Tag: faith

My favorite Church in Paris, Johann Sebastian Bach and me.

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St Germaine

Église Saint-Germain-des-Prés is one of Paris’s oldest churches and sits in the middle of one of the city’s most exciting, interesting neighborhoods. Each time I visit Paris, I hop on the Metro and zoom over to the Church.

It’s always one of my first stops when I’m in town, mostly because I still light a candle there in memory of my Grandmother. I took the image shown above and tucked into the middle is one candle taller than the rest. That one’s for you, Grandma.

On one visit, it was a cold, dark, rainy day, and mist covered the church steeple. I walked up to the steps and pushed against the closed front door. It was stuck, so I pushed harder to open it. Behind the door was a small vestibule before you actually entered the Church. I stood there for a moment before opening the second small door. The door opened a couple of inches, and as I entered, I had one of the most amazing experiences of my life.

The Church was rather dark, and suddenly a ray of sunshine poured through one of the windows like a beacon directed to me. At almost the same moment, I heard an organist begin the opening notes of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” The music became louder and louder, with notes soaring to the very top of the Church. I was transfixed. I thought to myself: “Wow, is this a sign, or what?” I sat down for about 20 minutes while the organist continued practicing. During that time, the music started and stopped, and each time I was stunned that only three people were in the Church for that one session. The organist, my Grandmother, and I.

We are all thankful for John Newton.

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Next to reading, I love listening to a wide range of music, including Southern gospel and hymns. One hymn that seems to be on every station is “Amazing Grace.” It has been adapted to every style, and through it all, the lyrics have survived since 1772. I recently read an article about the author and how he came to write the lyrics.

Newton was a slave trader. I believe he came to realize that he was distressed, that it was wrong, and had to change his life immediately, which he did, turning the slave ship around in mid-voyage. By doing so, he was saved by grace, not by his own efforts or works. I wonder if many people think that when they hear the song.

The 3 most powerful words used in the South are: “Bless Your Heart.”

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If you live in any Southern State, you’re probably familiar with hearing this phrase almost every day. People of all ages and genders in the South often use it, and it’s seen as a classic example of social commentary—something that can be personalized in many ways.

For instance, you might say: ‘Bless her, his, their, and your hearts.’ This phrase is a way of expressing your thoughts, which could be anything from “That’s the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen” to “That house is painted the worst color, ever.” The key is to quickly add the “Bless” word, which gently softens your comment and keeps everyone feeling good.

Living and learning in the South is a challenge, especially for a boy born and raised in San Francisco. However, after 20 years here, I have been able to blend in quite well.

The 3 most powerful words used in the South are: “Bless Your Heart.”

~ globalwhiz@protonmail.com ~ Leave a comment

If you live in any Southern State, you’re probably familiar with hearing this phrase almost every day. People of all ages and genders in the South often use it, and it’s seen as a classic example of social commentary—something that can be personalized in many ways.

For instance, you might say: ‘Bless her, his, their, and your hearts.’ This phrase is a way of expressing your thoughts, which could be anything from: “That’s the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen” to “That house is painted the worst color, ever.” The key is to quickly add the “Bless” word, which gently softens your comment and keeps everyone feeling good.

Living and learning in the south is a challenge, especially for a boy born and raised in San Francisco. However, after 20 years here, I have been able to blend in quite well.

An average of 150 WW2 vets die every day.

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My friend, Fred, was one of them.

I stood alongside members of Fred’s family and friends to honor my friend for the last time. He was a neighbor, church companion, daredevil driver, an enthusiastic gardener, and a wonderful dad and husband.

He lived right up the street from me; he and his lovely wife, Ruth, drove by endless times each week. If they could see my car in the driveway, they’d invariably stop by to “visit,” as they say in the South. In Church, Ruth would often sit behind me, and Fred, in his self-appointed role of photographer-in-chief, would busy himself snapping photos of anyone who came into his view. They were loved and respected by everyone.

While Fred had so much to be proud of, he spoke most enthusiastically about an “Honor Flight” that he and other veterans were able to take to Washington, DC. The flight and all expenses are paid by a local merchant. The group flies round-trip to DC on a chartered plane and is met by volunteers who take them on extended guided tours of the military monuments and sites in Washington.

He simply could not stop talking about the trip and what it meant to the group, as well as to him personally. I happened to be at the airport here when one of the flights was boarding for a trip (not Fred’s). Before boarding, the veterans were like children on their first outing; they were so excited they couldn’t sit still. When the plane taxied out for take-off, two airport fire trucks came alongside, giving them a gigantic 2-barrel water cannon send-off. It was a beautiful sight; everyone around me cheered as loudly as possible for them.

Fred, I miss you; I am so proud to have been a part of your final ceremony.