Category: hope

Guiseppe’s Village Pt~III

“Girls, this was a great day.” My sister’s pronouncement as we sat around the kitchen table in our VRBO in Messina, Sicily was met with smiles of agreement. It had been a long day. We rose early in the morning. This was the day – the day we would actually visit the little village of San Stefano di Camastra, the home of our grandfather. We did not know exactly what we would find. It could be something great – or it could be nothing at all.

Our week has been full of wonderful experiences. Yesterday, our new friends, Debra and John, the very best of people, took us to downtown Messina. Arriving at the Duomo di Messina, the beautiful music of Ave Maria burst forth as the world’s largest astronomical clock shared its display of figurines. What a beautiful way to start the day! From there we traveled on to the street food celebration in the center of the city. Oh, how we have come to enjoy these two in the short time we have known them. John, though Canadian by birth, spent his summers running freely through the streets of Messina as a boy, spending summers with his grandparents. He is the essence of all things Sicilian. Debra stepped in to document our day. These two together have enriched our journey. They are gifts from God.

The two hour drive along the coast of the Mediterranean today was filled with talk and laughter. We continue to be surprised that we were all able to leave our busy lives and join this adventure. Marjorie navigates as I drive. Dosh tries not to look at the edge of the mountain we’re driving across. Vivian and Karen chat along. All together in one place, that is us.

And now it is time. Signs for San Stefano di Camastra direct us off the coastal road and into the village. It is a beautiful village with crowded cobblestone streets ~ just as it should be. Parking our car, we ask a passerby if he knows where Via Armao is. We have been told this is an actual street. And it is! We have found our street! We are overwhelmed. It is true! But wait. There is the sign for the Armao Palazzo.

Up the street we go to find Palazzo Armao built in the architectural style of the late 19th century. It is here that we see a sign for the library and step inside. A young man working inside greets us. Using Google translate, we explain our mission. We are five sisters looking for our grandfather’s people, the Armao family. His eyes grow wide.

“Armao! Yes, the Armaos are a great family. They were a very important family. They were very wealthy and gave much to the poor. They were very intelligent and leaders. Come, let me show you your library.” He speaks with great respect.

Our eyes are full and our hearts overflowing. Yes, Davide tell us, there are still Armaos here and some in Palermo. We chat with Davide a bit longer before heading out the door, thanking him profusely and smiling to each other. We are amazed. It is all so very good. Tears well up as we think of our father and our grandfather. It is wonderful.

We must visit the ceramic shop. Our great grandfather was a potter making beautiful ceramics which San Stefano di Camastra is known for. We visit various people around the village. Yes, the Armao family was the backbone of this community and is still held in high regard. It is a beautiful village, full of potters and lovely ceramics. These are our people. And though it is siesta time, we find an open shop to buy some ceramics. Sebastian welcomes us to his shop. He shows us his kiln. We buy San Stefano ceramics and he tells us about the Armaos. Everyone knows us!

Oh, how we wish there was more time. But we will have to leave to travel the two hours back to Messina. If only we could have met our famiglia in person! But that is for next time. They will be here. As we journey home we talk of our parents and how happy they would be to know we have done this thing.

Now we know Messina; this evening we walk the streets of our area to the cafe to enjoy pizza together and then we call our siblings in America. We have found them! We have found our people! Our hearts are overflowing with gratitude for all of the good of this week. God has been kind to us as He opened each door to make our journey successful. It is more than we would have imagined. It is all so good!

Tomorrow we will walk to breakfast with John and Debra at our lovely outdoor cafe, swim in the Mediterranean, and attend mass at the little church here on the outskirts of the city. Then, it’s off to Catania in preparation for our flight home, far away from Guiseppe’s village.

We will be back. We will drink espresso at the little cafes, walk the streets of our village and meet the remaining Armaos. We are so happy we found our famiglia. Arrividerchi for now, but we will be back, dear Guiseppe!

Finding Guiseppe ~ Part I

“I’m not eating any sardines!” my eldest sister exclaimed!

