God Stood Me Up in Paris, and No, I’m Not Over It

Not only did I brave Newark at midnight two weeks before Christmas— with its clusters of crowds making the entire journey to and from the ladies’ room not unlike crossing the Rubicon at high tide with a carry on and a large mid-western woman who insists that — no, actually you’re in her way, but I also ran through the Porto airport to make a connection (in a manner that did not improve the reputation of Americans), AND I didn’t slap the cranky woman in the middle seat who for some reason thought I was the next Lee Harvey Oswald. All for one purpose: to get to Paris on time to commune with God.

I’m not religious by any stretch, but at times I’m somewhat spiritual when I’m feeling optimistic. I used to be — strangely so — when I was younger. So when I heard that you could go on a Pilgrimage in Paris under the eye of French nuns, I wondered if maybe a private conversation with God could bring some of that optimism back.

And it sounded like too good an opportunity to miss because lord knows some tourist is going to ruin it at some point. I said an early prayer that it wouldn’t be me.

Especially as I seemed to be paving the way — I was told the nuns didn’t speak much English, and boy howdy, they weren’t joking. My French is rudimentary at best, so they got me through with a mixture of piecemeal Italian and some expressive hand gestures that, out of context, could’ve provided a compelling guide to “How to form a pie crust.” They were kind enough to laugh at all my ignorance and show me my room. I’d be staying overnight in their religious hotel — and signing up for a night shift of adoration to pray and watch over the church when apparently all the saints go to sleep.

I first attended the 10 PM mass, which did little more than show me what the services I went to as a child would’ve sounded like in French, but did a remarkably lovely job of doing so. But it was a Christmas service— or no wait, there’s a name for it… not Lent— ADVENT! That was it, I went to an Advent service. It was nice. Then, I went up to my room to sleep for a few hours before my shift.

The room was small and nun-like, as expected. There was a window on the slanted roof that looked up, which seemed fitting. It framed the dome of the church against the late evening sky. I took a picture on my iPhone and decided that I wouldn’t post it on instagram. I can’t remember if I did later. It was a good picture.

I chose a later time for my shift to accommodate the jet lag that was slowly setting in. 5 AM in the hopes I’d catch sunrise (did I forget it was winter?). It was still pitch black when I entered the church, which was glittering with candlelight and three strategically placed soft(er) lights.

It was strange being in there alone, a room meant to hold hundreds, and hundreds more prayers. The despicable thespian in me couldn’t help feeling like I was in a theatre, ghost light and all. I stayed for a moment in the chasm before moving to the center of the Adoration downstairs.

At the changeover from shift to shift there were about 10 people there; maybe 5 were there mid-hour. And I still can’t figure out if I stopped noticing them or if their presence was eerily omnipotent in the experience. Either way, I took my seat and began my hour of prayer.

If I were to transcribe some of it, it might go something like this:

Dear God, it’s me, Electra. 

I hope it’s not weird that we’re chatting like this. I’m not the best at being formal. I feel like you’d appreciate that, or at least tolerate it. I don’t know how much of that “Old Testament” vibe was just a phase. 

I think the way to start this would probably be with hopes, right? Like I hope my family is healthy and happy for many years to come. And I hope my friends find success in all their ventures. And it’d also be nice if the politicians would start to behave at some point. Or if you think some of them are ready to kick the bucket, hey— who am I to say no? As long as you avoid Zohran, you know...

Not that I’m praying for anyone to die because that seems like a super bad thing to do in a church. I’m just praying for everyone to be happy and well and shit. That doesn’t sound very original, though. 

Well, ok, if I’m trying to make the most of this, maybe I can say that I’d love to check out that enlightenment thing. That seems like a good thing to know about. I’d really like to avoid damnation, but I think I might be even more afraid of having wasted time working toward a goal that no one defined for me in life. So what is enlightenment? Do the monks have a point? How selfless do I have to be to be going in the right direction? Do I have to give up drinking? Or pot? Please don’t tell me I have to give up reality TV.

