Going to church in Paris.
The first week I was able to attend—the second Sunday there—I took the train to the end of the line and then … further. And then walked a mile. And then I missed my car. A lot. The wardhouse was in a several-story-high office building of sorts with a spire extending from the facade. Once inside, I made my way to Relief Society and found a quiet seat in the back.
Within minutes, among the quiet French conversation, I heard an American girl ask where the chapel was. The Relief Society president explained that we’d have Relief Society first and asked her to have a seat. She happened to have chosen the one in front of me. I leaned forward, tapped her shoulder, and said, “I’m sorry, but are you American?” and she quickly turned to face me and answered, “Yes! And I’m so happy to hear English!” I admitted I was, too, though I’d only been away from the hotel filled with American teenagers for an hour.
I asked her where she was from. And she said Georgia. And I was shocked. And my mouth dropped. And I told her me too. I said hi, I’m Ashley. And she said hi, I’m Lexi. Lexi Snow.
So we sat together in Relief Society and then in Sunday School, which was tucked away in a stifling hot loft upstairs, with closed window near the ceiling. Our teacher was a young African woman named Aurelie. She explained about hope, and light, and how they go hand in hand. How they are home. And Lexi and I cried together. We longed for home. And for hope of home. And I think we were both grateful to have one another there.
That’s the day things started to look up. It was more than the fact that I got to the right church and it was more than the fact that I got to be in church that day—it was knowing that things were going to be ok in Paris, and I was going to be able to make it that way. That knowledge was powerful, and the peace I’d found could have never prepared me for the next week’s adventure.