The video call was full of laughter and argument, each trying to get a word in, as my sister made her pronouncement.

It all started last spring when I messaged my sisters. “I’ve got points! Let’s go somewhere.” Before we knew it we were researching our grandfather Guiseppe and planning our journey.

We live in various parts of the country from the northeast to the southwest but we will travel together ~~ the town mice and the country mice off to explore the world. I see us now – seated in one long row talking and laughing as we wing our way aboard Lufthansa through the friendly skies to our destination – Sicily.

Years ago, our grandfather, just 10 years old, traveled aboard a ship to the dream of America. Forty years later, our father flew over Sicily as a tail gunner, ridding the world of Mussolini and freeing Italy. This week, our father’s daughters will return to Sicily, touch the earth, dip toes in the Mediterranean, travel to Mt. Etna, and visit our grandfather’s village.

We are quite a group – texting across the country as we plan our adventure. What to eat, what to pack, where to meet? It’s not quite the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, but it’s something like it! I can see us now, careening through the tiny streets of Catania. Dosh (Dorotea) will be holding on tightly, Vivian (Viviana) laughing, Karen (Corrina) talking, and Marjorie (Margherita) riding shotgun as I (Caterina) steer our car toward our destinations. We will be a jolly group of sisters, remembering our mother’s aunts and their hilarious visits when we were children and realizing we have now become the aunts and it’s really quite a glorious thing!

If Mom and Dad could see us, they would smile and be happy for us. They would laugh at our foibles. They knew each one of us better than others do. After all, we were theirs before we were anyone else’s.

We’ll eat pasta and cannolis, croissants and gelato and though she doesn’t know it, I’m sure Dosh will even eat sardines!

~~End of Part I ~~

Keep An Eye Out for Part II

Church in the Valley of the Sun

Yesterday, I walked to an unexpected church service in the Valley of the Sun. We parked our car early on that overcast morning, grateful for the clouds. Even at 7AM Phoenix can be a warm place. As we stepped out of our truck, across the dirt lot and onto the sidewalk we were joined by others headed in the same direction. Crossing 99th and Glendale more congregants joined the group and soon a long line stretched down the sidewalk. Where the sidewalk ended and dirt began, we continued – feet clad in heels, boots, sandals – all headed to the same place. The closer we drew to our destination, the bigger the crowd grew. This was reminiscent of life in America fifty years ago, when Sunday was always church day and families walked to their local church.

I have not seen so many men in suits in years….women in dresses, others dressed in tattoos and sandals, some dressed in patriotic clothing, all with the same goal. We were headed to a remembrance and a celebration. Turning a corner we reached our destination and joined the thousands already there. It is not often that we are able to view a cross section of humanity gathered together, but there we were. waiting, waiting to honor a martyr. It was, in a sense, our pilgrimage to honor a hero of the faith. We would walk distances and stand in the heat for the opportunity to spend time in remembrance and appreciation for a life well lived and a martyr’s sacrifice. In this moment we were united in both our grief and our admiration.

After several hours of waiting and moving slowly forward, we were able to enter the air-conditioned stadium – a great relief. Now, with two hours to wait for the service to begin we watched the stadium continue to fill and knew that nearby another stadium was housing congregants too. The music of the musicians filled the arena as we waited for the official service. Around me some sang, some prayed, some simply sat quietly thinking of the day and its importance. We are allowed our different forms of worship and contemplation.

And then the presenters began to speak. As each speaker stepped forward it seemed we drew closer and closer to God. Could it really be that our governmental officials were unabashedly proclaiming that Christ is the answer? As each cabinet member stepped forth and testified – actually gave testimony – to the remarkable life of Charlie Kirk, I sat in amazement. Could this really be our government officials proclaiming that Christ is the only way, giving the whole story of the creed – the virgin birth, sinless life, death, burial, and resurrection that makes possible a life in heaven? These are the leaders of MY country. Oh ye of little faith; I would never have believed this could happen.

