There’s a Starbucks on St. Michel where I like to sit and watch the French go by. They are stylish! In winter one wears black 99% of the time. Brown or blue the other 1%. “Look” is everything. One woman came stylishly down the street, all her browns creating a palette of taste. Except for the fact that
she could have put two fingers between her heel and the back of her shoe. Ouch! Little matter. The “Look” had been accomplished.
I love the French. God dropped love for the French in my heart like a ton of feathers. (A ton of feathers weighs the same as a ton of steel – there’s just more of it.) So as I sit at my sidewalk table a smile naturally glistens on my lips. A few French will not quite smile but will nod almost imperceptibly. Most of them, seeing my smile, duck their heads and look at their feet. France, the country of love, is a country with a broken heart.
Christ Light of the Nations, a church on the outskirts of Paris, has a weekly two hour prayer session for France. One day the Lord said, “France was known as the daughter of the Catholic Church. Now she will be known as the Daughter of God.” France’s broken heart is about to be mended!
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