What is “Brittany”?

Brittany, or Bretagne, is the northwesterly partition of France. Its name was given by refugees fleeing from Great Britain during the dark ages. Brittany boasts a Celtic heritage, a unique language, and a sumptuous culinary tradition. In Bretagne, you can indulge in a savory menu— one that exalts the fruits of the sea (scallops, crabs, prawns, etc), the grains of the land (particularly galettes of buckwheat flour), and the harvest of orchards and vines (especially their potently sweet and dry cidre).

Brittany is outlined by the Atlantic and the English Channel— it is a place of beaches, coasts, and fields of green. It is also the home of my friends, Kristen and Kenneth, and their petits enfants.

Wandering to visit wandering friends:

My nomadic friends have been living in Brittany, in the small city of Brest, for almost 3 years now. I’d first met Kristen in a German class back in our University days; then again in a New Hampshire church a few years later. When I announced I was moving to California one Spring, Kristen’s husband announced that Kristen would go with me for the drive— a surprise to both of us! But so it was. And we became proper friends through the journey.

In the years since, we’d both lived in different cities, and in more than our share of interesting co-living situations. Now, she and her husband Kenneth were living as veritably French people, raising their growing family (one toddling about, and one on the way) among the Bretons. They’d invited me a few times to come see them in their corner of the world, and my visit was overdue.

To refresh the brethren:

As my Summer holiday drew nearer, I looked forward to reconnecting with my old friends, and enjoying a bit of quiet, French country life (think: the opening scene from Beauty and the Beast).

But just one more thing: I secretly hoped that by my visiting, I could somehow encourage and strengthen my friends and fellow wanderers.

Having lived in a few far-off places myself, I know there is a particular kind of disconnect that comes from venturing out alone. As much as you can describe your experience to your people back home, they can’t really know it. They haven’t seen it with their eyes, or touched it with their hands; it’s not real to them.

And that can make you feel just a little less known; a little more like a foreigner among your own people.

Though I know it’s unrealistic for all of us to visit all of our gone-from-here friends, I reserve a special affection for those few who have done it for me. The places we love become a part of us. It helps to have a few special people- the ones who have known us here, as well as there- to carry the memories with us as we travel on. I hoped to be one of those people for Kristen and Kenneth— to hold the treasures of this strange season of life with them.

So I went, praying as I journeyed that way— “Let me be a blessing.”

Sleeping Place: The Lee’s third-floor apartment

I had booked, as ever, the cheapest flights to get to and from my destination city— my time, regrettably, being worth less than my money. So instead of staying the 3 days that Benjamin Franklin has famously recommended (“Fish and visitors stink after three days.”), to catch the better rates on airfare, I would be staying nearly six.

Kristen told me to come on over- warning me that in their small space, with their growing family, it could be nothing but cozy and loud! I had politely told her that I could stay in a hostel, but was relieved when she told me to save my money. Still, I arrived, toting my big bags and empty pockets with some trepidation…. Even I didn’t believe I could be a blessing in such close quarters for such a long time.

My dwelling place was an old futon-turned-daybed, smack dab in the middle of the dual-purpose living/dining room. My alarm clock was an early rising “Sweetpea” - Kristen’s nickname for her gorgeous firstborn- who rushed over to my bed, with songs of exuberant youth, harkening each new day. Bon Matin, Cherie!!

The hour that I arrived, Kenneth welcomed me warmly, with these forthright words:

“Emily— You are our close friend. You will see everything.”

“So, welcome, “ he went on, in the brazen confidence of a close friend. “Consider yourself, Chez Vous... at your home.”

Daily Baguettes: A Revelry

Day one in Brest, Kristen took me grocery shopping, and I provisioned myself with a block of quality butter and a jar of cherry preserves. Every day in the Lee house we three grownups ate our hearts out in the form of baguettes.

Actually, not baguettes—- “Coeurs de Passion”— literally, Hearts of Passion, as the best bakery in town named their hearth-baked creations. It may sound dramatic, but no other name can do them justice. French bread is unmatched, and these sustaining loaves were the crème de la crème.

Every morning, in the quiet of the dawn, Kristen and I took turns brewing our coffees in her French press— caffeinated dark roast for me, decaf for her and the soon-to-be-born daughter she carried. We stirred and steeped; sipped and savored.

