Sights Unseen, Voices Unspoken

This week I witnessed a miracle. After a backyard devastated by Hurricane Helene in 2024, after a fence reduced to matchsticks and fifteen trees downed by the wind, after bulldozers and bobcats reduced our yard to mud and bare ground, after crews with chainsaws and axes cut and dragged trees, bushes, and grass …

after all that …

this week our daffodils bloomed.

They bloomed next to a stump of a massive tree that was felled by the hurricane, under which stands the statue of St. Francis, the only thing left standing in our backyard after the hurricane passed through our area.

Daffodils. Planted by Joe’s mother almost twenty years ago and which have bloomed every year since.

Daffodils. A reminder that what we see is not always the whole story, for despite the wreckage that we could see, there was something else happening … there … just underground … waiting for the right moment to emerge.

The daffodils also reminded me of my sweet nephew, Peter, and his journey with autism. For the first 16 years of his life Peter was completely nonverbal, but two years ago his parents introduced him to Spelling to Communicate, a method which espouses presumed competence; that is, presuming that all nonverbals already have the ability to spell. Suddenly, after 16 years of silence, Peter’s voice was heard through spelling.

It has been a beautiful thing to witness, and this week Peter completed his first high school course (which included studying Shakespeare’s MacBeth).

Since then, Peter’s parents (my sister and brother-in-law) have tried to introduce this communication method to others. They have sponsored several events at their church in Columbia whereby they bring in a trained therapist to come and work with families. Just yesterday, a young man with autism communicated for the first time, proving that he had a voice … that he was IN THERE. And after 31 years of silence, his family heard his “voice” for the first time.

Like a daffodil emerging from the earth, the Peter we thought we knew was not the whole story. There was so much more.

And although sometimes the whole story is hidden, or buried, or misunderstood, with time, patience, and faith, that which is hidden, buried, or misunderstood can (and will!) bloom ...

with miracles to witness and voices that sing.

Speak to Me Sunday: Polishing Silver

 “The best way to polish silver is to use it.”

That was one of the first lessons I learned four years ago when I started working part-time at Angevine’s Fine Silver & Gifts, and as someone who was getting a crash course on silver and flatware patterns, I appreciated the simplicity of that lesson. It was something I could share while maneuvering through the antique silver world: when a customer would come in to buy silver polish but was complaining about having to polish their Christmas silver, I could now say, “Well, you know what they say. The best way to polish silver is to use it.”

Simple. Helpful. Useful. True. And that simple phrase is pregnant with a life lesson.

Picture it. A pair of candlesticks, stored in a cupboard, hidden away and slowly turning a brown that is not rust, but rather a thin black layer of silver sulfide. All the shininess is lost, all the sparkle that makes that item special is gone.

To be sure, the shininess still is there, but it is buried, and the more time passes the harder it becomes to return it to its former shiny state. It takes time to buff and polish and wash, and when the effort becomes too overwhelming, the candlesticks are returned to the cupboard for next time. Except next time gets postponed to another next time. And so it goes.

The best way to polish silver is to use it may be more elegant than saying use it or lose it, but the sentiment is the same.  

So here it is January, bringing with it resolutions and brand-new beginnings riding on the coat tails of all the sparkle and shine from the holidays, as well as a reminder of  the paradox that the only way to keep something in working form—so we can continue to use it!—is simply to use it.

This is nothing new, nothing we do not already know, but somehow it is easily pushed aside. 

Which brings me to my one-word resolution, something I do every year. Just one word (or phrase) to provide focus, clarity, and direction in the new year. In the past, I have chosen words such as spontaneity, embrace, or pronto (“now” or “I am ready”).

But this year … this year my word is argento. The Italian word for silver.

Argento. To remind me to use the silver.

Argento. To encourage me to exercise my body, nurture my mind, explore my talents, grow in faith.

Argento. To remind me to stay polished.  

Speak to Me Sunday: The Gift of Again

Today, we put away Christmas.

We packed away the ribbons and tags; we stored away packages, boxes, and bags.

We basically undid everything we did a month and a half ago. All that fuss to prepare and just like that it is over. Next December we will repeat the process again.

As I watched all the vestiges of Christmas disappear, it dawned on me how much of life is comprised of repeated actions: decorate for Christmas, undecorate for Christmas; throw a load in the washer, and two days later another load goes in; rake the leaves, and do it again after a windy day; say “no” to a toddler, and repeat that one word for the next 18 years; go to church on Sunday, go to church EVERY Sunday. Then there are birthday celebrations, wellness checkups, New Year resolutions, good intentions, and yes, even mistakes. All done on repeat.

The pessimists of the world may see this as drudgery, that with the repetitions we are like Sisyphus in Greek mythology, doomed for all eternity to push a huge boulder to the top of the mountain only to have to repeat the process when it rolls back down again.

But by putting away Christmas, in repeating a process I will do again, I recognized it for what it was: the Gift of Again.

