Greet each other with a Holy Kiss. Except not anymore.

Normally, french friends greet each other with two (or three) kisses on the cheek**. This is everyone, every time, upon entering a room of people you know.  I remember my last bisou exchange. It was Thursday, March 12, with another mom in the courtyard of the school, and the day before they announced schools would be closing on Monday.  It was already becoming less common, with some people avoiding it, saying they were at risk, or concerned about the virus. Then no one was giving them. Now I wonder, “Will we ever give kisses again?” as I watch the culture change around us, maybe permanently.

Being nearly eight months pregnant, I was trying to not be overly worried, but prudent, a word the french use often, and the line I was trying to hold during the beginning of the pandemic.

Then they closed schools. The next day, they said no gatherings of more than 10 people. We cancelled Sunday church on Saturday. On Monday, they announced ‘le confinement’. For two weeks. Then two more. Then four more. It is supposed to end May 11.

This is different than what it means in the US. We literally can’t leave the house without filling out a form to say why, checking one of four boxes. Exercise, but not more than 1 km from the house, and not more than an hour. Essential Groceries. Doctors appointments that cannot be done virtually. And imperious family needs, such as bringing groceries to your elderly parents.  That’s it. If you have permission to work, you have a special form from your employer. Chris has that form but only leaves to film Sunday’s sermon. Our freedoms are limited. There are fines and consequences for breaking the rules.

So, since March 14th, our children literally haven’t gone more than a kilometer from our house. We are fortunate to have a tiny yard, with a trampoline, which is getting lots of use. I try not to stare at them imagining every possible injury that might take us to the emergency room, and just be thankful for their ability to exercise.

And there is this pregnancy. This baby boy. About to be born into a world changing by the minute. He has no idea. I wish I was as oblivious!

The hospital rules also started changing every day. First Chris could come to the hospital, but the moment he left, he couldn’t come back. Then they changed it to only allow spouses for the delivery, but not in the recovery room. This was a hard blow. For both of us.

Of course there have been some positives, such as having the kids home from school. Doing distance learning with them has been (most of the time) a joy, especially being able to help them with their french, which I don’t get to do during the school day. With all the transitions in their life, they are pretty adaptable to change, and are adept at running with the punches.*** In this same way, Chris and I learned to live and work together at home, in even tighter quarters during language school, and so that wasn’t a huge adjustment for us either. I’m good at being a homebody, and have since only left the house for labwork and doctor’s appointments. But even this is wearing on me. Everything beautiful and wonderful about France is outside of our little apartment. Our sweet church family, the parks and gardens, long walks, and cities we would visit as a family or with friends. We miss it. Ministering remotely is hard for Chris, and our heart breaks especially for the older single people in our congregation.

We know that the Lord works all things for good. We know that our joy needs to be found in him, yet in times like this, we find ourselves stripped of our false securities, revealing our idols, our sins, and our shortcomings. What would happen if the internet went down? If the lockdown is extended another month? If Chris can’t come to the hospital even for the delivery? What if I get sick and can’t hold my baby boy? These worries don’t come from the Lord. There are no surprises for him, He holds us all in our hands. So we lift up these concerns, some trivial, and some that merit mourning. Chris not being able to hold his son for the first few days of his life, or be there for his wife. We can mourn that. Not having my husband in the hospital, not having my mom come help with the baby. The tears have been shed. There will probably be more to come. We have the right to weep, but even in sadness we have the comfort of hope. This life is not without trials, suffering, and struggle. But in a few weeks, we’ll have our baby boy in our arms. There will be joy, hope, and love. It will come from outside of us, it will come by the grace of God, and the hope we have in him. For none of the earthly things we hold belong to us. They are all temporal and we are fragile, but He is eternal and He is mighty. Resting in that hope is truly all we have.

* The cheek kiss that french give to each other.

** The number of kisses given is determined by the ground you are standing on. In the Cevennes it was three. In Toulouse, it’s two. Some places it’s four, or so I’ve heard.

*** Oliver is our big introvert. He said this was the best Easter ever because he got to hunt eggs with just his family. He also prefers homeschooling. He hates kisses from strangers and writing in cursive. If we stay too long in isolation, I worry he’s going to like it too much and one day be living remotely somewhere when he’s older so he won’t have to interact with society.

 

The beginning of the end of the confinement – starting May 11