Every evening, after their prescribed hours of work and child-rearing, Kristen and Kenneth showed off their culinary prowess. They had been in France long enough to have learned from the pros, the proper French home cooks they now called friends. Our dinners were small feasts of simple dishes, executed masterfully— every subtle flavor and fresh herb was given its due honor. Every bite was exclaimed over with closed eyes, applauding words, and sighs of satisfaction. Each night, we toasted festively, enjoying wine and Kombucha from goblets so tiny, that they were almost comical to my super-sized, American-born eyes. But there was nothing small about the joy they hearkened. Sante. Sante. Sante.

I was struck by the habit of gratitude and appreciation for a good meal practiced here. We ate every dinner slowly. Every dish was a celebration. We stayed chatting at the table as though time stood still and the world outside were only a rumor. We reclined. We let burdens fall of our shoulders and onto the floor. We would sweep them away with the crumbs later.

I still remember the night Kenneth made us his Poulet Roti— a just-the-right-size-for us chicken, roasted beside whole heads of garlic, and later glazed with a simple sauce- the drippings of the roast, folded into red wine and cream. The three of us pulled that little hen from her bones with our fingers, and ate those sweet pieces of garlic like candy!- every morsel relished, nothing wasted.

Each night, with the last bites of the baguettes strewn across the bare table, someone would pull our hidden after dinner treat from its hiding place in the cabinet. A single, foil- wrapped bar of dark chocolate that we treated with such a respect, that it (incredibly) lasted all week. Every night, someone one exclaimed, “Oh, we still have chocolate?! This is great!”

I’d left Paris with a new bottle of white wine, courtesy of my cousin Krista. I offered it as a token to Kenneth on my arrival, and he received it with unmatched delight. We sampled tastes from the tiny goblets, and I followed his lead in giving respect to the subtle notes imparted by the soil and terrain of the South. So it was that a cheaply-acquired-by-my-cousin and free-to-me bouquet of grapes became costly beyond estimation in a Northwestern kitchen.

Ever open-armed, the Lee’s even let me tag along on their anniversary dinner. Yes, that’s right, I third-wheeled their anniversary. I have no shame. (And no regrets! It was delicious.) We went for the famous Breton specialty, galette de blé noir (buckwheat crepes), and the renowned cidre, served by tradition in earthenware bowls. Happy 7 years to Kristen and Kenneth, and happy, happy day to me.

Favorite scenes from the meadows- The couple dancing with their dog at ‘the end of the world’

On a day trip to Finistére (the Ends of the Earth), as Kenneth and Kristen and I took turns pushing Sean’s stroller up and down rolling hills, there was an older couple strolling ahead of us. They were walking weightless through the meadows, holding their dog’s leash and each other’s hands. Their arms danced as the dog wandered where he pleased— they twirled and untangled his leash, wrapping arms over and under, letting go of each other’s hands only as needed, and reclaiming them without delay. They were Romance, walking.

Co-Laborers at Work:

I was happy to see Kristen, honoring her creative muse in the rare, spare moments that motherhood allows. She was up before dawn, putting her coffee on in the French press, and her words to the keyboard. Along with a baby daughter, it was as easy to see that she had a story in her, waiting to be birthed. What labor ahead!

Extravagant Hospitality:

The lady downstairs: In the apartment below lives a woman called Madame Boucher. Her name is revered in the Lee house, and spoken often, with tender affection. This is the person who may have the most to do with Kristen and Kenneth feeling truly at home in Brest. At a sensitive time of transition— newly parents, newly French, and evidently “other” in the eyes of most countrymen— Madame Boucher took the Lees into her affections, caring for the three like a true Auntie or Grandmama. Now she has been suffering from some turns of health, and you can hear the ache in Kristen and Kenneth’s voices when they remember her. They visit her faithfully in the hospital and pray for her recovery. They have told her she can move in with them if she wants to, and they expect her back soon. She is a neighbor who became family.

The humble hosts: Kristen and Kenneth treated me with such honor that I can hardly speak of the half of it. From showing me around hamlets and nearby towns, to a day at the beach, to letting me literally third-wheel (or fourth-wheel, along with Sean), their anniversary. They withheld nothing from me, least of all themselves.

“We cared so much for you that we were pleased to share with you not only the gospel of God but also our own lives, because you had become dear to us.”

