Hi! My name is Daniel Foucachon. I am American and French, and currently reside in Moscow, Idaho, with my wonderful wife Lydia. I am currently a Senior at New Saint Andrews College.
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Monday, December 01, 2008
30th Anniversary
My parents celebrated their 30th wedding anniversary this month! And not just thirty years, but thirty years of loving each other, sacrificing for each other, being an example to us kids, and teaching us through their lives and their instruction how to fear and love God. I am especially thankful for my parents this Thanksgiving!
Still as much in love as ever, and I hear even more so!
The photo is a bit blurry, but that is a Chateauneuf-du-Pape from 1989! I hear it was exquisite.
The French are not big on breakfast. Often very light like a Croissant with coffee. However there are four breakfasts in the year which are exceptionally special. There is a Huguenot tradition in France of having a special advent breakfast that my father grew up with and then did with us, and that I am now continuing. It is often not a huge breakfast, mostly because we would otherwise be late for church, but it is always very special and unique. There are a few things that always accompany it, such as a tangerine with a candle stuck in it, as well as Papilottes (which we didn't have this time since you can't get them in the states. Papilottes are a Christmas-only chocolate that is wrapped in a foil with a joke inside and sometimes a little firecracker.)
Other than those, it varies from time to time. This morning we had eggs, toast, and breakfast sausage; a donut (with coconut on top), fruit cake, a slice of pound cake, a chocolate cigar, peanut butter cups, and hot cider (and of course the orange).
Here are a couple photos of our first advent breakfast:
Dear family and friends, For those of you who can't make it to our wedding, there is a live webcast that will be available on www.foucachon.com/wedding at 2 p.m. (Pacific) on Saturday the 14th.
Chère famille et amis, Pour ceux d'entre vous qui ne peuvent pas venir a notre mariage, nous aurons un "webcast," video en direct sur www.foucachon.com/wedding . Le mariage aura lieu a 14h, le samedi (23h en France).
Something happened exactly one month ago, on the Eve of Christmas, which I have not blogged about due to a rather full life. But, it is most certainly worthy of note. It all started about two in the afternoon, when my favorite person, a most beautiful, wonderful, godly, cheerful, delightful, pleasant, funny, cute, adorable, intelligent, classically educated, (and did I mention beautiful?) girl came over to spend "a few hours" with me. We went four-wheeling. It was below freezing, a bit windy. We four-wheelered right onto the top of the big "wheat dunes" (now tilled, frozen, and covered in snow). The day was absolutely magnificent. The sun was shining through the clouds in long bright rays towards the South, and Moscow Mountain was looking a blue-ish, grayish colour which made it look like it was a painting rather than real life, except for the vividness of the colours. The snow was wisping over the hills all around us.
After about an hour of that, we returned onto our land. I told Lydia that we could park on the flatter part, out near Mr. Merkles old truck, and take a walk. We arrived there and got off. We started walking in the direction of our house, and I commented to Lydia, "look at that rock, I don't remember that being there..." to the side of the path in front of us lay a large, 400 lb block of solid stone. We had been talking, quite "randomly," about how nice European houses were all made of stone, and how that was nice. "Now that's the kind of stone I want for the cornerstone of my house one day," I told Lydia, trying to sound off-hand. We walked towards it, and I stopped in front of it. I was fumbling with something in my pocket. Then Lydia let go of my arm, and went and looked on the other side of the stone. She had her back to me as she did this. On the other side of the stone was written "The Cornerstone of the Future home of Daniel and Lydia Foucachon - December 2007 - Psalm 128." She looked at it a bit, and turned around. I was on one knee, and was holding a ring. She said yes!
We were out there probably about an hour, and it was really cold! But I had a provision for this. Sitting on the edge of our land, in all its glory, sat The Indefatigable, Mr. Merkles old Ford 72 pickup truck. In the truck were blankets, two candles, my camera (had to have some pictures), and hot chocolate, which we completely forgot about.
After spending some time getting warmer in the truck, we headed back in the four-wheeler. My parents were waiting for us, so we got our first round of congratulations which, thanks to Valerie filming, was filmed. It has now been a month, and a wonderful month it has been! I didn't think it possible, but I love Lydia more every day! Sorry guys, the best is taken...
This poem was written by John Milton concerning the persecution of the Vaudois (Waldenses). Milton, along with Sir Morland, used his gift of prose to try to stop the Duke of Savoy from massacring these French Huguenots.
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
E'en them, who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones,
Forget not: in thy book record their groans,
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that roll'd
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
An hundred-fold, who, having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe!
John Milton, in The Waldenses: Sketches of the Evangelical Christians of the Valleys of the Piedmont, Alexis Muston
Professionally filmed and produced by ZK Pro and delivered in DVD format,French Cuisine provides an in-depth look at the basics of French gourmet cooking, spiced with the experience, anecdotes, and wisdom of one of the best!
