beautiful, with its museums and cathedrals and architecture and wine.  The above picture was taken at the Notre Dame, which we visited on the non-rainy day, along with the Orsay Museum, Champs de Elysses, Arc de Triomphe, and Eiffel Tower. And we made the wise decision to travel between these places on a double-decker bus, a contraption that does little for one’s tourist-tinged embarrassment but much for her feet.  But even in the sun, France was just not as easy as London, a city with friendly citizens, sunny weather throughout our stay (an unnaturally rare phenomenon, I’m told, and possibly a sign of the Apocalypse the way hurricanes and fires are in other cities), and a common language.  Well, almost common.  In the ways it is not common, it is better.  Only a Londoner could make the phrase “F*ck you, are you quite serious?” sound like a charming greeting.  The food there may not be so great, and there may not be as many museums or cathedrals or even a wine country, but everything just sounds so civilized.  I found myself thinking that Madonna may not be so ridiculous after all as I vowed to use words like cheeky and biscuit more often.

This morning I settled onto the couch in a haze of jet lag and prepared for my Come to Jesus talk about how I had not come to him often over the last week.  I found myself searching for beautiful words to make up for my patchy devotion before all my attempts fell to the floor in an exhausted heap and all I could think was, “I got nothin’.” Perfect, I felt the response in my heart, That’s where I come in, and I realized in a devotion renewed by him that all my efforts at Looking Good, Cleaning Up, etc. must resemble my ratty turquoise flats next to Monet’s water lilies.  I realized the blessing of being with a man who looks at me, soggy and petulant, and somehow sees beauty.  And the blessing of being loved by One who hears my ineloquent, non-English-accented prayers and translates them into works of art.  And I remembered, as I often do when I let Him remind me, that the most beautiful things in my life have come after long periods of rain and wreckage more often than perfect temperatures and ease. Eternal stories, after all, take that kind of time.