A bridge made a hope

I say this without doubt and without regret: life cannot exist without fear, love, trial, betrayal, hope, and faith. At some point, all of these gathered and closed around my small life like strands twisted into one rope. There were days I asked, “Can I bear this?” And yet, God kept sending new circumstances—difficult ones, yes, but each something I was called to face with dignity. Some days my strength drained away; my hands fell uselessly to my sides and I felt hollow and alone, even with my husband, my children, and dear friends nearby. When that happened, I would retreat inward, into a deep private country of sadness. But the desire to live and to be happy never left me.

Daily routines saved me. You get up because your daughter needs to go to school. You cook because a house must have its smell, its warmth. The markets became my French classroom. I learned a simple rule: if there is a line of locals, whatever they’re buying is good. I stood in those lines smiling. When my turn came, the words fled and the theatre began.

“Bonjour, madame… this… that…” I pointed at tomatoes, cupped my hands to show a quantity.

The vendor’s eyes laughed.

“Un kilo? Deux?”

I spread one finger. “One!”

And so, by pointing, guessing, and laughing, I learned to live in a country that wasn’t mine—yet. Every handful of apples won through gestures felt like passing an exam.

Saint-Romain-en-Gal is the town that received me. In those early months, I often drove past the cemetery. French graves—tidy stones, flowers, names I could not pronounce. I began, almost without thinking, to pray for them. “Thank you for this town. For its roads, its quiet, the space you left for us.”

When I passed the Town Hall, I gave thanks for the people who worked for the community. When I drove by the police station, I thanked the officers who kept it safe. They do not know me. But in my prayer, they became part of my story.

There is a church in nearby Vienne—tall, luminous stone, one of the most beautiful in the area. I loved to slip inside. The silence held me up. One day I met a woman there. Her name was Christine. My French was barely born. Words tangled, half-Russian, half-English. Still, I tried to explain.

“I… come… family… papers… we wait…”

She listened without rushing me. Nodded.

“I understand… a little… You… trust… Dieu… God,” she said, and from her bag drew a small card: an image of Jesus, and underneath in French, Fais cofinance à Dieu—Trust God.

I took it home, framed it, and set it where I would see it every morning. I woke each day knowing: I will not live this day alone. I will trust.

Integration. The word sounded like an exam with no final grade. I did everything I could: learned the language, practiced, spoke slowly but tried to be brave. Met people. One French woman—a volunteer with Restos du Cœur—seemed to like us.

“Would you come to my house? You and your daughter. Just dinner,” she offered.

I froze. It would be the first time I stepped across the threshold of a French home where I knew almost no one. We went. The food was simple but unforgettable: soup, cheese, bread, something baked with herbs. The house smelled of wood heat and warm bread. So this is the smell of trust, I thought. We talked with words, gestures, smiles. My daughter laughed. Later Christine messaged: “I am praying for you.” In that moment I understood: in France, we were not alone.

We lived then in a place heated by wood. In winter, when the stove rumbled, life seemed more patient. Neighbors passed and called, “Bonjour!” I answered—first shyly, then louder. Some days I said Bonjour twenty times: in the street, at the bakery, by the parking lot, outside the school. Until the evening, I walked into the tobacco shop for stamps.

“Bonjour!” I sang out.

Without looking up, the clerk corrected me gently: “Bonsoir, madame.”

I blushed, then laughed. From that day I watched the sky: if it’s dark—Bonsoir. Language was soaking in like rain into dry ground.

France opened to me in details: flea markets that felt like open-air museums; dogs of every shape patiently waiting for their humans; paid and free parking—an endless puzzle about where not to get a ticket. Swans on the Rhône—white, heavy, unhurried, as if swimming through time. Fireworks on Bastille Day—the sky breaking into sparks until you understand the celebration belongs to you, too.

On the eve of July 14, I tried to learn La Marseillaise. No one asked me to. I simply wanted to say to this country: I’m trying. I’m here for real. I whispered the words, mixed up the lines, but I sang.

All the while we waited—for documents, decisions, permission to stay. Hope kept me moving. I studied. Practiced French. Met people. Accepted invitations. Gave thanks for help. My daughter grew. We both grew—like a plant moved into new soil, needing time for the roots to find water.

“Mama, are we French now?” she asked one day.

“We’re ourselves,” I told her. “But we’re learning to live here. That’s good.”

“So… Bonjour or Bonsoir?” She grinned.

“Check the sky,” I said, and we laughed.

For me, France began with gratitude. With a prayer in a cemetery. With a card that said, Trust God. With a market line and a handful of apples earned in sign language. With volunteers who opened their doors. With wood smoke and a simple dinner. With trying to sing another nation’s anthem just to belong. I needed help—and it came through people. Here in Saint-Romain-en-Gal and Vienne I learned not only a language. I learned that love can take root in any soil, if you plant it and remember to water it.

Postscript: a prayer of thanks

To those who lived here before us. To those who built bridges, schools, the Town Hall. To the police, the doctors, the teachers. To the volunteers who opened their doors. To my daughter, who grew with me. And to God—for the card I see each morning: Trust.