Mid-January to mid-February marks a special time to all people in France who care about their budget, which nowadays amounts to almost everyone that doesn't live in West Paris or isn't named Sarkozy. It is a glorious time of year featuring what is known as les soldes, or "the sales". This is unlike in the US, where one never knows when the real sales are going on unless there is a line of tents outside of Best Buy, and because WalMart's prices are always falling while Sears seems to come out every other week with its lowest prices of the season, whatever that means. In France, real, legitimate mark-downs of the 70% variety happen only twice a year - between January and February and again from mid-June to mid-July. You know this because it is regulated. Stores are not allowed to have sales at any other time without special permission from the authorities.
In her insightful book "60 Million French Can't Be Wrong", Julie Barlow explains this is leftover from the practices of the merchants' guilds in the Middle Ages. The guilds of that time served to protect merchants from competition from other villages by regulating prices. This was enforced by a sort of medieval policeman called the Provost. The Provost would enforce the law by breaking the legs of any offenders. The Provosts eventually evolved into today's local policemen. Today it is still the local authorities who insure that businesses can only reduce prices more than 10% during the approved periods, or else face severe penalties. These sales in France pre-date the founding of America. To go out and look around at the mall during this hallowed time is more than just shopping. It is participating in French history. At least that's what Dalene tries to tell me.
Since necessary things like shoes and coats and man-purses at normal prices in Europe usually require a decade-long layaway plan or government bailout to afford, these sales are something not to be missed. So typically on a day like today, the last Saturday of les soldes, we were out in minus-5 degree Celcius weather with the rest of the country, jammed into stores with interesting names like Babou, Tati, and LeClerc, which is kind of like a Super Walmart with a better bread selection and without AARP greeters.
Today, we happened to need to grab a quick lunch at KFC. Now most French will bad-mouth our American fast-food for its poor nutrition and quality, and rightly so. But all sense of taste must have gone out the window, because the lines were coming out the doors and there wasn't a seat in the house. This was also caused by the school winter holiday schedule. Different areas of France have their holidays staggered. But at least a third of the country's holiday makers at any one time, find themselves in our vicinity of southeastern France. All the skiers who had spent the week of the school holiday up on the slopes above Grenoble, were on their way home, while a new batch of snowboarders and sledders were coming from another part of France to take their place. And every one of them got hungry for the Colonel's secret recipe at the exact same time.
Skiers and shoppers, there we all were, brought together by an act of fate and the State. And yet there was no hate. Despite the crowds and the waiting, there were no angry outbursts or beligerent customers. Everyone seemed to take it in stride - even the dad who was getting up from the table to leave and had his drink knocked out of his hands and into his lap by an overanxious kid trying to sit down quickly to stake out the imminently vacated table. Maybe a lifetime of regulated sales and school holidays makes jostling crowds just part of the expected for the French. Long lines, traffic jams and spilled cokes tend to make most Americans have an aneurism. Maybe the French are experts at staying cool and composed. Either that, or they're still afraid of that Provost still lurking around somewhere.
These past few days, Dalene has been busy doing spring cleaning around the house. Yeah, I know we just started winter, but a woman’s sense of needing to give the family nest a makeover is not necessarily regulated by the seasons. It can strike at any time. She finally had enough of the slow build-up of wear-and-tear, clutter and dust bunnies since the last time she went through the house with a white glove, fine-tooth comb and whatever other proverbial tool helps one find dirt and root out all t-shirts with brown-stained armpits. It might have had something to do with our 17 year old Christmas tree that sheds a good amount of its needles every time it is put up or taken down. After our post-Noel cleanup, we were finding little green artificial pine needles everywhere and were getting tired of everything looking like it had a dusting of oregano. Something just had to be done. The deep cleaning started in the kitchen – which was great. Her domain. What should be a hygienic place from which yummy food is brought to the table. It gleamed and glistened more than normal when she was done. I liked it a lot, right up until my first cup of coffee the next morning, when I shuffled in to the kitchen and reached for my favorite mug. I could do this with my eyes closed, which I usually do at that time of the morning. I unexpectedly latched onto a plastic pitcher. That could mean either my coffee cup had been super-sized, or that Dalene was both cleaning AND rearranging.
