Welcome to the 5%

I'm sorry to interrupt our scheduled programming and I'm also sorry for leaving you all at a moment of suspense in my little story. I've been caught in a bit of a whirlwind these past weeks, and nearly all my thoughts and energies have been consumed in its wake. I promise to resume the love story soon, but right now, I'm wide awake at 4 a.m. with a desperate need to tell you all about something else.

Did you know that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month? I didn't, actually, until last Monday when I was sitting next to Roby on the Paris/Salt Lake City flight, and the stewardess accompanied my orange juice with a pink-lettered napkin. "Take flight in the fight against breast cancer," it said. How ironic--because that's exactly what we were doing.

No surprises or cliff-hangers here, folks: just the overwhelming truth. Last Friday, I was diagnosed with a malignant tumor in my breast.

Roby was in Lyon with me. We'd arranged his first visit there over a month before, and somehow all I can think is that God knew I would need him desperately that day. I'd recently completed a cycle of antibiotics to treat what the doctor assumed was an unusual infection. But when the swelling didn't completely disappear, he ordered a biopsy. The results sent both me and Roby to the States within just a few days. He only had a week's worth of clothes and had to make special arrangements with a police officer friend to get his passport sent to him. Miraculously, everything still fell into place for us to be together--just as it always has. I have no doubt in my mind that I'm marrying the best man in this world. If you hadn't already guessed the end to my love story, I apologize for spoiling things a little...

We had an appointment at the Huntsman Cancer Institute yesterday--it's the premier location in the West for those needing treatment and all that goes with it. I arrived at 10:30 with a small entourage--Roby, my mom, one of my sisters--clutching a shiny, red folder filled with half-translated exams and images and results. Medical French is complicated...but I've learned a fair amount this past month. Six hours later, completely exhausted and in a bit of pain from having become a temporary pin-cushion, I left. All of our minds were spinning with the information that had bombarded us all day: starting chemo therapy treatments as soon as possible, getting surgery in a few months, undergoing genetic testing because 29 year-olds don't usually get breast cancer, learning that treatments could make me infertile. And then, for me, the real kicker: facing the reality of losing my hair. I think that last one deserves a post of its own. I'll go there another day.

I'm still struggling with jet lag right now, and can't believe I'm having to make decisions that I never even knew people had to make. I'm not even supposed to be here. I should be in France, missing my fiancé following his first visit to our future home. I should be teaching a math or a French or a history lesson. I should be sending messages to my mom about what kind of flowers I decided to have for my wedding. Nothing seems real. To be honest, I've been running away inside my mind. But I guess I can't run away forever when I suddenly have dozens of people telling me what I have to do and what's going to happen.

Apparently, only 5% of breast cancer patients are under the age of 40. I don't know how I won those odds. I've never won anything.

But that's enough. Let's get all of that awful, depressing stuff out of the way. I have to tell you, friends--wholeheartedly and without hesitation--that even though this is very hard and frightening and derailing, I don't doubt for one moment that God is aware of me. I want you all to know that I am not bitter about this. I'm scared out of my mind at times, but I am also unendingly grateful to be surrounded by people--angels--who love me. And while I could be asking why this is happening now--two months before our wedding--I'm mostly just grateful that I don't have to go through any of this without the love of my life by my side. God knows what He's doing;
I am grateful for His timing.

Remember how I said my love story is all about faith and healing and learning to trust? It's all still true. I just didn't know that I had a new plot twist around the corner which would further try my faith, build my trust, and add a different layer to the idea of being healed.

Six years ago today, I met a brand new 25-year-old Italian missionary. Now, in two months and two days, we will be getting married. Everything else is just a wrinkle in our plans. We are going to make it. In the meantime, we would love your prayers.

...To Be Together...

Have you ever seen North and South? It's undoubtedly one of my very favorite movies. At the end, there's this fantastic moment at a train station where the two protagonists magically cross paths, and suddenly several months' of confusion is resolved in one perfect kiss. I've always loved the idea of trains and train stations--they are a rarity where I come from--but that scene makes them seem positively dreamy. And I won't lie--of all the scenarios I imagined for when Roby and I first "re-met," this was what I secretly wanted.

My girlfriends, some of them as giddy with anticipation as I was, dropped me off at the station just as the sun was rising on that fresh spring day. I walked nervously toward the corridor where we would meet, and as I stepped through the sliding glass door, he was the only person I saw. Ahem... Well, that's actually because at 6:50 a.m. on a Saturday, he was the only person there. He had his back to me, and when he turned around and saw me...he looked somewhat stressed.

