Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

Lisa

Be sure to invite us for cake

It was just a few days before my son’s seventh birthday. One set of family had just been in town to celebrate Thanksgiving with us (and an early birthday); the other set was due to arrive in a few days. I was a tiny bit stressed and overwhelmed, which happens when there is too much activity and not enough solitude.

But it was Tuesday, so I made my weekly trek to the historic church on a city corner, rang the bell and waited to be let in for the cultural orientation class I sit in on most weeks. I don’t remember now if this was a health week or a finance week, but it was my second time sitting with a Congolese family who had arrived here from Uganda, maybe. They spoke Swahili and French and English, if we talked slow. During a break, I was chatting with the mother. We almost always talk about our children.

“I have one daughter,” I say, “she is 8. And a son. He will be 7 on Friday.”

She didn’t hesitate. She smiled wide.

“Oh! Be sure to invite us for cake.”

I almost couldn’t believe my ears. This woman I barely knew, who barely knew me, had just invited herself to my house to eat cake with us during a family birthday!

Maybe I should have been more surprised than I was. It only lasted a moment.

We sort of laughed it off. Class continued and we parted ways.

As I thought about it later in the day, what surprised me most was not her request but how much I wished I could make it happen.

—

If you know me at all, you know my house is seldom “visitor ready.” We have two kids and a lot of extraneous stuff and not a lot of room (also not a ton of energy to devote to organizing and cleaning, though we do a little of each now and then).

But this wasn’t the reason I couldn’t invite this woman and her family to my house. It wasn’t even that we had family coming to stay with us because I think they know us well enough by now to know that “weird” and “unexpected” are just part of the package.

No, it was the distance. We live a few miles outside of the city, a 10-or-so minute drive from downtown, depending on traffic, more like a 45-minute walk with unreliable sidewalk access. This has been a problem for me since my first day of volunteering with a refugee resettlement organization. These friendly, enthusiastic, hopeful new residents always want to know where I live. And I regretfully tell them it is too far and not safe to walk there.

I die a little on the inside every time.

So, here’s a not-so secret secret: For a little while now, Phil and I have been talking about moving into the city. We technically live within walking distance of the city limit line but we are officially in what I would call the suburbs. It’s been three-and-a-half years since we felt the tug to move to Lancaster. You can read that story here.

We are grateful for the way God moved us into this half-house, for the way He orchestrated events and how He has provided since then, through job changes and life struggles. But we always knew it was temporary. We have two bedrooms and two kids who need their own space. We have one bathroom. (One bathroom x four people = a whole lot of wailing.) We just need a little more room. But even that “little more” we need is out of our price range in this school district.

This is how we’ve presented it to the kids: do you want to stay in this school district and continue to share a bedroom, or do you want to have your own bedrooms and move to another school district? They are logical kids, and the bedrooms have won out.

In the past few weeks, Phil and I have talked with friends who live in the city, or who live in other cities, or who have lived in the city or who have done wild and unusual things with their life (which they would say is only following God’s leading but it is the same). We have told them what is on our hearts. 

How I want to spend more time with the refugees moving into our community through volunteering and yes, even spending time at their house or mine. I have no illusions that it will be one big happy refugee party all the time, but the potential to deepen connections will be there.

How we need to live in a neighborhood with people we can share a little bit of life with. We get just a tiny bit of this with the few neighbors we currently have, but we do not have a true sense of belonging to a place.

How all of our favorite things to do and eat are in the city. How we miss being able to walk places. How we need to be face-to-face with people on the margins. How we feel like people on the margins anyway and we just don’t belong in the suburbs.

How the city makes us feel alive.

—

On Christmas Eve, we attended our church’s candlelight service for the first time since we’ve lived here. Usually we are traveling or already in Illinois for the holiday, but this year, Phil had to work before and after Christmas, so we had our own family gathering before the kids and I flew to Illinois.

We left church depressed. Christmas Eve services are not exactly church, I forget. Because everyone has family there who aren’t normally at church, and because we hadn’t been super vocal about our holiday plans, some people were surprised to see us there. We had nowhere to go or be afterwards, and we were still processing the news of Phil losing his job at the end of the year, and I have no shame in telling you that the celebration of light coming into the world did nothing to lift our spirits.

So, we went looking for light. We hadn’t done a Christmas lights drive yet, so we found our one favorite house and searched for a few others. Then we found ourselves in the city and we just drove around. There weren’t a lot of people out but it wasn’t vacant either. The moment we crossed into the heart of the city, my spirit lifted.

This was where I wanted to be.

—

And that’s how I know this is a God-nudge. I grew up in a smallish Midwestern town. I have always loved visiting cities (especially Chicago!) but I never saw myself living there. I’m too scared, I would tell myself. Too naive. Too whatever. I have zero street smarts.

But more and more the city is where I feel most like me. No pretending. No striving. Just me being me. Sure, the city has its faults, and I’m bound to be disappointed or disillusioned, but I’m already some of those things.