Then the reminder of the prayer, our Lord’s prayer, ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive the trespasses of others.’ laid before us by a widow with a broken heart. It was too much to comprehend and yet…..God. He gives the strength for the forgiveness we will never be able to extend on our own. His truth is good and beautiful and He gives the grace to go on.

When the service ended and we left the stadium, we were strangers united by a common bond, united by Christ, walking to our cars, returning to our homes. Our lives have been touched by the example of a martyr. We must never forget. May we be kind and good and never deny our Savior in the midst of it all. The Arizona sun shone brightly and we knew in our hearts that we had been to church in the newly minted Valley of the Son.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise Him all creatures here below. Praise Him above ye heavenly hosts. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

AMEN

Hope in the Midst of Chaos

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Back in the saddle again. Out where a friend is a friend, where the longhorn cattle feed on the lowly jimson weed, back in the saddle again.                                                                      

Out on the range once more, totin’ my old .44, where you sleep out ev’ry night and the only law is right, back in the saddle again.

The words of this old western ballad caress my ears as I rock my grandson. The music of the rocker sings along with Gene. It’s the end of a busy week and a busy day. As we rock I listen to those words, words that are foreign to the ear in these days. Few people listen to cowboy music – not country music, mind you – true western music….ballads of life in the great western parts of our nation. They are filled with the stories of men riding the range, fighting the weather, living a life in which dreams and reality collide. 

As we rock I sing along and look into the true blue eyes that are looking up at me The words of the song speak to me more deeply than they have in earlier times. In this unhappy world, full of violence and illness, with the strain of society tripping over itself to find answers, I hear the clean music, the gentle voice, the words that speak of true friendship, of the peacefulness of an agrarian life, of a time when guns were not  something to argue over but simply a tool to use and the public was thankful for the rule of law.

I don’t think it is just my age that causes me to return to the old things, the good things, though it is true, or should be, that as we grow older we learn to appreciate the goodness of the old, rather than forsaking it. In our restless society, it has become more important to be ‘woke’ than to be wise. There is a great pressure to ‘keep up’, to be savvy, as we used to say. That was when people understood language more fully, read whole books rather than this blog of 500 words. 

There is no time now to study history and read deeply. We are too busy fighting and making sure we are not pushed around by others but instead WE do the pushing. Could it be, could it just be that those simple songs and simple times that are thought of as so naive and far too innocent, lacking the reality of skepticism and full of blinding hope were actually better? 

It was not a bad way to live when people were polite, when families sat around a nicely set table laden with food made by loving hands, and talked and laughed and cherished each other. The father at one end of the table, the mother at the other. Prayer was offered and all was just as it should be. A knock at the door was not feared, rather another chair was added to the table and food was passed.  This picture actually offends so many now; the thought of anything so picturesque must be eradicated. The present age of tomfoolery has no time for beauty, preferring instead to focus on how to make the world uglier.  Would that we could return to the days of love and understanding, of affection and kindness, of politeness and respect.

These thoughts meander through my mind as I watch my grandson’s eyes flutter and close, I listen to the lilting western ballad and my heart is encouraged that there are still some who live far away from the noise and there is hope that this child will not see the destruction of our society that is going on in the false name of justice. I hope that he, a white boy, or any of our other grandchildren – black and brown included, will not be judged by the color of their skin as so many seem to think is appropriate in these progressive times. 

The world has taken a turn for the worse; what was evil is now seen as good and what was good is now evil. The beauty of life on the range is unfamiliar to the angry protesters and to much of our society.  With blinded eyes, most could not see the goodness of a life lived outside the fog of mediocrity that is all the rage, where no one can do well and all must settle for the lowest denominator. In such a society, there is no use for beauty or striving for excellence – all must be the same.

Mock me if you choose, I prefer to follow a higher calling. Yes, head in the clouds, I will cling tightly to hope.  I choose to look up and to think on things that are true, honest, just, pure, lovely, of good report, full of virtue, praise-worthy. It’s peculiar, I know. But who wants to follow the madding crowd? I’m happy coming out from among them, living high on a mountain, listening to beautiful music, and generally  being a peculiar person. Wow – that sounds, well, almost Biblical.

