A few days ago, I posted about having lunch with a new friend and feeling guilty that I hadn’t connected well with the other French folks in the area. Part of me has realized that just being in transition is enough, that I need to extend grace to the hardest person (me). Another part is motivated to try again. I’m thankful God isn’t in heaven with a scowl, longing to scold me for my language ability or my fear. I forget that His is the cheerleader voice, gentle, alarmingly patient, all-loving.
So, as it is with the Lord, He sent me a snippet of encouragement yesterday. That same friend dropped by to give back the swimsuit Julia forgot. “I’m reading your book,” she said.
“I’m so glad,” I told her.
“I am really enjoying it. It’s nice to know there are other mothers who think like me. That I’m not alone.”
That opened the door to talk more about books and reading, with a lovely end to a brief conversation.
I’ve wondered sometimes what God was up to, sending me to France just when my “writing career” was taking off. I’ve wondered how I would fit here, considering the giftings He’s given me and the fact that I need to be writing words every day. I’ve wondered so many things. But yesterday I smiled. God used my book. In France.
In that, I rejoice.