To infuse a little reality back into my life, those first several minutes were a bit awkward. We exchanged a quick hug, rushed to buy tickets, and then bumbled through a little small talk while I ate an apple. He kept his distance. I tried to hide my disappointment and be rational. When the train arrived and we got on, I did my best to sit as close to him as I comfortably could, hoping he would get the hint. We flirted a little shyly at first, and then we both started warming up--almost in synch with the morning light.

Yes, this is really what we saw.

I absolutely adore Switzerland, and we were speeding through some of my very favorite parts of the country--the places where I had spent the best months of my missionary service. As I was sitting by the window, I would look out and excitedly point out what we were passing--the vineyards, the lake, the breathtaking views that had entered into my heart years before. I felt like I was sharing something very special and deeply personal. He leaned towards me several times to look out--and my fears of not sensing chemistry were immediately quieted.

At one point, he asked me if I felt comfortable with him. It was easy to say yes, because I'd never felt so rapidly at ease with a guy in my life. He seemed relieved and started to tell me about a dream he'd had recently, and as I listened attentively, I realized he was trying to work up the courage to do or say something. Right as I sensed the anticipated moment coming, however, we pulled into another station and a good friend of mine hopped on and sat down with us, abruptly ending everything.

I had known she was going to join us--I had invited her to come and even told her which train we'd be on. But it was still difficult not to be a little grumpy at the unfortunate timing... Roby was quiet for at least five minutes--obviously trying not to be irritated. Regardless--Christina, I know you're reading this, and we both love you dearly! :)

I have to admit, I felt discouraged. I was certain that the train ride would be our only chance to establish a connection and decide if we both had similar feelings. We arrived at the temple without ever re-establishing that special moment, and I felt deflated and even a little desperate. As I sat impatiently through our session, I came to a conclusion--I had to take matters into my own hands and tell Roby how I felt, or I would risk regretting that day for the rest of my life.

They Had to Travel Long Distances...

Do you believe in miracles? Not necessarily the walk-on-water or miraculous-physical-healing variety (although I definitely believe in those too), but do you believe in the small things that come together just a little too perfectly? If you don't, then this next installment of my story might seem like nothing more than an interesting string of curiously fortunate coincidences. To me, however, all I see is a merciful, omnipotent hand rapidly assembling the confused jigsaw of my life, and it is nothing short of miraculous.

I love temples. In the LDS Church, we have quite a few of them across the globe, and in my home state of Utah, there are upwards of fifteen. Before setting off on my crazy France adventures, I was in the habit of going to the temple at least once a week, both because I love the peace I feel there and because they are so accessible. But here in Europe, they aren't as easy to come by. The nearest one to Lyon is just outside of Bern, Switzerland--four hours away. The distance isn't too terrible, but going there requires advance planning--finding transportation, figuring out a place to stay, getting a travel group together, etc. Since one of my job hazards includes not always knowing when I'll have enough of my own time to travel, putting together temple trips has been a challenge, and by March of this year, I had only gone once to visit the temple. Fortunately, I finally had a weekend where I knew for sure that I would not be traveling with the Roneys, so I immediately started organizing. In no time, some friends and I were preparing for a temple day on
April 13.

Not long after Roby and I started writing to each other and in the midst of all my secret hopes and thoughts and dreams of spending time together in person, he asked me one day if I ever had the chance to go to the Swiss temple. Of course I told him about our anticipated trip in April and how I was excited to finally be going again. His next message, though, came as quite a surprise. It turned out that he had been planning to go to the temple the same week as me.

Now, you might easily say that he decided to go when he heard I was going to be there. We had both been hinting at each other that we would love to meet up, and we hadn't been writing for more than two weeks before he invited me to come to Italy. But you have to know that Lecce, Italy is nearly 13 hours away from Bern. It was even more difficult and rare for Roby to get the chance to make that journey than it was for me. Furthermore, he had been invited the day before asking me by some friends who were making the trek. This was not a sneaky plot just to see me. The first puzzle piece had simply been put in place.

