We are here to love each other

Years ago when I lived on Cape Cod, I met with Madame Marceline every Wednesday afternoon to study French. We met faithfully at two o’clock at her house overlooking Shawme Pond in Sandwich, drinking Yogi Tea, reciting the little quotations on the tea tags. First in English, then translating to French. All these years later, I realize it wasn’t the French language I was mesmerized by, but it was Marceline, herself. And her stories.

I admit it—the stories caught my imagination much more than the challenge of learning the passé composé. Madame Marceline had a whole lot of stories to tell. She was only fourteen years old, when the Germans occupied her village in Montpellier. During our Wednesday afternoons, she would describe—in great dramatic detail--those days of danger and deprivation. She described how the Nazis terrorized the villagers--in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. She told me how even fifty years later, she still woke up in the black of the night--in a cold sweat of a nightmare--believing that there was a Nazi hiding in her hay barn. Never mind that the war had ended long ago. Never mind that she no longer lived in France and certainly did not have a hay barn.

I often felt as if an afternoon with Marceline—my elegant femme d’un certain age with her long white hair pulled up in a French twist, her colorful scarves and her penchant for quoting Montaigne—was a form of time-travel. I do believe we were brought into the same orbit by some mysterious hand. A force that wanted me to learn more than just the French language, but rather, wanted me to bear witness to this French woman’s stories. My friendship with Marceline meant that I had agreed to enter into a sacred trust. I was obliged to listen with an open heart, to learn from her and most importantly—to be a trustworthy steward of her stories.

Isn’t this the nature of friendship—to listen and to be a trustworthy steward of our stories. To never forget. And to love each other, always.

Love,

Jamie