Years in the Making - Attending the Paris Temple
Saturday I got to do something I have dreamed of doing for years, attend the Paris temple.
With Elise and Johnny here, I definitely wanted to see the Paris temple. It's across the street from Versailles near the entrance of the gardens close to Marie Antoinette's hamlet. Here's a tip. You can buy tickets on that end of the gardens instead of that huge long line near the palace. It's worth the 20 minute walk, or grab an Uber, to come in through the bottom. You'll save yourself so much time.
Our new friends the Mowers were taking their young women in their ward to perform baptisms Friday night and Saturday morning. I asked Lyndee if she'd be willing to print some temple cards for me and have the names done in case any of the girls don't have family names. She was happy to do it.
I got online and started looking for names that needed to be done. I found my way to a family through the Villette line (the newly discovered family line since learning that Stanislas was born a Villette). I put in the names of the parents and the children and felt like this family wants the saving ordinances.
Saturday morning we had a lovely walk from our hotel to the temple. As I walked the same streets I had walked 3 years ago, I reflected on how much time, energy, and money has gone into the building of this temple. Three years ago, it was a huge pit. Last spring when we came to the open house, it was a beautiful structure. Now, it's a house of the Lord.
We got to the waiting area and were quickly met by Lyndee and Robbie. Lyndee handed me my pink cards of the women who had been done the night before so that Elise and I could perform the next ordinance. I grabbed the stack of cards and looked at them. Tears came to my eyes as I read the word PARIS in all caps indicating which temple the ordinances had been done in.
Seeing those five letters brought back a flood of memories of sleepless nights, tear-filled prayers, and frustrated searches trying to find John Buchanan's parents. I would cry out at 4:00 in the morning to Heavenly Father, "Do you even WANT me to find my family? Do you even trust me to do the work?" I felt neglected, forgotten, and unloved.
But those 24 years of sitting in dark rooms spinning microfilms, poring over Buchanan family trees, and scouring through genealogical websites are becoming a faded memory. For 4 years I have been drowning in a sea of 50, 000 names and discovering story after story of my French heritage. My life now feels like it has been divided into two distinct parts. My life when I thought I was a Scottish Buchanan, and my life when I know I am a French DeMoulin.
But I am not the only one who has gone on a long journey. France has as well. From the time that John Taylor dedicated this country in 1850 to 2017 when the temple was dedicated, it has been a long road for the LDS French members. The Church here is viewed as a cult. There are "documentaries" that air on TV that portray us akin to Amish polygamists. It isn't easy to be a Mormon in France, and it definitely was not easy to build a temple here. Between court cases, protests, and removing abestos from the former building on the land, nothing has been simple. I wonder if there were also sleepness nights, tear-filled prayers, and frustration. Did it ever feel like the blessing of a temple would never come?
I have since learned to be better about trusting in the Lord's timeline. His ways are not our ways. He can see the whole garden from the watchtower. We are down in the hedges trying to peek around the next bend. He knows the entire path.
So there I stood inside the Paris temple in awe of what it meant to see that simple pink card with those five letters P A R I S next to the date. This very moment was years in the making.
And I can truthfully say it has been worth the wait.
With Elise and Johnny here, I definitely wanted to see the Paris temple. It's across the street from Versailles near the entrance of the gardens close to Marie Antoinette's hamlet. Here's a tip. You can buy tickets on that end of the gardens instead of that huge long line near the palace. It's worth the 20 minute walk, or grab an Uber, to come in through the bottom. You'll save yourself so much time.
Our new friends the Mowers were taking their young women in their ward to perform baptisms Friday night and Saturday morning. I asked Lyndee if she'd be willing to print some temple cards for me and have the names done in case any of the girls don't have family names. She was happy to do it.
I got online and started looking for names that needed to be done. I found my way to a family through the Villette line (the newly discovered family line since learning that Stanislas was born a Villette). I put in the names of the parents and the children and felt like this family wants the saving ordinances.
Saturday morning we had a lovely walk from our hotel to the temple. As I walked the same streets I had walked 3 years ago, I reflected on how much time, energy, and money has gone into the building of this temple. Three years ago, it was a huge pit. Last spring when we came to the open house, it was a beautiful structure. Now, it's a house of the Lord.
We got to the waiting area and were quickly met by Lyndee and Robbie. Lyndee handed me my pink cards of the women who had been done the night before so that Elise and I could perform the next ordinance. I grabbed the stack of cards and looked at them. Tears came to my eyes as I read the word PARIS in all caps indicating which temple the ordinances had been done in.
Seeing those five letters brought back a flood of memories of sleepless nights, tear-filled prayers, and frustrated searches trying to find John Buchanan's parents. I would cry out at 4:00 in the morning to Heavenly Father, "Do you even WANT me to find my family? Do you even trust me to do the work?" I felt neglected, forgotten, and unloved.
But those 24 years of sitting in dark rooms spinning microfilms, poring over Buchanan family trees, and scouring through genealogical websites are becoming a faded memory. For 4 years I have been drowning in a sea of 50, 000 names and discovering story after story of my French heritage. My life now feels like it has been divided into two distinct parts. My life when I thought I was a Scottish Buchanan, and my life when I know I am a French DeMoulin.
But I am not the only one who has gone on a long journey. France has as well. From the time that John Taylor dedicated this country in 1850 to 2017 when the temple was dedicated, it has been a long road for the LDS French members. The Church here is viewed as a cult. There are "documentaries" that air on TV that portray us akin to Amish polygamists. It isn't easy to be a Mormon in France, and it definitely was not easy to build a temple here. Between court cases, protests, and removing abestos from the former building on the land, nothing has been simple. I wonder if there were also sleepness nights, tear-filled prayers, and frustration. Did it ever feel like the blessing of a temple would never come?
I have since learned to be better about trusting in the Lord's timeline. His ways are not our ways. He can see the whole garden from the watchtower. We are down in the hedges trying to peek around the next bend. He knows the entire path.
So there I stood inside the Paris temple in awe of what it meant to see that simple pink card with those five letters P A R I S next to the date. This very moment was years in the making.
And I can truthfully say it has been worth the wait.
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