Of course, things always have to be a little complicated. It turned out that I wouldn't be at the temple until Saturday whereas Roby's friends were leaving early Saturday morning. My initial excitement crashed down into disappointment when I realized we might not be able to see each other. But Roby just kept saying "we will see." The day before Roby left, he told me that somehow, there wasn't a place for him to stay near the temple on Friday night, and he was trying to figure out what to do. A crazy idea came to my mind. My friends and I would stay Friday night in Geneva--two hours away from the temple. What if I invited him to stay? Of course, it would mean taking a train down to Geneva and taking one back to Bern as our car was already full. It didn't seem logical at all. But the idea persisted in my mind, and I finally asked him.

It turns out he had been praying that I would invite him to Geneva.

Although I thought my idea was crazy and improbable, he also said he'd been hoping I would then take the train back with him to the temple. Puzzle piece number two. Furthermore, he had found someone who could give him a ride to Geneva that day--piece number three. And once again, if you'd still like me to be counting pieces, it turned out he would be able to stay all day on Saturday as there was yet another person who could give him a ride back to Italy even though his friends were leaving much earlier. It all seemed so perfect.

Friday, April 12--finally, the day arrived! I was so anxious and excited and nervous that I could hardly teach at all. Roby and I had just Skyped for the first time a few days before, and I had realized that he was even cuter than I thought from his pictures or my fuzzy MTC memories. But what if he didn't like me in person? What if things felt awkward? What if there wasn't any chemistry? What if we didn't fit well together after all? He had known me as his teacher--what if I was just imagining that he was really interested? What if I had to deal with a horrible disappointment yet again? I imagined dozens of scenarios for our first meeting--everything from a cold greeting and a miserable train ride to swelling orchestral music and a love-at-first-sight kiss. Soon enough, we were on the road and I was headed closer to my uncertain fate.

And, of course, things got complicated again. I had arranged for a friend to meet him and take him to where he would be staying, but the intention was always for me to meet up with him that night as well. Unfortunately, that didn't happen. I spent the whole day anticipating our first meeting that night, but coordinating our locations became too complicated, and we ended up staying 20 minutes away from each other. I was keenly disappointed. It seemed too ridiculous--so close and yet impossibly far away. Fortunately, we still planned to meet early the next morning at the Geneva train station.

I think I slept about two hours that night.

...A Young Man and Young Woman Fell in Love.

Back in the day...here we are on opposite sides of the group!

I don't remember what I thought after commenting on Roberto's new profile pic, but I do remember being excited when he wrote back two days later, clearly wanting to hear back from me. We started with the basics: work, school, an exchange of memories from the MTC. He asked for help with his English. I told him that he already wrote excellently well. I explained what I was doing in France. He mentioned that he went by Roby and that his hometown and current residence of Lecce, Italy wasn't too far away from Lyon...  They were small things that somehow made for rapid connections. Within just a couple days, our messages grew much longer and even became significantly more personal. I started checking my Facebook several times during the day to see if he'd responded yet and always felt unusually happy when I saw one of his messages. We fell into a pattern before a week had passed, and I started learning what times he was most likely to write back. But then one day, I didn't get a message.

It was getting late in the evening--almost time to go to bed--and I started feeling anxious. What had happened? Why hadn't he written back? Had I done something wrong? I must have reread my last message about ten times, carefully combing through it to make sure I hadn't said something stupid or something that could be misinterpreted culturally, linguistically, or otherwise. Finally, I went to bed feeling disappointed and yet telling myself not to be ridiculous. Obviously, people have lives and things they have to do. It's not like I was a priority for him, right? We weren't dating or anything--I had no claim on his time. But I'd been through similar situations before and they always ended up badly: waiting up for a text that never comes; hoping for an email response that is never written. This was probably just another one of those got-my-hopes-up-way-too-soon moments that I'd spend the next week or two coming down from. Residual bitterness from past experiences? Maybe. Fears created by old wounds? Absolutely.

This is where the next miracle happened. I woke up the following day, and, even though my hardened-by-experience side tried to stop my little-kid-at-Christmas side, I checked my Facebook first thing.

And he had written back.

Dear friends, not only had he written back, but he even apologized for not having written sooner. This seems like a very simple thing--and really, it is a simple thing that most people wouldn't think much of. But to me, it was a sign. In all my ten years of marriageable-age dating, I had never had a guy apologize to me for responding just a little later than normal--especially not without any prompting from me. Honestly, from that moment on, I was sold. Here was a man who obviously cared about my feelings, even if they are a little neurotic at times.