It’s strange how hard it is to pray to you without just asking for shit. I feel like I’m back on Santa’s lap, trying not to look greedy in front of the other families— and trying not to ask for anything my family couldn’t afford to give me (a horse was at the top of my list in early years, then reality hit). Because I hate to see my parents sad. And that would’ve made them sad. One year, the only thing I asked for for Christmas was to be better at ballet. I must’ve been 8 or 9, and I remember thinking it was a very mature thing to ask of Mr. Clause. 

As an adult, I pity the hell out of my mother. How the fuck do you give an 8-9-year-old a skill she’s been in classes for for 5-6 years? You can’t exactly sneak in the dead of the night and put Misty Copeland under the tree. She ended up giving me The Big Book of Ballet, so I could read and research, and think, “Now I can do it!” I remember opening that and trying so hard to love it. I read it cover to cover seven times. But it was the first time I realized that some things just can’t be given.

I’m getting off track here. It’s hard to stay focused. This is actually much harder than I thought it’d be. Many praying is more like you’re supposed to clear your mind or something. Ok. Clear mind, I can do that.

…

Ok, I hate that shit, we’re pivoting. 

This is feeling like a pretty one-sided conversation here, buddy. I was a little expecting some more, I don’t know, gravitas in the room. Oh shit, is it because I’m writing a play about you? Look, I was totally gonna ask permission before I implied in front of a crowd that you had a hard time getting it up the first time; I wasn’t going to blindside you with that. I can ask permission now, maybe… it seems like this is probably the best place to do it. Like I’m pretty close to you. Ok, well:

God, may I please put on a play about you… conceiving Jesus Christ? It’s going to be really fun, there’s only one dance break— maybe two…. 

…

Well, if you DON’T want me to put up said play, why don’t you give me a sign? Like knock over a cross or make a shadow like a dove or something.

…

Great, you’re gonna love it. I’ll have to start working on production soon, which is going to be a bitch, I keep adding more complicated parts, and it’s gonna be fucking expensive. Is it appropriate to ask for lotto numbers? Probably not.

…

What gives? I’ve been here for a while, but I can leave in a couple of minutes. I could even leave early if I want to. Where are you? I mean, I know you’re omnipresent, but I thought that maybe I’d feel a little more of that here. Actually, if you want to know the truth, what I really thought was that I’d walk to the altar in the dark, empty church and you and I would have this crazy connection, and I’d start to glow and shit. And then when the next person came in to pray, they’d see me fainted on the altar and glowing and shit. And they’d get the nuns like “oh no! A surprisingly attractive young woman has fainted at the sight of God!” And the nuns would run in and freak the fuck out, and they’d start ringing church bells, and that, of course, is when the media starts to catch up. And they’d shake me awake, and I’d walk toward the doors of the church and the rising sun and suddenly the presence of God (you) would be felt by all. The next day, all the newspapers would print headlines like “Young Woman: Saint or Fake?” Or “Chicago Pope Embraces New Saint with a WhatsApp Message.”

And then— I don’t know— I’d feel like I’d done something. Like I’d seen the endgame of it all and found it kind and beautiful, and you know, at this point I really thought you would make yourself like a little known. Like, I know I don’t reach out often, but I just told you something (in my head) that was absolutely batshit crazy, and you’re just giving me… nothing. I really thought there would be something. Anything. Even if it wasn’t me being sainted (horrible choice, I would’ve made a great saint, I throw incredible dinner parties), I thought if I came here and woke up at 3 AM and stood in this empty church in the middle of the night, I thought I might find a… a semblance of that thread that ties everything together. That feeling that you get when you see Niagara for the first time, or fall in love, or watch the sunset from an airplane. 

Great. You’re making me feel sacrilegious in a church. Can you tell that I wanted something from this? Did you know all this time that I was dying to ask you for a million things, and this is just your protest of an impure soul? Or do you just not care?

