suddenly finds she’s lacking in the muscle-tone department.” Amy lifted her arm and jiggled her underarm flab for emphasis. “The verse says, ‘Wake up! Strengthen what remains.’ ”
This time I laughed aloud. Amy smiled winsomely. I wondered what God thought of Amy at moments like this. Somehow I had a feeling she made Him smile.
I often found myself thinking the way to find favor with God was through the obedience school of my childhood training. Every verse of Scripture and every theological premise had to be understood flawlessly before I could discuss it with others. Amy, however, seemed to revel in the access she had to all that was sacred. She loved exploring the depths of truth in all its possible forms. I wondered if she was one of those children who continually brought a twinkle to God’s ever-watchful eye.
I had a feeling Amy was in line for plenty of blessings before this trip was over, and I didn’t mind absorbing any excess. Especially when that excess started with a flight over the Atlantic Ocean while reclining in first class with soft pillows and cozy lap quilts. We even were offered small printed menus listing our options for meal service. Menus!
Our beef Stroganoff was served with warm dinner rollsand white cloth napkins. The nest of fresh greens came with juicy mandarin orange slices and caramelized walnuts.
After the most luxurious flight either of us had ever experienced, Amy and I landed in Paris and were herded efficiently through customs. We collected our luggage without a snag. I watched Amy devise a piggyback system with a strap on her luggage so she could pull the pieces behind her like a train.
“I’m impressed.”
“You better be,” she answered with a wry grin.
As we navigated our way through the airport, aside from the overhead announcements being delivered to us in French, nothing yet seemed extraordinary. But Amy’s expression showed that she found everything happening around her magical.
“That guy back there just told the woman that their flight to Milan was delayed.”
I kept walking, expecting Amy to explain why that was relevant.
She looked over to the side and then said, “Those two girls with the cell phones are mad at their friend because she didn’t call them yet.”
I realized what was happening. Amy was eavesdropping on the sea of French conversations while I ignorantly sailed by all the same people without a clue as to what they were saying. I began to grasp what an advantage Amy’s familiarity with the French language was going to be.
“Do you know which one of these signs directs us to the taxi stand?” I asked.
Amy looked up. “Sure. It’s that one.”
I followed her out into the night air and told her how much I was going to appreciate her translation skills.
“I hope I can come up with enough French words to tell the driver the name of our hotel,” Amy said.
“If we have any problems, we can just show him the paper with the printed-out reservation.”
“Did you take taxis a lot the last time you were here?”
“No. I don’t remember ever taking a cab in Paris. We were seeing Europe on ten dollars a day. That meant a lot of walking and taking the bus or the Metro. Not taxis.”
Amy and I moved to the front of the line with our luggage, and as the next black sedan taxi pulled up, Amy said, “Check out the license! It looks like a subliminal ad for the flax seed oil I use.”
I squinted through my glasses and read the numbers: 050FLX50.
That was my first clue that Amy might be experiencing jet lag. She was seeing word puzzles in license plates.
The driver hopped out and quickly stuffed our bags into the ample trunk before running around to his door and taking off into the airport traffic with a bolt.
“Hotel Isabella,
s’il vous plaît
,” Amy said, sounding eager to try out her French. “Hotel Isabella,” the driver responded. “Oui.”
I discreetly put my finger to my lips as a signal to Amy not to say anything that
This time I laughed aloud. Amy smiled winsomely. I wondered what God thought of Amy at moments like this. Somehow I had a feeling she made Him smile.
I often found myself thinking the way to find favor with God was through the obedience school of my childhood training. Every verse of Scripture and every theological premise had to be understood flawlessly before I could discuss it with others. Amy, however, seemed to revel in the access she had to all that was sacred. She loved exploring the depths of truth in all its possible forms. I wondered if she was one of those children who continually brought a twinkle to God’s ever-watchful eye.
I had a feeling Amy was in line for plenty of blessings before this trip was over, and I didn’t mind absorbing any excess. Especially when that excess started with a flight over the Atlantic Ocean while reclining in first class with soft pillows and cozy lap quilts. We even were offered small printed menus listing our options for meal service. Menus!
Our beef Stroganoff was served with warm dinner rollsand white cloth napkins. The nest of fresh greens came with juicy mandarin orange slices and caramelized walnuts.
After the most luxurious flight either of us had ever experienced, Amy and I landed in Paris and were herded efficiently through customs. We collected our luggage without a snag. I watched Amy devise a piggyback system with a strap on her luggage so she could pull the pieces behind her like a train.
“I’m impressed.”
“You better be,” she answered with a wry grin.
As we navigated our way through the airport, aside from the overhead announcements being delivered to us in French, nothing yet seemed extraordinary. But Amy’s expression showed that she found everything happening around her magical.
“That guy back there just told the woman that their flight to Milan was delayed.”
I kept walking, expecting Amy to explain why that was relevant.
She looked over to the side and then said, “Those two girls with the cell phones are mad at their friend because she didn’t call them yet.”
I realized what was happening. Amy was eavesdropping on the sea of French conversations while I ignorantly sailed by all the same people without a clue as to what they were saying. I began to grasp what an advantage Amy’s familiarity with the French language was going to be.
“Do you know which one of these signs directs us to the taxi stand?” I asked.
Amy looked up. “Sure. It’s that one.”
I followed her out into the night air and told her how much I was going to appreciate her translation skills.
“I hope I can come up with enough French words to tell the driver the name of our hotel,” Amy said.
“If we have any problems, we can just show him the paper with the printed-out reservation.”
“Did you take taxis a lot the last time you were here?”
“No. I don’t remember ever taking a cab in Paris. We were seeing Europe on ten dollars a day. That meant a lot of walking and taking the bus or the Metro. Not taxis.”
Amy and I moved to the front of the line with our luggage, and as the next black sedan taxi pulled up, Amy said, “Check out the license! It looks like a subliminal ad for the flax seed oil I use.”
I squinted through my glasses and read the numbers: 050FLX50.
That was my first clue that Amy might be experiencing jet lag. She was seeing word puzzles in license plates.
The driver hopped out and quickly stuffed our bags into the ample trunk before running around to his door and taking off into the airport traffic with a bolt.
“Hotel Isabella,
s’il vous plaît
,” Amy said, sounding eager to try out her French. “Hotel Isabella,” the driver responded. “Oui.”
I discreetly put my finger to my lips as a signal to Amy not to say anything that
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