More than that, though, the city is where I need to be. Because of my love for refugees; because I have friends and family on society’s margins; because I know what it is to be poor, on welfare, struggling to get by; because the current political climate is against people such as these, then I want to be closer to them. Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s exhausting.

I have never participated in a protest. I’m still cautious about certain social media activism, not because I don’t care but sometimes because I care too much (about causing conflict with people I love, even if I’m speaking for what is right). I don’t have much in the way of influence. I can do what any citizen can do and make calls and send e-mails and letters or Tweet my representatives.

But when that doesn’t feel like enough, all I have left is my life.

My life can speak my values more loudly than anything I say. And so when I say I stand with refugees and the marginalized and those living in poverty, I want to literally stand with them. To live where they live. To meet their kids through my kids. To experience life with them in all of its beauty and pain.

Make no mistake, I have no plan to move to the city to save it. We are not bringing God to the city. (Spoiler alert: He is already there.) I just want to love the city and its people. The only person I’ll really be saving is myself.

—

When Phil lost his job at the end of the year, and then our van broke down, we thought maybe our plans would have to wait. We don’t want to move in the middle of a school year, and rebounding from two major hits like job loss and expensive vehicle repair aren’t easy when you have a steady income much less when you’re unemployed.

But God hasn’t given us an out yet. Phil has a new job in the city, of all places. We are back on sort of steady ground. Our sights are still set on the city, and we are casually (not-so-casually) starting to look at houses. There could still be any number of setbacks. This could still be a very bad idea. We still might have to wait.

But just like my refugee friend invited herself to our party for cake, we are inviting ourselves to be part of God’s work in the city. I believe He will make room for us.

This is a developing part of our story. I have no idea how it’s going to turn out. All I know is we’ve seen God do impossible things when we say “yes” to Him. If you want to stay connected as we pursue the next step in our journey, consider signing up for e-mail delivery of blog posts (on the right hand side of this blog, near the top). Thanks for reading!

Art, war & resistance: Review of The Missing Matisse by Pierre H. Matisse

Even as one who knows little about art and art history, the name “Matisse” means something to me, and this memoir from the grandson of Henri Matisse is a fascinating account of life in France before and during World War 2. That the author has a famous family and is an accomplished artist in his own right is a bonus.

The Missing Matisse by Pierre H. Matisse gives us a glimpse of the early 20th century art world and war from the perspective of living in an occupied country. Pierre occasionally meets his grandfather’s artist friends like Pablo Picasso and Salvador Dali.

Most of the book centers on the war years, and it’s a fascinating recollection of the adventures of a boy who often finds himself involved in resistance activities. It reads like a story your grandfather would tell you about his life.

If you’re art lover or a World War 2 buff or a fan of interesting life stories, put The Missing Matisse on your to-read list.

(Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book through the Tyndale Blog Network. Review reflects my opinion.)

If you’d like to know more about the author, read on for a Q&A provided by Tyndale House Publishers.

Pierre Henri Matisse was born in Paris in 1928. Brought up as the grandson of Henri Matisse, Pierre spent his childhood among some of the most famous artists of the century, including Pablo Picasso and Salvador Dali. During WWII, Pierre and his father, Jean Matisse, were heavily involved in French underground activities, wanted by the Nazis for their efforts in aiding the British spies and saboteurs. When the war ended, Pierre worked in the restoration of the art and historical monuments damaged by the war in France. Now a citizen of the United States, he is an artist who has given or created commissioned pieces to help organizations such as Project Hope, The American Red Cross, numerous children’s hospitals, and many others.

What prompted you to write this book at this time in your life?

My parents did not tell me much about their lives. I want my children to know about mine.

What is your hope for this book?

I love books, and I have loved to read all my life. Books are where I learned what I know – from other people’s life experiences. In hard times books have been my best friends, my source of inspiration. I want my book to be an inspiration, a story about survival no matter what, showing how I relied on courage, faith, hope and love.

Tell us about spending with your grandfather, Henri Matisse. Did you know then that he was a famous artist?

I did not spend much time with him, because he was immersed in his art and living in Nice on the French Riviera, while I was living in Paris. As a child, I had no idea my grandfather was famous until the day he came to visit us in Paris and took me to a jazz concert starring Django Reinhardt. I love music, especially jazz. After the concert Grandfather Matisse told me that Django was one of his friends, and asked me if I wanted to meet him. I answered with an enthusiastic ‘yes’! From that day on, I knew that my grandfather Henri had to be very famous if he could access famous people and call them his friend.

You are an artist in your own right, can you tell us about the color lesson you received from your grandfather, Henri Matisse, when you were young?

