I can
pretty much narrow my entire life story down to one single moment
when I was 18.
I was actually in Paris, France, at the time, a
strange place for a girl like me to be, and it may be the only
opportunity I ever have to be there.
I spent two weeks in the
Netherlands with a Dutch exchange student who had about 20 posters of
Orlando Bloom on her wall. Our stay consisted of attending Dutch
school, a day trip to Brugges, Belgium and a two day stint in
Paris.
The group and I walked up this gigantic hill of gray stone to the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur the first afternoon we were in the city. I don’t know what it is about Europe, but the whole scene feels like you are in a movie. Places don’t look like that where I come from. God sculpted cities like Paris and decided that people with awesome accents should live there. I was not one of the chosen ones.
Sacred Heart was just sitting there nonchalantly at what seemed to be the top of the world. I’m sure it’s never known how beautiful it is but the structure and the mass of it is breathtaking. I imagine walking up that hill in Paris and seeing such a work of art before you is much like holding your baby for the first time. Then again, I’ve never had kids so what do I know.
The inside was perfectly matched with the grandeur of the outside. The ceilings were almost threatening because of their height. Whether or not you believe in God, you can’t deny His existence in a cathedral like that.
I did all of the conventional touristy things while I was inside—lighting a candle, saying a prayer, staring at the ceilings, etc. I took deep breaths, hoping that if I breathed in the smell deep enough, I’d convince myself later on that none of it was a dream. I had made it across the pond eight hours, on a plane, survived the panic attacks that came with that and was actually able to afford it all.
I was in Paris, France.
Not in Niles, Michigan.
Paris, freakin’ France.
I went inside the gift shop, which in my opinion, seems a little odd. God isn’t a souvenir. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t buy anything. Of course, I did. I had to prove to someone I was there when in 40 years I told stories of when I was a young woman.
I also was surprised to find a nun working in the gift shop. Are nuns supposed to work? Aren’t they supposed to lock themselves in a chapel and pray to the Virgin Mary all day? And what does this nun chick do after work? She go out for happy hour when her shift is over?
I’m getting off track.
My point is there was a nun working at this gift shop. A cute little French nun in her black and white God-fearing habit.
So I bought a postcard, one with the picture of the ceiling where Jesus is putting his hands up, looking like a man who could save us all.
The group and I walked up this gigantic hill of gray stone to the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur the first afternoon we were in the city. I don’t know what it is about Europe, but the whole scene feels like you are in a movie. Places don’t look like that where I come from. God sculpted cities like Paris and decided that people with awesome accents should live there. I was not one of the chosen ones.
Sacred Heart was just sitting there nonchalantly at what seemed to be the top of the world. I’m sure it’s never known how beautiful it is but the structure and the mass of it is breathtaking. I imagine walking up that hill in Paris and seeing such a work of art before you is much like holding your baby for the first time. Then again, I’ve never had kids so what do I know.
The inside was perfectly matched with the grandeur of the outside. The ceilings were almost threatening because of their height. Whether or not you believe in God, you can’t deny His existence in a cathedral like that.
I did all of the conventional touristy things while I was inside—lighting a candle, saying a prayer, staring at the ceilings, etc. I took deep breaths, hoping that if I breathed in the smell deep enough, I’d convince myself later on that none of it was a dream. I had made it across the pond eight hours, on a plane, survived the panic attacks that came with that and was actually able to afford it all.
I was in Paris, France.
Not in Niles, Michigan.
Paris, freakin’ France.
I went inside the gift shop, which in my opinion, seems a little odd. God isn’t a souvenir. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t buy anything. Of course, I did. I had to prove to someone I was there when in 40 years I told stories of when I was a young woman.
I also was surprised to find a nun working in the gift shop. Are nuns supposed to work? Aren’t they supposed to lock themselves in a chapel and pray to the Virgin Mary all day? And what does this nun chick do after work? She go out for happy hour when her shift is over?
I’m getting off track.
My point is there was a nun working at this gift shop. A cute little French nun in her black and white God-fearing habit.
So I bought a postcard, one with the picture of the ceiling where Jesus is putting his hands up, looking like a man who could save us all.
The nun did her thing,
punched the numbers, added the total and then to my confusion put her
thumb up, which I thought was the universal sign for ‘awesome.’
I mean, isn’t that what you would think?
So, of course, me being the reciprocal person that I am reinforced the positivity and threw a big thumbs up right back at her.
I threw in a smile, too. It can never hurt to give a nun a smile. I’m sure she’s got some sort of pull with the man upstairs. I can’t take the chance that she does and I didn’t smile back at her. That’s just too much on my conscience and my soul.
I mean, isn’t that what you would think?
So, of course, me being the reciprocal person that I am reinforced the positivity and threw a big thumbs up right back at her.
I threw in a smile, too. It can never hurt to give a nun a smile. I’m sure she’s got some sort of pull with the man upstairs. I can’t take the chance that she does and I didn’t smile back at her. That’s just too much on my conscience and my soul.
Not only that but I was feeling pretty
good about myself, what with getting the big kahuna from a woman of
God. I figured I must be doing something right with my life.
‘God
approves,’ that’s what her thumb in the air was telling
me. Until she reciprocated my reciprocation.
You just don’t
give two thumbs up like that. They are either lying about the thumbs
up or they have a different meaning of a thumbs up. The nun had a
different meaning, to my stupid American disappointment.
She made
an ‘uh’ sound with the second thumb and that’s when I
realized.
 |
| Never trust a thumbs up. |
God wasn’t approving of me at all, he wanted me to pay
for my postcard in his house of business. And he sent this little
messenger to do it. So I reluctantly handed over the Euro I
owed the lady and tried hard to pretend that I didn’t just give a
French nun the thumbs up. How egotistical am I, thinking God was
giving me a thumbs up? The thing is, I’m so far from
egotistical that my belief that I had done so well in life that God
was giving me a thumbs up makes absolutely no sense.
In a matter of minutes, a French nun summed up my life with one little flick of her phalange (is a thumb a phalange?). Somewhere around every corner, there’s a nun giving me the thumbs up. And me, thinking a nun is actually giving me the thumbs up.
In a matter of minutes, a French nun summed up my life with one little flick of her phalange (is a thumb a phalange?). Somewhere around every corner, there’s a nun giving me the thumbs up. And me, thinking a nun is actually giving me the thumbs up.
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