I'm writing to you from France, close to where my ancestors are from. Whenever I’m here, I can’t help but think of my family’s stories, especially those about my 3rd great-grandfather, Stanislas Besin. He was a passionate Baptist missionary in the early 1800s, often finding himself in hot water with the Gendarmerie, the French military police force. He'd get thrown in jail for selling Bibles and trying to convert people away from the Catholic Church.
My family is a long line of "talkers." My dad was like that, his dad was like that, and so was his dad – my 2nd great-grandfather, John Buchanan. I believe this trait goes all the way back to Stanislas. He was a colporteur, a peddler of religious books. He wasn't just "shooting the breeze;" he was sharing his deepest convictions, often at great personal risk, and people respected him for it. He was once seen bound to a thief by gendarmes, yet he was happily teaching the gospel to both the thief and the guards! People said he was "loved by all."
When I visited the Tour de France Fan Park the other day, I saw a booth hosted by the Gendarmerie. A Gendarme was standing there, smiling as people walked past him. His booth wasn’t offering any free swag like all the others. My gut reaction was to avoid him. Even though this man hadn't done anything personally to my family, I was surprised by how unsettled I felt being so close to one for the first time.
As if nudged by Stanislas himself, my love of talking to strangers took over. My French is terrible, and his English is limited, but we managed a conversation. He explained his role, showed me his gun and handcuffs, yet what truly struck me was his genuine kindness. You could just tell he loved his job and truly wanted to help people.
As I was leaving, he asked me to wait. He walked over to a box and pulled out a small Gendarmerie keychain and gave it to me. It was a simple token, but it hit me: this was probably the first act of kindness from the French military to our family since we left France in the 1840s.
This small exchange felt profoundly symbolic. As I stared at this keychain, I thought about how vital it is not to pass on our bad experiences and resentments to the next generation. My mind immediately went to Jesus, hanging on the cross, uttering those powerful words: "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do" (Luke 23:34).
I then thought of His disciples. While witnessing the horrific crucifixion of their Rabbi, I can easily imagine the impulse to harbor deep-seated anger, resentment, even a desire for vengeance against those responsible for Jesus’ death. That bitterness could have consumed them, perhaps even defined future generations of His followers.
But they heard their Master, in His agony, actively forgive His tormentors. That single act, spoken aloud, most likely was a pivotal moment for them. It showed them a radically different way. Even in the face of unimaginable injustice, the cycle of hatred can be broken. It offered them an example of letting go, preventing resentment from becoming their legacy.
Our family has carried a legacy of resenting military service for generations. Except for my great-grandfather who escaped after 8 months of military service in 1895 and then changed his name to avoid life in prison, no one has served for at least 200 years. That is until 2022, when my son joined the Marine Corps. He’s doing extremely well and we are so proud of him. It’s a testament to breaking cycles, whether it's the inherited aversion to military life or my own bias against a kind Gendarme.
I’d like to think that as I walked away with that blue keychain in hand, Stanislas, the humble colporteur who shared the gospel even while imprisoned, would have been proud of me. His story and my recent experience remind me that we can choose to release old resentments and make space for new, kinder interactions. Just as Christ taught His disciples to forgive, we too can choose to lay down the generational burdens that no longer serve us. It allows us to find peace in unexpected places—like a Tour de France Fan Park in Lille, France.
Wishing you a great Sabbath,
Heather Ruth Pack
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