1 Thes 2:8

Sometimes there was tension, and stress, as befits moms and dads living out the toddler years. Sometimes there was impatience and angst from being too long outside in a world that treats you as a foreigner…. despite your every effort to live, speak and work as the locals do. Sometimes there may have been a frustration that a 6-foot tall drifter was sleeping late in their living room again— though my friends never showed the slightest hint of it if so! Always there was the trust that you can show your worst self as well as your best self— your true self— to your friends and the people that love you most. You can speak freely. You can dream boldly. You can laugh outlandishly. No need for masks or pretense here. And how restorative that is.

The beauty and blessing of bare hospitality:

In this Air BnB age, it has become more and more uncommon to impose on friends in such an up-close-and-personal way. A lot of travelers will feel that staying in hotels rather than on couches is the expectation… the only way to come to town. A lot of could-be hosts, will decline to offer hospitality because they feel they don’t have the space or the trappings and trimmings that guests “expect”.

But maybe we miss something God means for us to have when we insist on showy hospitality that lets people keep being “comfortably alone”.

It’s not super charming to go to visit friends when you’re as arguably poor as me. I couldn’t buy Kristen and Kenneth an expensive dinner, or buy their groceries or bring them any extra special gift. In the eyes of the world I had nothing to bring them. Maybe I shouldn’t go and be a burden.

Yet, the desire was in me. And I think it was a desire given of God.

Not because it made sense. But because there was something deeply good in the bare and open handed, and close-quartered meeting of friends. Like community-concentrate.

You will see everything, Kenneth said.

And the Lees saw me too. Pajama-d and sprawled on the couch. Bare-faced in the early morning and late night hours. Clamoring loudly with big hands in tiny cupboards. Worrying and woeing about my muscle aches and mysterious affliction of health.

Sometimes you need to see and be seen. You need to belong.

And by letting me into their real life in their cozy space, Kristen and Kenneth gave me that gift. For six lovely days, I belonged to a wonderful and quirky little family on a God-blessed corner of this world. Home to Coeurs de Passion, galettes, and for this week, to me too…. I was Chez Moi... at my house.

For the ones who are always wandering like me, sometimes we need the non-intuitive exercise of staying put.

We need the reorienting rhythm, of adapting “our” time to someone else’s.

The stabilizing gravity, of not only walking in someone’s shoes, but being rooted by someone’s roots.

For that week, in a simple apartment in Brest, I was Chez Nous; at Our house. Chez Nous, with friends who know in that rare way, what it’s like to be gone.

When it was time to leave, far from willing the clock on a “too-long” visit to race ahead, we almost weren’t ready to say goodbye. God had worked the miracle I asked him for.

Rather than wincing at the smell of a six-days-sûr-la-table ‘fish’, Kenneth made a statement nearly opposite of President Franklin’s:

“Emily, having you here has been like a breath of fresh air.”

And after I’d gone my way, I received a message from the Lees… a new phrase to look up as I continued the study of Mandarin Chinese.

蓬筚生辉l

As best as I understand it, it means,

“Our humble home was blessed by your presence.”

Set your blessing where you dwell

There’s a verse in Matthew that talks about how when a believer goes to stay with someone, they should let their blessing be upon that house.

That verse is remarkable, because it means we don’t have to buy, or manufacture or conjure up a blessing…. we already have one. We can just give it— as simply as giving a gift of dish towels or teacups.

It seems impossible that empty-handed people can claim such a power…. and yet. This is the heritage of the Lord’s servants. And there’s more where that came from.

It was God’s good pleasure to make Kristen and Kenneth and me into wanderers. To wind our paths across states and nations, in apparent disorder— yet somehow still gracefully tethered to each other — like the couple playing double Dutch with their dog’s leash, still keeping their hands clasped the whole while.

It was God’s good pleasure to give us the gift of knowing each other—

Here and there, In English and in French, In stability and in transition,

Buttoned up and polished, and weary and raw.

God made Brest the Lee’s home, but better, he made our home with each other. And he has given us all the power to bless each other wherever we are. Even with empty hands.

The souvenir that I take from Brittany— a region settled by wanderers, back in the dark ages, and even still— is that we always carry blessing with us. Even when we seem to have nothing else. We have something God-given within us- something that can warm and brighten bare spaces. We aren’t traveling empty-handed at all— we are traveling light.