My mother who graduated from the prestigious Beaux Arts art school in Paris, had tried to teach me everything about colors to no avail. I could not figure out her complicated color theory. So when we visited Nice during the summer of 1939, she arranged a color lesson for me with Grandfather Matisse. My idea about colors was that the more color tubes an artist owns the more fabulous a painter he is. So I came to my grandfather with a big box full of color tubes I had purchased with my own money that I had saved. Obviously I was going to impress him with my color arsenal. I had even memorized the fancy names so I could speak color jargon like a pro. Grandfather welcomed me into his studio with a charcoal in his hand and asked me to put my big box on a table. He foraged through the box taking out tubes of vermillion, ultramarine blue, yellow, and white. As he handed me these four colors, he said “From now on, paint with these four colors – rouge, bleu, jaune, et blanc. I am confiscating this box and forbid you to buy any other colors than these four. Now go and paint. Convey my love to your mother and father.” End of the color lesson. On my way back, I thought that Grandfather was losing it. How could a talented artist like me possibly turn out masterpieces with these ridiculous four colors? After I reflected, I decided to give it a try to prove to him that I could paint good stuff no matter what. Well, my painting skills improved drastically. Grandfather Matisse used to say, “I paint with simple colors.” To this day, I follow his advice.

Can you talk about your memories of WWII and the time you spent with your father, Jean Matisse, in the French Underground?

My father was involved with British intelligence, assisting British spies. On more than one occasion, we set out in a small boat and rendezvoused with a British submarine off Cap d’ Antibes on the French Riviera. We brought British spies ashore and hid them in our home. During the winter of 1943, I was an apprentice illustrator at a print shop. On the side, I helped a secret printing business and made false papers, passes, and fake IDs. On D-Day, I was living in Normandy and when the Nazis began to be pushed back to the Allies, I had encounters with them that should have gotten me killed. It is a miracle that we all survived the war.

When you were twelve-years-old, your mother said you needed to stop answering to the name Matisse and to go by the name Leroy instead. Then she sent you away to boarding school. Can you discuss the impact that had on you? Did you feel abandoned?

First, I did not blame my mother or anybody else. It was war time, and war was being fought in our backyard. My parents had a delicate problem to navigate and they did the best they could under the circumstances. As for me, I was devastated when it happened. Because I had always been an adventurous boy who was often getting into trouble, I thought that I had been kicked out of the family for bad conduct. First, I cried. Then I pulled myself together and asked God for courage. From that day on, I felt I was a real man, on my own. I knew I would have to figure out life by myself.

When and why did you legally change your name back to Matisse?

I did not change my name – I reclaimed the name I had been known by until I was twelve years old. In 1966, with my wife, Jeanne’s encouragement, I began pursuing the documents I needed to reclaim my name. Official French school documents from1939 verified that my name is Renee Pierre Louis Henri Matisse. The paperwork was presented to legal authorities in France, Canada, and the United States, and accepted.

Why are you questioning who your father is? Who do you believe is your real father?

My mother told me when I was twelve years old that my last name is Leroy. Later, my grandmother Leroy tells me that I am not her grandson; I am a Matisse. At the end of the war, the man who is supposedly my father – Camille Leroy – confirms what his mother had told me. “You are not my son” he tells me. What would you do? So who is my father? I want to know…and DNA will reveal the answer.

Why do you think your mother was abandoned by the Matisse family at the time of her death?

The facts were that my mother, after twenty years of marriage to Jean Matisse, had left him just months before she died. The Matisse family was rich and when any of them were ill, they were treated at the American Hospital, the best hospital in Paris at the time. My mother was not sent there. She died in a common room with no privacy, in the most abject conditions. She was screaming in agony from unbearable pain. I loved my mother dearly and am thankful I was able to be with her in her dying moments. As for the Matisse family’s decision to abandon her, how do you think I feel about that?

You were recently baptized in a bathtub by Willie Robertson of Duck Dynasty fame. How did you meet him, and what prompted you to become baptized later in life?

My wife, Jeanne, and I became friends with the Robertson’s after Jeanne became seriously ill. Their television show made us laugh and we watched it during her recuperation. Eventually, our families connected and I was invited to give an art lesson on a Duck Dynasty episode. While Jeanne and I were in Louisiana, we had dinner at Willie and Korie’s home, and out of the blue, Willie asked me if I had been baptized. I told him I was not sure. Willie offered to baptize me for real – right then and there – in his bath tub. I agreed and had a redneck baptism. It has made a significant difference in my relationship with God and my life in general.

What has your faith taught you about forgiveness and starting over?

Resentment, holding grudges, hate, are negative feelings, and guilt for past mistakes that you can do nothing about will destroy and poison your soul. I am a positive person who is a problem solver. I believe in finding the good in everything and focusing on it. Many times, I was forced to think of alternative solutions to stay alive in the situation I was in. In those difficult circumstances, it was time to pray for courage.

Tell us about your other interests as a pilot, a photographer, music lover, art history buff etc.

Sailing a boat, flying a small plane, photography, music, and literature, actually, all of life is about creating and the word art describes both the process and the end product. History and art history are linked together, they are a blueprint to our precious heritage as they define who we are as descendants of the true Creator. I belong to the same kind of spirited men who painted masterpieces on cave walls thousands of years ago.