The Snyders in the France-Paris Mission

  À la recherche du temps perdu [ In Search of Lost Time or Remembrance of Things Past ] One day, according to legend, 38-year-old Marcel Proust (1871-1922) had a taste of a small French cake, a madeleine to be precise, which miraculously conjured up vivid memories of his childhood and all sorts of other stuff lurking in his subconscious.   He started writing them down and never stopped until his death—the results being seven published volumes totaling around 3,200 pages in French and 4,300 pages in English translation. The expression “Madeleine de Proust” entered the French lexicon to signify anything (smells, sounds, tastes, sensations) that evokes childhood memories. Despite having served as a young missionary in the France-Belgium Mission (1972-1974), I had never even heard of a madeleine, let alone tasted one, so when Delys and I were called to the France-Paris Mission, I decided we should have a taste of one at the first opportunity. Accordingly, “madeleine” was t...

 Our mission ends in 5 days! We look forward to seeing out children and grandchildren, as well as our friends, but we will miss many of the delightful and sometimes strange ways of France and Belgium. Let's list the ways. OK, in Belgium there is a store named after me!! Yes, we had to go in and buy their treats. Paris has surprises every few blocks. Even the Metro stations are beautiful. One of the quirks of Europe is that you have to stand on the right on escalators so people can pass you on the left. Do you want to stand out as a tourist? Stand on the wrong side and don't let anyone pass. We will miss the people most of all. Here is my Friday morning English Connect class with my Tahitian missionary friends in the Prais France Mission.  I have stories about each one of these great people. And then we have the missionaries, like Soeur Kalati from Toulouse and the Millwards from Utah. Here we are at the temple after an endowment session and before a yummy lunch last Friday. An...

Somehow this blog ended up being about war. We are two weeks away from coming home. We have done a marathon sprint for four months to finish up humanitarian projects and start new projects.  This last week we got three new projects approved, and we are ecstatic. All of our projects have been in the Netherlands and Belgium. We fully acknowledge the Relief Society stake presidency members who jump started the humanitarian work in the Netherlands and Belgium.  Thanks, especially to Shaynah, Rachelle, and Sheila. You are amazing women. The French take their holidays seriously.  Today is May 8, and most everything is closed except the local bars/restaurants.  The French and other Europeans are celebrating the end of WWII, a day certainly worth celebrating. Of course, the people love holidays that land on Thursday because they take a bridge day off on Friday too.  War has ravaged France many times, and the French have been the attackers (Napoleon) and the attacked (Wo...

  Part 3 Although I grew up in Southern California, I’ve spent the last 37 years living in Utah County, Utah—the land of lovely mountain valleys and orderly cities and towns systematically laid out on a beautiful grid pattern by the great Brigham Young. Sometimes called the American Moses, Brigham could have whipped those recalcitrant Israelites into shape in half the time it took the original Moses—and he would have done it without the help of all those plagues. While I can’t honestly say that I’ve never been lost in Utah, I can confidently affirm that I always knew in which direction north, south, east, and west were located (except in shopping malls).   In the rare instances when I wasn’t sure—say, when hiking, fishing, or riding in the mountains—I knew that if I got disoriented and lost, all I had to do to save myself would be to follow a stream or trail downhill or, even better, just give my horse his head. Obviously, because France isn’t Utah, and Paris isn’t Salt Lake...

Part 2 French politeness extends beyond cars to other modes of transportation such as trains, metros, and busses, where the disabled, the infirm, the pregnant, and the aged have priority seating. There are signs politely urging able-bodied passengers to give up these seats to those who fit the priority category. I’ve also noted that, on occasion, the inebriated are also sometimes welcomed to these priority seats by passengers eager to vacate them. Every day I look for an opportunity to be a gentleman on a crowded train or metro. Once or twice, I’ve created a sort of domino effect among the other passengers, with several of them following my seat-relinquishing example by the end of which, I ended up being reseated in a different seat while everyone around me laughed.  One gentleman, himself reseated, smiled at me and observed, “Ah, a gentleman.”  I responded, “Comme mes parents m’ont enseigné.” [As my parents taught me.]   Occasionally, to my everlasting chagrin, I m...