The life we live, in big ways and small, reflects and works in harmony with the seasons in nature, the cycles of the moon, the rising and setting of the sun, the liturgical seasons of the church, the passage of time. And between the bookends of birth and death, the Gift of Again allows us to see, breathe, taste, feel, and experience the same things, but in different ways.

What a precious gift to have the chance to relive and build upon. A moment to straddle yesterday and tomorrow and to merge the two for a more meaningful present.

So, I packed away the ribbons and tags, the packages, boxes, and bags. Again.

Hallelujah!

Thanks Giving, Giving Thanks

If you feed them, they will come.

While the statement makes me smile considering the happiness of my guys is in direct proportion to the contents of our pantry, a few years ago it became all the more meaningful as my husband and I prepared to host Thanksgiving for both sides of our family. It was a large gathering, which meant dining al fresco with long tables set with platters of food, a fire pit crackling nearby, an area designated for cornhole, and a backdrop of trees showcasing leaves of brilliant orange, red and yellow.

The day before Thanksgiving they began arriving from near and far, from Illinois, Virginia, Maryland, South Carolina, and Georgia. They came, our brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents, all representing a variety of professions: engineers, accountants, businessmen, a teacher, an information specialist, a personal trainer, a writer. Some were students in middle school, one was a high school senior, several were in college, and a few had recently graduated and had entered the work force. There was a beautiful boy with autism, a Papa who was 87 years old and who brought a homemade cherry pie, a Nonno who would soon get a brand-new knee, and a Nonna who brought her Italian heritage into this very American holiday by offering espresso with the pumpkin pie.

That was a lot of family, which meant a lot of chaos. While we are a cohesive group, we are still individuals with ideas, passions, and opinions; in other words, we do not agree on everything and, in fact, often have polar viewpoints on issues dealing with religion, politics, and world affairs. We are loud, opinionated, loving, and competitive, and not unlike families everywhere, it is not always perfect.

And yet, on that day it was, and fast forward a few years, it still is. Thanksgiving reminds us of this. In all the running around we do to live our lives, and despite all those things that make life messy and chaotic with work, politics, doctor’s appointments, sports practices, exams, and job interviews, it’s nice to have a day which the only thing that matters is sitting down and breaking bread together.

This year our gathering will be a little smaller, but again we are preparing hearth and home. We will pull out board games and wash guest towels and bake pies; we will keep fingers crossed for good weather and pray for sons driving home; and we will print out our family’s Thanksgiving prayer for everyone to read aloud. It is a special prayer, written by Lino Villacha, and my mother became pen pals with Lino through her best friend who was, for many years, a missionary in Brazil. Lino’s poem, Obrigado Senhor, is a prayer thanking God for his many blessings—and when you read his words in light of the fact that he suffered with leprosy and lived in poverty, it puts things in perspective.

In his poem, Lino thanks God for healthy limbs when so many are crippled; for a voice that sings when many are mute; for hands that work when so many have to beg; and for a home to return to when so many don’t know where they are going. And as we read the poem reminding us to celebrate what we have instead of focusing on what we do not, it is the last two lines which capture the essence of Thanksgiving: It is wonderful, Lord, to have so little to ask/And so much to be thankful for.

To which the only response for all of us holding hands around the table this Thanksgiving will be a heartfelt and very humble, Amen.

Tales from the (Plague) Crypt: A Lake Como Halloween Story

Once Upon a Time in Lake Como (just two weeks ago), under a half-moon sky when it was closer to midnight than not, Belinda, Wendy, and Maria were walking back to the hotel after a lovely dinner. They were lagging behind the rest of the group who, because of the lateness of the hour and a chill in the air, had hurried on ahead.

But Belinda, Maria, and Wendy lagged.

Suddenly, Belinda spied an illuminated church steeple up a side street and wanted to go check it out, sure that it was the same steeple she had heard earlier from the hotel rooftop (the chimes playing Ave Maria). They could not tell how far away the church was, and a quick Google search simply confused matters, so the three of them decided to walk uphill on that side street with the hope the church was nearby.

Other than an occasional car or motorbike, the streets were deserted; other than their echoing footsteps, it was deathly quiet.

And then things got confusing because they rounded a corner and …  WHERE WAS THE STEEPLE? They could no longer see it, even as they continued to follow the street. But they had seen it! Bright and tall and unmistakable. Still, the church steeple had completely disappeared from view.

Then, a few blocks ahead, they saw part of an old building that maybe was the church? As they drew nearer, Maria stopped in the middle of the road.

“Oh my gosh! I know what that is. It is a chapel built to commemorate those that died during the plague,” she whispered.

And she was right. The plaque about the plague read: CHAPEL OF THE PLAGUE DEAD, 1630

It was a tiny, one-room chapel, built of ancient stone. The entrance was a locked gate which offered a view of the offerings on the altar and a single flickering candle. It was a little spooky because … the PLAGUE! And the deserted street! And how did that flickering candle get in there?

Wendy and Maria were discussing all this when they realized Belinda was no longer with them.

WHERE WAS BELINDA?!