II Cor.6:17    Phil. 4:8

The Story Of The Blanket

It was hot, very hot, in the northern Arizona desert. The traveler wandered slowly along, serape draped over his shoulders, bare feet blistered and burning. The intense heat of the IMG_1168(2)sun had surprised him. He never expected the Navajo reservation, located so far north in the state, to be as inhospitable in its temperatures. The Navajo had taken pity on him and offered him butter for his burnt feet and a blanket to throw over his reddened shoulders.  Foolishly, he had slathered the butter on and now paid the price as the heat of the burn drove inward.  

His stomach ached with hunger and he looked for a place to find some food. There wasn’t much in this remote area, but he’d been told by the natives he met, that the missionaries at the house up ahead might help him.  Shading his eyes with his hand, he gazed toward the mission house. It stood tall, its red porch standing out among the white rocks of the mountain behind it. He readjusted his blanket, a gift given by strangers to a stranger.  His heart overflowed with gratefulness as he thought of the goodness he had encountered in this lonely place.

Heading toward the house, he stumbled up the steps of the red porch and threw himself on one of the empty benches by the porch railing, his buttered feet leaving oily footprints. The door opened and a tall man stepped out. His face showing his surprise at the source of the sound on the porch.

“Do you need help?”

Was there more goodness in this place? His heart leapt. If only he could get to the nearest city where he might find a rescue mission, get some food, some sleep, some  hope to begin again.

“I need help, yes. I need to get to Flagstaff.” He might as well put it out there and ask; he had no choice.

“I can do that. I can take you to where you can catch a bus and I’ll buy you a ticket to Flagstaff. Sit right there, I’ll be back in a minute.”

The traveler leaned back against the porch and rested.

“Would you like a drink and something to eat?”

Opening his eyes with surprise, the traveler looked up into the face of a woman. It must be the man’s wife. He found a cold drink placed in his hand and looked down as a thick sandwich was handed to him.  What was this? Another kindness? He drank the drink thirstily and quickly gulped down the sandwich.

The tall man was his hero now as he eagerly scrambled into the waiting truck. Together, they headed down the highway and the traveler soon found himself settled comfortably on the Greyhound bus headed for Flagstaff. He reached to pull his blanket around his shoulders. Wait! Where was it? Where could he have left it? His gift from the reservation was gone! Ah! The porch. In his excitement, he must have left it on the porch. Well, alright.  The tall man could have it. Maybe he could use it. It felt good to be the giver for once. Bless that blanket. It had been a long time since he’d given a gift.

As her husband headed off in the truck with their latest visitor, the woman sighed. Living just off I-40 with only a few curio shops and truck stops nearby, she was used to having travelers stop in. There weren’t many places to go for help when stranded in this part of the country.  She’d fed other weary travelers, people finding their way. Picking up the plate and glass left on the porch, she noted the footprints left by their recent visitor. That was odd. It looked as if he must have had some sort of oil on his feet. Well, she’d seen all sorts here.  Something flapped in the wind, and she noticed a striped Mexican blanket laying on the porch seat. She picked it up. After a good washing, it would be pretty handy and the colors were pretty too. 

Over the next few years, the family — the man and woman had six children in the span of time — moved from the Navajo reservation in the northeast corner of the state to the northwestern side of the state, living now in a little town, still far from cities and the rush of life. The blanket moved with them. Sometimes it wrapped toddlers and kept them warm while swinging on the new porch’s swing. Sometimes it laid decoratively on the back of the couch, reminding all who came that they were in the great Southwest. The blanket traveled with them wherever they went, stored in a cupboard or used on a daily basis. Few knew its story, a story of giving from one person to the next, but the tall man and the woman remembered.