I’m looking at my watch and realizing that my time is almost up. Not many opportunities left, buddy. I don’t think I’ll ever have the chance to be this close to you again. I’m not going on pilgrimage. I’m not joining a nunnery. I guess this just wasn’t enough to get your attention. 

I have to go in a minute. Quick! Knock something over! Break glass! Send a cool breeze through the room! 

…

Or don’t. 

…

Why do I want to cry for you? I won’t. Not where you can see. I’m going to save it for someone who’ll listen. Who cares. 

Goodbye, God. Merry Christma— or happy birthday or… whatever.

There’s no authentic way to leave an empty church after God stands you up. You end up walking up the center of the stairs, standing in front of the stained glass. The whole thing feels like a movie, and you feel immediately disheartened because you can feel that you’re acting in it. I tried to make myself trip at one point to make it better, but I think it just made it worse. 

I started to pack up my little nun room, with its little cot, and its little shower, and its big crucifix on the wall. I tried to comfort myself, telling myself that I could still have some sort of revelation today. It was early enough, and we were at the top of a hill— I could go out and watch the sunrise. That would be incredible. I’ll get to see the early morning air clear over Paris. I checked my phone to see when the sun was supposed to rise. 8:34. Perfect. I took one more look around my small room, bed stripped as requested, crucafix still looming. Out the window, I could no longer see the dome of the church; the morning clouds hadn’t cleared yet. 

I left my keys at the front desk. There was a kind, older man there this time, talking to a pretty woman holding a bundle of towels and pushing a basket full of the crisp, white nun-sheets. They spoke more English than the nuns and wished me a good day before reminding me how to open the gate.

Have you ever walked into a wall? I have, although I don’t mean to brag, and walking outside felt very much the same. As soon as I crossed the threshold, a brick of cool fog smacked me in the face. I tried to look around the courtyard, but I couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of me. 

I checked my watch. 8:15. Enough time for the fog to clear.

I made my way from the back of the church to its front steps; the front courtyard would have to be less fogged than these narrow back streets. I shocked myself with the confidence in my steps as I couldn’t see much past the sidewalk and the stone wall of the church. As I turned the corner toward the front of the church and Paris beyond, I looked forward to see… nothing. 

Nothing. Just a wall of fog over the whole city. 

8:20.

The immediate disappointment quickly faded to hope. Maybe this would be my miracle. Maybe I was supposed to sit here and wait for the clouds to part and the sunrise to paint the sky, and I could leave knowing that I’d seen just a bit of that thread that ties everything together, even if it wasn’t how I expected. 

I sat at the top of the steps and waited. There were about 7 or 8 other people slowly congregating in the courtyard. Waiting like me to see the view they climbed the hill for. 

8:23.

All the street lights turned off, and suddenly, the birds started singing. It was daytime.

I waited for the sunrise. 11 minutes for a miracle. 

To other people, it may have seemed fruitless from the jump, but there’s something to be said for hope in what you know is hopeless. Because then the hoped-for is even more hope-worthy. Because you’d known it was impossible. So I sat. I watched. I waited.

8:28.

8:29.

8:30.

By 8:31, it seemed like I’d stumbled on a cosmic test, waiting again for something that I knew would not come. But to leave before I knew felt too much like abandoning my post at the church before relief. If I’d come this far for a miracle, how could I look away the moment it happened?

8:32.

3:33.

8:37.

8:49.

A cosmic test. 

This bullshit sunrise, the consolation miracle for the absence in the church, was a show of nothingness. The sky had gone from dark gray to slightly less dark gray. 

I stood from the steps and looked back at the church, looming and disappearing into the mist, the dome half covered by the clouds. It looked like it was winking at me in the fog. “See?” It said, “Don’t you understand now?”

I turned my back on the church and went back down to Paris. I had come. I had prayed. I had been humbled. And god had gone back inside to wait for the next pilgrim to come, ask, and answer.