This is a very rough translation from the original manuscript written in old French on the History of the Vaudois Churches in the Piemont mountains. I read this section on Baptism (which I found is a lot easier to just read than to actually translate!) and I found that some of the things sounded strangely like the "new" Federal Vision stuff...
We are pretty certain that the Vaudoises are our ancestors, specifically Henri Arnaud, a Vaudois Huguenot pastor who led an army of Huguenots back into the Piemont Valley in 1690 (?). This book was given to my father by his father, and tells of the persecutions of the Huguenots during this time period.
On Baptism
The first [sacrament] is called baptism, that is to say in our language, washing by water or from a river, or from a fountain. It must be administered in the Name of the Father, Son, and of the Holy Spirit, to those who, first of all, by the grace of God the Father, looking to his Son, and by participation of [in?] Jesus Christ, who has redeemed us, and by the renewing of the Holy Spirit, who imprints living Faith in our hearts, the sins of those baptized are forgiven, and they are received in grace : and after having persevered [in grace], they are saved in Jesus Christ.
The Baptism with which we are baptized, and that with which our Lord himself wanted to be baptized, in order to accomplish all justice, just as he wanted to be circumcised, is [the baptism] which he commanded his Apostles to baptize with.
Moreover, this baptism is visible and material; [the baptism] does not make a person either good or bad, as we learn in the Scripture of Simon Magus, and of St. Paul. And the reason that the baptism is administered in the midst of the congregation of the faithful is so that he who is received is reputed and held by all for a Brother and Christian, and so that all might pray for him, that he be Christian of the heart, just as he is externally considered to be a Christian. And it is for this reason that we present the Children to Baptism. Those who the children touch the closest ought to do this, just as their parents do, and those to whom God has given this charity.
Jean Leger, L'Histoire Generale Des Eglises Evangeliques Des Vallees De Piemont ou Vaudoises, (France, Leyde: Jean le Carpentier, 1669), 67.
I interrupt my study to tell you of a dream. Actually, it is my good friend, librarian, and valet, George Harrell, who had this dream some time ago, and told me about it today. It is a dark story. There was no humour in this dream. It was serious. I shall try to relate the narrative as faithfully as possible.
Once upon a time, there were some men in a town called Moscow, in the great Northwest. There was a great and grave meeting amongst the important men of the town. It took place in the Logos Fieldhouse, but it wasn't quite the Logos Fieldhouse (Let the reader understand the nature of dreams). It was quite dark, like during a wedding reception, and in the center lay a large, long, solid table, like the one found in Bucers. The ceiling above was a lofty vaulted ceiling, like a cathedral. There was a monastic feel to this event. I'm sure there was a large fire roaring in a stone fireplace--at least this was the feel. Around it were gathered these men of Moscow, discussing something important, with bunches of paper laid out in front of them. Suddenly, one of the men, a certain gentlemen from across the sea, stood and starting lecturing about the glories of the French Revolution, and continued for some time. All present listened intently. Then another gentlemen, a local who's father took care of the towns insurance, stood and said a derogatory statement, now forgotten (let the reader understand the nature of dreams) about the French and leur Révolution. He then sat. All was quite. you could have heard a mouse on the stone floor. The Frenchmen then sent his glove flying across the table, hitting the head which contained the mouth that dared utter those words of meprise concerning glorious France. All men sat aghast. Then one of the leaders among them stood. "He has thrown the glove. We must fulfil ritual." Upon these words, everyone stood up. Some sided with the Frenchman, some with the gentleman who was hit with the glove (who was also a librarian). All headed for the south entrance. Upon exiting, there was no parking lot. Instead was a green field, surrounded by a stone wall, with bleacher type benches surrounding the small field on all side. Every last person we knew, under the age of 25, was seated upon the bleachers, looking down at the two gentlemen. In the middle of this clearing, stood a man, dressed entirely in black and holding a large staff (he is commonly known as Jody, the mover of books). To his left and right stood two large swords, wedged loosely in the soft earth. The opponents were each handed a pair of long, black, leather gloves by those faithful to them, which they pulled on. All was silent once again. The man in black started going through the rules. "You must wait for my command. You may not..." etc. He had done this many times before. The two faced each other. All was silent, and George Harrell's dream slipped into fogginess.
Multae Mortes, Una Vita - The Mysterious Ways of God
The Easter service was glorious! In his sermon, Dr. Leithart talked about how Jesus was not abandoned to Sheol as it would have seemed to everyone seeing Him die. In the same way we will never be abandoned to Sheol. Though we pass at times "into Sheol," as David did, Christ went ahead of us, and was raised the third day. His death was not pointless, and neither are our "Sheol's," as we too shall be raised. A new paradigm is set: a seed must go down into the ground and die in order that it might be raised to life.
We sang, "God Moves in a Mysterious Way," which is one of my favourite hymns:
God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps in the sea And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up His bright designs And works his sovereign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.
Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain; God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.
