The Juggler

Five magenta-colored bowling pins formed an oval as they revolved seamlessly through a young juggler’s hands.  I watched with fascination.  First I followed the missiles’ orbit then examined the hands that deftly maneuvered their cargo.  Seemingly light concentration engaged muscle memory that betrayed years of practice.  The whole body of this man, whom I’d guess to be about thirty, moved in pleasurable synch.  His eyes smiled through Foster Grants.  Occasionally he introduced a more complicated move, breaking his rhythm and bringing a slight frown to his otherwise placid face.

Eventually, my wits returned and I looked around to see if anyone else was enjoying the show.  But the band members were setting up their instruments, young workers manned the food, and small groups huddled in quiet conversation on the grass.  This beautiful French park in downtown Grenoble was the perfect setting for our early evening meal and outreach to passersby. 

I looked again for the juggler.  He’d traded bowling pins for fluorescent yellow tennis balls, working on a beguiling new move.  What made this man so different? 

 

 

 

I’d seen an exhibitionist days earlier in Paris who had balanced a goldfish bowl on his head, bounced a ball with one foot, spun bowling pins through the air and perpetuated a nerve-wracking, desperate chatter.  I had snapped that performer’s picture but moved away as soon as possible.

 

 

 

 

 

The man now before me bore a magnetic calm.  There was no change cup at his feet; in fact he seemed oblivious to our active group, though we were close by.  I found myself asking the Lord, “Shouldn’t someone talk to him?”   I heard His unmistakable response, “That’s why you’re here.”

I gulped.  “Oh God, give me courage.”  Clutching a flyer for the following night’s concert, and a copy of the book of Mark in French, I walked across the grass.

“Bonjour, Monsieur.” I continued briefly to demonstrate my limited French, then asked, “Parlez-vous Anglais?”

“Yes, a little,” the young artist responded.

“It’s a pleasure to watch you juggle—so smooth, almost effortless.  Have you been doing it for a long time?”

“Since I was a boy,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“You look as if you’re made for it, like you really enjoy it.”

“Yes, I surely do,” he answered with a slight smile.  “Would you like to try?”  Suddenly he handed me two tennis balls and launched into a juggling lesson!  After several of my awkward attempts to follow his instructions, he looked at me intently.  “You’ll practice?”

“Yes,” I giggled, gladly relinquishing the orbs.  “I’ll need to practice.”

He turned slightly, and I was afraid the conversation had ended.  “Do you live here in Grenoble?”

At this point, the young man tried to hide a shrug, as if resigned to a longer talk with this older American woman than he might have liked.  I felt like an intruder; then he began a litany of his education and work.  This ski instructor-travel guide-history buff had crossed four continents.  “What brings you to France?” he asked.

“I’ve come for two weeks to work with the Protestant churches here.  My name is Carol.”  I continued, knowing he might not appreciate the segue.  “My husband and I are here tonight at the park with a group from a nearby church.  We’d like to share our faith in Jesus Christ with you and others.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Carol.  My name is Loic.”  I tried to repeat the name, so he spelled and pronounced it carefully – “loo-eek.”  “I must tell you that I have friends who have been talking to me about their Catholic beliefs, and I’m not interested.  Though I thank you.”

“Protestants believe a bit differently than Catholics, though the essential message is the same.  We believe Jesus came to save mankind from our sinful selves.  He took the punishment for that sin on the cross. . .”

Loic stopped me mid-sentence.  “I’m truly not interested,” he repeated, in a flat, fatalistic tone.

My heart fell. He refused the concert flyer and scripture too.  “Well thank you for your time and conversation.  It’s a delight to meet you.  We’ve talked for a long time.  Could I ask just one more thing?”
 

“Certainly.”  Loic seemed bemused, but respectful and accommodating.  I knew I’d exceeded the limits of French protocol.

“Would you mind if I pray for you before I go?”  I wondered at my own boldness.

“Well, I don’t know what good that will do.” He sighed.  “But go ahead if it will bring you comfort.”

“Lord God, I ask You to show Yourself to Loic.  Please show Him that You’re truly the Lord of all Creation, his Maker and the Sovereign of the Universe.  Lord I know You can speak to Loic as no man or woman can, so I ask for that, in Your way and Your timing.  I thank You for this special man, for his patience and listening ear for me.  Help him hear You, Lord.  I pray in Jesus’ Name, Amen.”

I’m still amazed that a man half my age, from a different culture, would engage me with such grace.  I had a deep sense of Holy Spirit’s involvement during our conversation; I think Loic could sense Him too.

 

This special man is in the picture above—in the right background near the sidewalk. I'll try to find a better picture soon, but for now, please trust me.  He’s no longer juggling but appears to be deep in thought. Might the Lord have been talking to him at that very moment?  Please continue to pray with me that Loic will be reconciled to God in Christ.   

There are at least two other conversations in this picture where people are fully engaged in the message of Jesus Christ.  Others are praying that God will speak, drawing these seekers to Him.  Please continue to pray that young and old across France will come to relationship with Christ.