When one of the last daughters married, the woman gave her the blanket to take to her new home. Blankets are always needed and indeed this one had weathered the storms of life very well, and still looked almost new. The daughter took the blanket to her new home and settled in.  It was put away for just a little while as the couple prepared for a baby. Along the way, the daughter was given a gift of a rocker. Purchased at a thrift store, it lacked pillows. Someday, she decided, I’ll make pillows for that rocker.

And then one day the daughter had an idea. She opened her wooden chest and took out the blanket.

“Perfect!” she said to herself, and smiled quietly. This was her project for the day. Without hesitation, she cut and sewed and hummed as she worked. When her project was finished, joy filled her heart as she looked at her handiwork. Yes, yes it was just as it should be. That old blanket looked as good as new. The rocker was ready and she picked up her little boy and sat him in it. He looked just right. Now to tell her mother of her accomplishment…..

“Mom, you know that blanket you gave me? Let me send you a picture of it now.”

IMG_1167(1)

“Do you know the story of the blanket?” said the woman. “Let me tell you….”

And so, the blanket continues its work, begun on a remote reservation by generous people who did not know the journey the blanket would take, protecting a weary soul, making homes more welcoming, holding sleeping babies, and providing comfort for a new mother. Hope revived is precious, a kindness is never too small and goodness is never out of fashion.

 

 

 

 

The Season of Hope

   Hope is the thing with feathers,                                                                               That perches in the soul,                                                                                                                    And sings the tune without the  words,                                                                                        And never stops at all. ~~ Emily Dickinsondove

Hope, that generous giver, never takes away; she only gives.  Hope is ever present; in the very darkest hour, hope takes our hand, and leads us gently on.

In this season, we see hope brightly displayed in the shining faces of children dressed up for Christmas concerts, in the faces of parents as they watch their precious little ones sing. It is the hope of Christmas morning, the expected surprise of unknown gifts. It is the hope of parents as they look forward to the arrival of faraway family on a Christmas Eve. Hope fulfilled is seen in the faces of those gathered around the table for that dreamed of Christmas dinner as family and friends rejoice in the fellowship of Christmas.

Humanists and agnostics, in this season of hope, cannot escape her tentacles. For, if they are not careful, those very tentacles will wrap gently but firmly around their hearts, pulling them into close relationship.  It will be difficult to keep from imagining the glory of the angels praising God, to keep from picturing the humble shepherds as they hurry to the manger, or the beauty of the young mother adoring her Son.

Careful unbeliever, hard and embittered by life. The very beauty of the Christmas story may soften your hardened heart and you may find yourself fully awakened. You may find yourself wanting…in need of peace, wondering…..hoping. You may find …… Him.

How wise of God, how truly wise, to send His Son in the form of a helpless babe, knowing we would forever be drawn to the story and in being drawn to the story,  be drawn to HIM. Who, knowing the story, does not imagine it; the cold winter’s night, the shepherds in the fields, the poor couple looking for a place to stay? There is Joseph, desperately in need of shelter for his young wife, and Mary, young, suffering in the beginning throes of labor, giving birth in the crude stable. We often picture a haven, comfy and cozy. The reality may not have been anywhere near that scenario, but it is comforting to us to imagine our Christ, our Messiah, swaddled tightly and held closely by His young mother. She is tired but happy, as new mothers are.

It is the story for which mankind longs…the low brought high, the helpless babe is the King of the world. He reigns in truth and justice, forgiving the penitent and punishing evil. In the end, every knee bows and all is revealed. It is the ending we all hoped and hope for, the first story ever written and the last that will ever be told. The Alpha and Omega.

Because of this, we hope, we know, we trust, we believe.  Hope, like a small bird, perches in our soul and keeps us warm in the promise that in the darkest, coldest night, or the raging storms of life, He is there. Hope, that unseen entity, full of power and ever present. Without hope, our hearts would break. With hope, we press forward, knowing…there was a small babe, a manger, a young mother, angels singing, shepherds kneeling. the Hope of mankind came to earth. 

It is the season of hope…. and hope does not disappoint. Rom. 5:4