The Sunday after my first foray into French church attendance found me on an RER train to the palace at Versailles. I’d done my research and had a folded receipt in the cell phone pocket of my black GAP sling bag. On that paper was written 5 Rond Point De L’alliance, the address of the nearest meetinghouse. We all arrived in Versailles and received our instructions, which kind of included, “Don’t die so we don’t get sued and take the RER back at 6:00 p.m.”
I approached an advisor, who helped me approach a guard and translated asking said guard how I might find my way to said address. Said guard shrugged his officery shoulders and suggested I ask a bus driver down at the main stop.
The advisor walked me to the stop with the promise of translating my way on to the bus. I was pleased to see that the first three bus drivers had friendly signs stating they spoke English. Yay! With pictures of the world! That’s friendly! I’ll be ok! And at church in no time! Ha! My tagalong translator was told the number of the correct bus and we waited a good twenty minutes—passing time and discussing Mormons—until my bus approached.
Which is hilarious, because did my bus driver have a sign? Did my surly, very hairy, and somewhat frightening bus driver speak English? No. Hahaha. That’s a funny story, eh? The advisor had me show him my crumpled piece of church-addressedness, I paid my fare, and I sat in the front seat. I smiled at the driver. He may have growled.
We left the palace grounds and headed into French suburbia. I still had a good 20 minutes before Sacrament Meeting was set to start, and I was feeling pretty tickled and proud of myself. I began to relax with the promise that my bus driver had pledged to my advisor that he’d get me to church in relatively safe fashion and my seeming uncanny ability to make life work.
Ha.
We approached a transfer stop and the growly driver summoned me to the front of the bus. In very slow and elementary French, he explained it was time for me to get off the bus. I leaped from my seat, grabbed my bag, descended the stairs, looked around and took in the churchy air. Except there was no churchy air to breathe because that whole Rond Pont D’Alliance thing wasn’t happening.
A young voice behind me said, “Excusez-moi, madamoiselle—my name is Daniel. The, um, le driver? He say you need help.” I said yes, please, I need to find this address. It’s a church. He looked at my crumpled, addressed paper and looked up, confused. “I do not know this place.”
I smiled, still knowing. Knowing it just had to be hiding around some building, within my grasp but concealing itself from my immediate view. Daniel excused himself and walked very far away, very quickly, and very suddenly, I found myself panicked in a quiet place—which place I did not know. As I took notice of the giant area map posted adjacent to the bus stop and began to search it for signs of of the street name, I heard the bus driver speaking behind me. “Where is your church?” he asked. “Je ne sais pas,” I shrugged. “There are plenty of churches around, you know,” he offered. “Oui,” I answered. “Mais, this is my church.”
We studied the map until I spotted it! L’Église de Jésus-Christ des Saints des Derniers Jours! Marked with a cross! Woo! There it is! How do I get it? WAIT! Why is it so far away from the “you are right here, you sucker” dot on the map? Why? I don’t understand. Is this right? Is this where we are?
I pointed, and said solemnly, “Voila.” The bus driver’s voice lowered as he sighed and growled simultaneously. I managed to enter a state of great depression before he looked at me and told me to get on his bus. I wondered what he meant or where he’d take me. “Pardon?” He repeated himself and pointed, grumbling in the direction of his grumpymobile.
I boarded. It’s all I really knew to do.
I sat in the same seat, this time deflated of the hope I’d had in finding church that day. Feeling dejected and somewhat depressed at the outcome of my great adventure.
We rode along for some time before I realized that something wasn’t quite right about the way people were boarding the bus. I am no public transit expert—neither domestic nor international—but what was happening wasn’t normal. When a patron, somewhat confused looking, boarded the bus, they went directly to the driver and asked a series of questions I didn’t understand. He answered with questions and when they found themselves on the same grumbly page, the patron would either take his seat or exit the bus. I wondered what kind of horrible interview he was putting them through. Some kind of grumpy attempt at only busing people who passed.
I knew we’d traveled some way when the driver called to me and directed me to stand next to him as he drove. I didn’t recognize the area as the place where I’d boarded, and fear flashed through my mind.
“Your church. There,” he pointed.
“Excusez-moi?”
“Your church. There. You exit here. You come back there.”
“My church?”
Grumpily, “Yes, your church. You get off here. You come back there.”
Several moments passed as he approached the stop ahead of us as I realized what was happening. This surly, grumpy French bus driver had driven me off of his route to find my church and to deliver me there safely. As he’d stopped for people along the lines, they’d discussed the patrons’ destinations and whether they were along the route to my church.
I thanked him profusely, saying “beaucoups” more than should be legal and I waved to him as he drove away, and the grin he let slip between grumbles did not go unnoticed.
I rushed to the church building on the cul-de-sac, and hurried inside. I could hear the sacrament hymn being played, and several minutes passed before a young mother brought her son into the hallway. I followed them back into the chapel and took my seat on an empty pew behind them. I noticed the young mother had a baby girl, probably six months old, in a carrier sitting next to her.
I soaked up the Spirit of the simple meeting. I smiled as an American pre-teenager, one of the daughters of the brand new mission president, gave a talk in English as one of the sister missionaries translated. I listened through headphones as an elderly man explained what the temple means to him. And when the relief society stood to sing, the first lines of my favorite hymn—”How Great Thou Art”—found me sinking into my seat in pure joy.
After the meeting, I introduced myself to the mission president’s family. I held the baby girl who’d sat in front of me, who is the bishop’s daughter, whose name was Leia. Like the princess.
I left before I wanted to, but knew I’d need extra time to find my way back to the palace. In my haste to soak up all things churchy, I’d neglected to worry about what kind of effort finding my way back might entail.
I found myself on the street in front of the church, not even knowing which bus stop was which. I looked, back and forth, trying to make one of them look more familiar than the other and I was standing in the middle of the small, residential road, when a noise from behind startled me.
I turned around to see a bus.
And then I looked up to see the same man driving that bus. The same bus that had brought me to that church 45 minutes earlier. And the same man who had gone off of his own route to get me there. And I took in a deep breath and with a giant grin on my face, I responded to his, “Want a ride?” hand motions by rushing to the door to be let in.
I looked at him, half-confused and half-hopeful that what I thought was happening really was happening. Had he really come back to find me and to take me back? I looked at him and asked, “Oui?” And he said, “The palace. Yes. Let us drive.”
When we made it back to his route, after going through the same pick-up-people routine as before, we stopped at a service station so he could catch up on time. He asked me things.
“Your church. Good?”
“Yes, so good.”
“Your church. An American church?”
“No, a worldwide church.”
Confused, “Oh?”
“Yes. And a good church. I am here studying. I needed church.”
And he nodded, and started the bus, and we were finished talking.
He was back on his route and when we approached the palace, he let me know it was time to go. I looked at him and tried to take in the sight of him—my gruffy, hairy, French guardian angel.
“Merci. Merci beaucoups,” didn’t seem like enough at that point.
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I participated in the 2006 Blogathon—one post every 30 minutes for 24 hours—on 29-30 July 2006, to benefit the American Lung Association. I’ve hidden the boring posts, but left the somewhat legible ones.