It was also at this point that I realized he had tried to contact me two years earlier, when I was elbows-deep in a master's program and struggling with my first time teaching a college French class. He had wanted to get to know me back then and had tried to spark a conversation on Facebook, but it never went anywhere. Frankly, I completely blew him off. I still don't remember why or what I was thinking. Ultimately, I guess it just wasn't the right time. In fact, back then I specifically did not want an intercultural relationship, because I felt like they were too complicated and would make a marriage too hard to navigate. I look back on that attitude with a smile now...but, I digress!

My favorite walk

At this point, I suddenly became very quiet about my personal life. It was unusual. I generally told at least my mom and a couple of good friends about every guy I was interested in. But this felt so...BIG...that I took a little while to open up about what was happening. And what exactly was happening? Well, I was discovering remarkable similarities between myself and Roby. Our minds had similar ways of thinking. Our beliefs were entirely compatible. Our life goals were aligned. What we were looking for existed fully in the other person. I was falling in love. And I could sense that he felt the same way. We hadn't spent a moment together in over five years, and yet I felt like I knew him very well. I began taking long walks in the crisp, spring air and spent a lot of time just thinking. I will always associate that season with those feelings--fresh blossoms mixed with new emotions and ideas. I didn't even know yet that the next series of even bigger miracles was just around the corner.

Once Upon a Time...

Remember how I said last time that big things have been happening in my life these past few months? Well, to sum up the story, I've been considering changing my blog name to be "Poppins Goes to France and Falls in Love With an Italian..." BUT, I think that would be a little less catchy. However, this does mean that I have some explaining to do! I've been turning this story over in my mind for months, trying to figure out the best way to share it on here--should I tell it like a fairytale? Should I make it funny? Should I just give an account of everything that happened? In the end, I've decided to tell it to you the way I see it--as a story of faith, healing, and learning to deeply trust God's promises after recognizing that my trust was wearing thin. And of course, there will be JOY! (And love and maybe some mushy stuff...) I guess that means that for the first time on this blog, things are about to get very personal around here... :)

When I came to France last September, I was very unsure of what I was getting myself into. Most people were excited for me and I was pretty excited for myself. But there were a few people who said to me that deciding to live in France for three years would probably mean that I was limiting my marriage possibilities--I know that might seem like a strange thing to say because there surely isn't an unusual imbalance of men to women in France, but to a 28 year old Mormon girl like myself, those kindly expressed concerns nagged at my mind. Couple that with all-too-many dear souls who for several years have asked me the tremendously personal question, "why aren't you married," and I guess you could say the pressures were running a bit high when I embarked on this adventure.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I'm a deep thinker. But not only do I think a lot, I also thrive on talking through my thoughts to a good human sounding board, especially a practical one who can tell me to be realistic. Unfortunately, my first few months in France were seriously lacking in sounding boards, and frankly, I was pretty lonely. Don't get me wrong--I was surrounded by very good people and I was unbelievably well taken care of by the Roney family. But I didn't feel like I had any friends that I could really talk to. As a result, those nagging concerns started turning into feelings of desperation and even despair. Part of me is embarrassed to admit that I really thought my chance at getting married was past--and I was pretty upset about it. Retrospectively, I'm telling myself that I was being dramatic. People get married in their much older age all the time--28 is not the cut-off for marital bliss! I guess it all goes back to that nun thing I joked about once...

Ooo--who is that handsome fellow?!

Anyway, I started the new year with a sense of quiet desperation and a bit of resignation. I wasn't going on dates at all, and I wasn't really seeing any dateable guys around. But, as I've said before, when life starts looking grim, that's when the "magic" (or I would say miracles) happen. One day, I was killing some time (a terrible expression, isn't it?) on Facebook and I saw a new profile picture of someone I hadn't seen in a few years--five and a half, to be exact. Back in those days, I was a teacher at the Provo Missionary Training Center (MTC), and I had many missionaries file through my classroom. And, of course, being a good teacher (hee hee), I am now friends with many of them on Facebook and like to follow up on their lives. I hadn't heard much from this particular former missionary (he wasn't and still isn't a big Facebook-er), so seeing his face lead me to wonder how he was doing and what he was up to (and I won't lie: I thought he was pretty cute...). So, I commented on his picture--I figured it was my teacherly responsibility, right? HA...ahem. Well, it turned out that an innocent Facebook comment has now changed my life forever.

