Seven Years in France...

Seven years ago I was reeling. We'd taken a leap in the dark, accepting a contract for Ben which was so informal it was hardly written down, and we'd worked up to the last minute, trying to pack in between jobs. I'd tried to take a few French lessons but had very little success - the boys had more fun with a French woman who'd moved to our town, but I was paralysed by bad memories of school French lessons and could only rely on Ben, who'd spent holidays with French families as a teenager, and had continued with evening classes when the boys were tiny.

Seven years ago we'd spent one night in a French motel, inconveniently located far from our rented home, because I'd booked it over the internet and didn't really know where anything was around Toulouse.

Seven years ago we drove to our rental home, with no furniture and no fire lit. The boys played, Ben did something practical, and I huddled in the corner in a sleeping bag. I'd had a run of illness all autumn and winter, culminating in a recurring virus which kept me low for the whole of Christmas at Ben's parents' home.

Seven years ago I felt lost, helpless and incapable of analysing my own situation. I could only hope to press on.

Seven years ago we had breakfast in the motel and saw a French couronne de roi for the first time! We ate one again last night, to celebrate.

Seven years ago we drove out to the beautiful rental house which was so 'Ben and Flossie' that it infuenced our choice of home when we chose to buy out here.

Seven years ago we were welcomed by kind French motel staff and new neighbours.

Seven years ago the boys started free school, with free transport, before we'd even paid a cent of French tax.

Seven years ago I began to notice the weather, the seasons, the sky, in a way I'd never done before.

Seven years ago I began to break. I needed to break because I was too inflexible. The break took a few years and it hurt. It hurt me and it hurt other people as I tried to hold on to my inflexibility with ever-fiercer certainty.

But finally the break came to a point where I wasn't inflexible any more. I became open. I became, just a bit, softer.

Until I had broken, I couldn't take in more. Until I had broken, I couldn't become whole.

Something much more complete, much more real, is filling the gaps caused by that break.

This is a story you may recognise from your own point of view. From my viewpoint, as a Christian, all those years of singing this song now seem to finally be making sense;

Spirit of the living God,
Fall afresh on me.
Spirit of the living God,
Fall afresh on me.
Break me,
Melt me,
Mould me,
Fill me.
Spirit of the living God,
Fall afresh on me.