I’ve
spent so very much time in Paris.
I journeyed
there often during the four years I spent in Lida Sim’s high school French
classes. I bought a scarf in a shop along the Champs-Élysées, gaped at the Arc
de Triomphe, checked out a book from the bibliothèque, and stared slack-jawed at masterpieces
of the Louvre.
I’ve had amazing companions on my travels to Paris.
I’ve accompanied Lucy when Ricky toured Europe with his band, found myself as
Audrey Hepburn did in Sabrena, and oh, when Gene Kelley danced
along the banks of the Seine with Leslie Caron in American in Paris, I was so there. So very much there.
But, maybe the first time I went to Paris, I went to
mourn. As a little girl living in the suburbs of Atlanta during the sixties, I
still remember the newspaper headlines in Atlanta papers, when an Air France plane
crashed at Orly, in which 106 Atlanta art patrons died. The memorials from
their deaths eventually led to the building of Atlanta’s glorious High Museum
of art. Years later, at the opening of the High, I saw the casting of Auguste
Rodin's The Shade, presented by the French government to Atlanta, memorializing
those who died at Orly.
More recently, I’ve visited Paris through moving
stories told by friends who have traversed its avenues on mission trips and
birthday celebrations.
Well, maybe, I’ve never actually stood on French
soil. The closest I’ve actually been physically was when I leaned hard across the
English channel and gazed longingly over the divide. The truth is my travels
have been vicariously lived through other’s stories or in my own imagination.
For many of us
Americans, though, there is a corner of our heart where the Eiffle tower
stands, and we feel a sense of belonging in the City of Light’s glow.
At our house, even our
name and heritage largely points to the mother country and Parisian streets as
the Americanized Varnado was originally spelled in the French, Varnadeaux. My
husband has older relatives in Louisiana, who only spoke French until they entered school.
So, you see, last week, when the heart of evil stormed music venues, soccer stadiums, and cafes killing 129 and wounding over 300 others, our hearts broke as if it had happened in our own
streets.
Just after 911, a woman,
a complete stranger, held a door open for me in an Old Navy store. Our eyes
met, and I thought for a moment, we might fall into each other’s arms crying. I
have felt much the same way in the past few days.
As I hum “La Marseillaise ”
under my breath, I pray for France―for her people, her leaders, the families of
the victims.
In the aftermath of this
tragedy, I pray for a move of God’s spirit throughout her land, that Paris
would be a city of light which transcends the radiance of street lamps, where
the true Light penetrates the hearts of all who live there.
And I pray that our
mighty God might arrest this evil that stalks her streets.
Vive la France!
“Blessed is the nation
whose God is the Lord” (Psalm 33 :12).
For lovely images of Paris, consider clicking Here.