Crystal M. Trulove

PASCAL'S CHURCH

St. Victor la Coste in southern France is a village of open arms, filled with people who made my volunteer work last summer a rich experience. I lived and worked there for two weeks while the locals taught me and the other volunteers the traditional medieval methods of wall building. The volunteers with me were multi-national, non-judgmental and effective creators of a roaring good time. I ate every meal with them; I worked hard every day in the blazing sun with them; I drank beer every afternoon in the shade at the village bar with them. The only ingredient missing for me to be able to absorb the new world around me was a place to get away from them. I needed to be completely alone, to sink into someone else’s story.

That’s what compelled me one afternoon to scoop a fat, juicy book into one hand and a towel and water bottle into the other. I leaned out the wide windowsill of my hand-mortared stone room and called good bye to the donkey in the stables below, his smells of animal and straw already familiar and comforting. I walked barefoot across the delicious coolness of the tiled floor and out the door onto a hand-rocked path. I chose a branch of the path I didn’t know, and followed it as it curved up the steep hill to the castellas (French for castle) that we were restoring. The path wove unevenly, following the contours of the land, dropping occasionally onto the doorsteps of volunteers who joined me in the hike every morning to the castellas. I stamped with new calloused feet I was proud of up the path until it appeared to dead-end at a boulder protruding from a cliff wall. Not discouraged by a mere boulder, I investigated, and found hand- and footholds in the boulder, polished from years of use.

“What could be at the top of a trail like this?” I wondered. It obviously wasn’t designed for tourists, yet had seen a good deal of use. I shoved my book in my mouth, and with one free hand, pulled myself across the boulder and under bushes until I spotted the path again: this time, hard packed dirt going straight up the hill. I plowed through clumps of wild thyme that sent up a rich kitchen aroma, and went over a low rock wall. On the other side of the wall I found a wide, flat, well-built trail. It was the tourist trail to the ruins of a medieval church, called the Old Church by locals. “So why is there a scramble path up the side of the hill?” I wondered.

I took a couple of steps along the path and saw, way up there next to the ruins of the Old Church, far from the other dwellings, a single room with a gold star hanging in a window, and potted cacti out front. On that first exploration, I didn’t know whose room I had found. It was a beast of a climb to get there, and I hadn’t expected anyone to be claiming a place of refuge so far away from the rest. Later I found out that it was Pascal’s room, but that day I passed it and went on to the church.

Being inside the ruins was a thrill of history, adventure, and romance. The 30 foot walls had no roof, allowing plenty of light in to the grassy area in the center. The 14^th century stonework glowed in the sunshine, from the golden coral colour of the mortar used in the region. Square notches were evident in the walls, used to jam scaffolding support into while the top portions were being built. Arrow slits faced the valley: windows in the good times, and a defensive advantage during bad times. Through them, I could see the wide fertile valley of the Rhône River, and vineyards that stretched to the horizon. I could easily imagine myself an archer, defending my god, my lord and the verdant lands below.

The following day I learned who lived up there and tended the cactus plants. I heard a noise and glanced up from my book to see Pascal leaving the room. He looked up at me and the expression of recognition came over his face. He clicked his tongue as if to acknowledge my choice of location, then took a few steps, turned, and jumped over the wall, onto the path I had found!

That was the day I started calling the ruins “Pascal’s Church.” What a Frenchman he is! After only a short time, he had made an indelible impression on me. Pascal is in love with his work. While the rest of us felt privileged to live there for a few weeks while we learned to build stone walls, Pascal lived there year round and was faced with the daunting task of teaching visitors, over and over, the nuances of wall building. “Take off your gloves!” he would say. “Feel the stones. When you learn the feel of the stones, you will know which stone to use.” I tried to please him. I set the stones as well as I could, but nearly always he would say with complete exasperation, “No, no, no!” and begin pulling stones away from the wall. I tried to help his destruction, yanking rocks out and tossing them away, but he scolded again, “Never throw a stone. Respect the stone.”

Pascal not only taught me wall-building and the value of investing effort into fellow humans, but he also taught me about respecting the earth, and appreciating beauty. I followed his lead and carefully avoided harming bushes that we dove under to retrieve fallen stones from the crumbling walls of the castellas, and I carried buckets up the steep hill every day to fill with trash left by tourists. Though those tourists showed me the ugliness that can be found around the globe, Pascal showed me that a beautiful human soul will shine through all cultural boundaries. “Ah, look!” he called to us one day, “Here is…” he searched for the correct English word, “…orchid.” When I was around Pascal, I not only felt like I was in the presence of someone remarkable, but I felt inclined to rise to his level. Being at the church felt like being with Pascal because it was the place he chose for a home.

After that, when I took la siesta at Pascal’s Church, I couldn’t walk past his place without a glance at the door. The man was part of my dream of France, of the largest wine region in the world, of the knights and castles that I read about in thick books. He was part of my dream of a full human being who touched the Earth with his hands, felt his place among its variety of life, and showed his integrity without speaking it. I shared his clever path to the lofty church, for only he and I would take the trouble to follow it. By spending my time there, I felt closer to being the person I wanted to be.

It’s been five months since I’ve seen Pascal’s Church. I thought the memory would be fading by now, but the parts that feed me the most are gaining intensity. The church seems destined to be my sanctuary when I need to visit a place of warmth, solitude and romance. It continues to symbolize how great the reward can be when I work very hard. My last day at the church, I basked in the memory of the morning’s wall-building efforts. I had finished a whole section by myself, placed the foundation stones, got the barrage just right, and sat back while Pascal looked at it. He gave a trademark shrug and said matter of factly: “Dat is good.” It was a triumph! If I invest as much into anything else as I put into trying to build a decent medieval wall, I’ll rise that much closer to being who I want to be.