A quick check of the house confirmed my worst suspicions: sock drawer suspiciously well organized; top drawer of hall cabinet cleared of all paper-clips, guitar picks, half-sticks of gum and miscellaneous screws; and the clincher, all coats, gloves, shoes, and hats had been mysteriously taken and put in a new top secret location. This was bad news for me. One, because I am a member of the male race and I already struggle to find things that are where they have always been, let alone after they have been whisked away to a place heaven knows where. But secondly, because I am a bit like a blind person who needs things to be in familiar places, otherwise I get disoriented and easily lose my way. As I write, the process is continuing. Nothing is safe from being swapped with something else. Sweaters, books, furniture, photos on the wall, even door-handles (well not really, but it wouldn’t surprise me). Little piles destined for the garage appear regularly, unfortunate items deemed unfit for the “new” us. Now the real opinion of a shirt or tie is evidenced by its appearance in the rummage-sale stack.
There is a spiritual analogy to be drawn here. In the same way I like to feel clean and be clean, I love it when Christ comes to my rescue and performs a deep cleansing of my heart and soul. It feels so good to shine again and get the gunk out. But cleaning AND rearranging? I don’t like that so much. As he lays his finger on unattractive attitudes or habits I have been wearing, I find myself a little reluctant to put them on the throw-out pile, even though they might be dingy, moth-eaten and even smell a bit rank. I like things in my life to remain comfortably predictable, just the way I arranged them. I have grown comfortable with the way things are. And so I am adverse to the Holy Spirit rearranging elements in my life, suddenly and without permission, when I am not ready. Relational styles, emotional supports, and coping systems – all are fair game for his tendency toward renovation. But my life is His domain. He has the right. And frankly, there are times when He has just had enough of the clutter and the dirt; something just has to be done. I feel a little disoriented at first. But slowly, I begin to see the wisdom of the new arrangement. And it begins to feel more familiar and not so foreign. This month as we begin extended days of fasting and prayer to begin 2012, I expect my life to go through some cleaning and rearranging – maybe a lot of it. And you know what I’ve found? Both my wife and the Holy Spirit are pretty good at spring cleaning. And it’s OK.
As Christ followers who love to celebrate Christmas, my family and I feel as if we are living between two extremes this Christmas season. At one end of the spectrum lies the no-holds-barred, full-on embracing of all things Christmas-related, sacred and secular all rolled together into one big yule log. Santa makes appearances at church celebrations, Christmas trees adorn the platforms, and Christians in all 50 states who campaign to "Keep the Christ in Christmas", see an antichrist conspiracy in every generic "Happy Holidays" uttered or written.
In contrast, I have heard and read several pastors all but deny the existence of Christmas in an effort to keep out the commercial influence and historically pagan origins or overtones from influencing the faithful. One pastor in particular seemed to think the portrayal of Jesus as a baby in a manger reduced Him to a caricature void of His power. For him, Bethlehem cannot be emphasized without minimizing Golgotha. Funny, yet sadly reactionary. Some evengelical churches will see Christmas come and go with nary a change in decor, song list or sermon theme. As if ignoring Christmas will somehow get it changed to the real date of.... well, there is no definitive date, right? But for some, I get the idea that celebrating the birth of Christ on an arbitrary date in March would just, well,feel better than celebrating it on the arbitrary date of December 25th. The effort to not resemble a Carnegie Hall Christmas ends up looking instead like a Kingdom Hall Xmas - kind of sad and hollow.
There you have it - two camps, each just as saved and sincere as the other. Yet one tries to deny Christmas as truly Christian at all, while the other claims the church to be the real owner and last true guardian of the holiday.
I, for one, feel a bit confused by the debate. I would aim for balance in the middle of the fray. I think the Goods are just going to keep on doing what we have always done, and that is to retain, as well as add, as many meaningful memory making traditions we can pack into one month, and enjoy and celebrate them to the fullest with as many believers and non-believers as we can get to join us. While doing so, we plan to be as careful as always to make Christ the focal point of it all and make the Greatest who ever lived be seen and glorified in every facet of the celebration possible. And yet, every year always requires an effort to not let the spirit of the world, manifested by hurriedness, greed, and materialism, encroach into the spirit of the celebration we hold dear.
Don't get me wrong. Santa gets no air-time at our house, You won't find Father Christmas, Pere Noel or Kris Kringle mixing it up with the angels here. But neither do we demonize the poor fella, his reindeer or even the often slighted "pagan" Christmas tree. In the years of practicing to walk the line between Christmas hymns and Christmas hype. I think we get a bit better at it with every passing gingerbread house decorated. But in the end, my Jesus gets a bit more honor, focus, and attention in December than any other month out of my year. And for that, I am grateful for Christmas, mistletoe and all.