Do I have your attention yet? Oh, good! Well...I'm afraid the rest will have to wait until next time. And don't worry, the preamble is over and there are still many awesome things to come!

Among the Dead

I know what you're thinking, but no--the reason for the temporary demise of my blog is not because I have been among the dead. Actually, some very exciting things have happened in the past few months which, frankly, I ought to have been writing about. BUT...when life gets exciting, isn't it better to just live it and then write about it later? At least, that's what I keep telling myself... Anyway, the recap on exciting events will wait for next time, because today, I just feel like giving you all an interesting snippet of French culture. And what better way to revive a blog, after all, than by talking about a cemetery! :)

It may seem strange to most people, but I have a confession--I have long had a mild fascination for cemeteries. There was a time when this fascination was connected with ghost stories and the supernatural, but for a much longer time, it's been more a question of interesting history. It all started when I was a little girl and my parents would bring flowers to their grandparents' graves on Memorial Day. My siblings and I would spend that time running around looking for the oldest headstones in the cemetery--and being from Utah, they didn't usually date much farther back than 1850.

This cemetery in Nice is much better-kept than the one I encountered
as a missionary in Metz--no cracked tombstones here!

When I first came to France as a missionary several years ago, I expected cemeteries to be absolutely fantastic--packed with ancient graves and looking just as green, tree-lined, and generally lovely as the average American cemetery. Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered for the first time why some people consider cemeteries to be creepy: in addition to the gravel walkways (no grass in sight) and the imposing monuments, some of the cement coverings on the tombs were so cracked and broken that I honestly wondered if I'd see bodies poking out of some of them. I was also very disappointed to learn that in France, a burial plot is sold to a family for a specified period of time--usually not more than 100 years--after which time the family has the option to renew their contract. However, if they choose not to renew, then the body is exhumed, the bones are either put in an ossuary or cremated, and the plot is sold to someone else. Alas...the rules that accompany overcrowding... And thus died my dreams of seeing graves from the 14th Century. In fact, it's rare to see graves dating back past, well, around 1850... HA! The irony!

Fortunately, I finally came across a rather lovely cemetery yesterday during a stroll through Nice, and I'm happy to report that my faith in French cemeteries has been partially renewed! No, there still wasn't any grass or trees or park benches, BUT--I discovered that some monuments can be really beautiful instead of frightening and certain cemeteries are actually well-kept and free of broken tombs. Not to mention the fact that this hilltop burial ground afforded a spectacular view of the sea. Perhaps I'll have to take up my old habit of evening strolls among the dead...

Anyway, that's all for today, friends. But stay tuned for next time in which I'll tell you all the details of this century's greatest love story!! Well, at least most of the details... :)

Bits of Bordeaux

Have you ever felt like a city was speaking to you? I mean, not in the literal "hello there, how are you doing" sort of way but in a "you belong here" sort of way? I still know remarkably little about Bordeaux, even though this was my third time visiting it--but something clicked for me this time. And for those of you who saw my crazy hotel pictures all over Facebook, no--it wasn't because I stayed in my very own "princess tower." Although, while we're on that subject, check out the accommodations!

Yes, that is a real rose on the edge of my
marble bathtub...

I even matched that day! It was just too perfect...

But anyway, back to the topic at hand... I've always been a fan of classical music; I took piano lessons for years and even started my college career as a music minor. I love going to the symphony and the music that seriously pumps me up is...don't laugh...Beethoven's 5th Symphony (the 3rd and 4th movements). And so the thing that really hit me about Bordeaux is the feeling that the opera house--rather than the standard gothic cathedral--is the heart of the city. Its surrounding streets are all teeming with people seeming to emanate from the opera's plaza. Somehow, I think if cities had a pulse, Bordeaux's would be pumping to the tune of Mozart's 40th Symphony. And it was wonderful.

Place de la Comédie (in front of the opera)

But as if the classicism and nearly palpable musicality weren't enough, artsy types seem to be drawn to this gold-stoned city. The most common mode of transportation was bikes--I've never seen so many business men and women on two wheels in my life--and as I walked around the city on my own, I understood why; who would want to be trapped in a car when there is so much art to be seen?! Further, the city is just incredibly artsy-bike-rider friendly. To illustrate, here's a small sampling of the Bordeaux I instantly fell in love with.

Just a standard movie theater...!

And a standard city gate

Yeah, I think I could live in Bordeaux...