“Belinda, where are you?” they hissed. And because of the ancient stone streets and ancient stone walls and a 1630 Plague Chapel that provided a spooky echo, it was a very loud hiss.

“I’m up here,” Belinda hissed back. “I thought I’d run up this hill to see if the church is here.”

Wendy and Maria scrambled to catch up. Belinda was not going alone.

They walked uphill, alongside a cemetery behind a low, stone wall. The tombstones and crypts cast long shadows and, imagining all the plague victims buried there, Belinda, Wendy, and Maria picked up their pace.

And found the church! And a tiny grotto with a statue of the Virgin Mary!

But still no steeple.

Whatever. Belinda and Maria paused to pray a Hail Mary (in Italian) while Wendy (the non-Catholic) waited patiently. Truthfully, it was a very hurried prayer because, leaning against the front of the church and illuminated by a single streetlight, was a man. And given the deserted streets and lateness of the hour, a very suspicious-looking man.

“Drug dealer,” said Belinda.

“Doesn’t look good,” said Maria.

“I think we should get back,” said Wendy, the wisest of the three.

So, they walked back down the hill, past the cemetery, past the Plague Chapel, and back to the hotel where they discovered more than one text asking: WHERE ARE YOU??????!!!!!

Well, not in bed. Instead, Belinda, Wendy, and Maria took the hotel elevator to the rooftop. They had to see for themselves.

The church steeple.

It really did exist.

CHAPEL OF THE PLAGUE DEAD, 1630

(P.S. For those wondering … earlier, Maria mistakenly identified the church as the Church of St. Nicholas when it was, in fact, the Church of San Leonardo. She was right about the Plague Chapel but wrong about the church name. She was 50% right and 50% wrong, but still receives an A- because she is a big supporter of Funny Math.)

Speak to Me Sunday: There, and Here

 Last night I was sitting in Mass thinking how, two weeks ago, we were in Annecy (France), having just arrived as the church bells in town were ringing. And just last Sunday, we were in Munich (Germany) where we spent a lovely afternoon visiting the various churches near the Marienplatz. On both occasions I was struck by a sense of well-being.

That same feeling returned last night as I sat before Mass reflecting on our trip. I have received numerous texts and messages asking about the trip, how it went and what we saw, what was my favorite place or what we had purchased, but I find it hard to put two weeks of adventure (in which we did a LOT) into a coherent response. Where to begin?

And so, I will start with the churches.

While this trip to Alpine Europe was not a pilgrimage, in many ways it felt like one as we visited countless cathedrals, churches and chapels, all surrounded by majestic Alps and built for the glory of God, as places of refuge, and as visual reminders of a heavenly realm. Then, factor in all the preparation prior to the trip (the research on St. James Cathedral and the Mariahilf painting), all the guided tours sharing information about Cathedral architecture, paintings, and sculptures, as well as all the saints and martyrs nestled in niches and grottos or adorning altars. There was even a blessed few minutes spent in an Adoration Chapel at St. Peter’s Abbey in Salzburg, (something we just stumbled upon when we saw a large wooden door, opened it, and entered into the calmness of God’s presence), and a midnight walk in Lake Como to the church steeple we saw in the distance (which turned out to be the Basilica of St. Nicholas).  

All this to say, during our travels it was impossible to not feel the presence of God, and so in every cathedral, church, and chapel we entered, I lit a candle. Enveloped in the circle of light, with smoke drifting heavenward, my prayer was always the same: Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU.

Over and over again I prayed just those words, gratitude being the overriding emotion that spilled from a cup that was already overfilled.

Thank you, God. Thank you thank you THANK YOU for safety and wholeness, because despite a million and one things that could have gone wrong—missed flights, lost luggage, illness, accident, misplaced passports, bad weather—everything was going smoothly; for blind faith that I could get everyone from here, to there, and back home again; for the courage to leave behind loved ones and head out of the familiar and into the unknown, real and imagined; for the miraculous fact that I was in the Alps lighting a candle in a chapel, church, or cathedral.

So last night, sitting before the altar just before Mass began, my prayer was the same as it had been in Annecy, or Bellagio, or Innsbruck, or Salzburg.

Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU.

Because the world is a beautiful place.

Because we were there, 

and now we are here.

Amen.

Speak to Me Sunday: Lessons from a Nun

Last week we hosted Sister Gaudiosa, a nun from Tanzania, in our home. This was her fifth visit with us and, coming on the heels of headlines involving school shootings, assassinations, rioting, and hateful rhetoric, I was craving serenity. And as always, I found that with Sister.

We spent the first evening talking, on the back deck, then at the kitchen table, finally moving to the family room. Sister told us about her work with disabled adults. Every day she provides the basic necessities of bathing, feeding, dressing. She told us stories of the residents—the woman who has to have a radio with her at all times; the man who eats so fast that they cut his food into tiny pieces so he will not choke. It is not an easy job, and many of the residents are not even aware of her presence, but she spoke of them with such love and tenderness.

And she spoke with gratitude. This is one thing I had forgotten about Sister, how she walks through the world with a grateful heart. She says “God is good” and “thank you” so often that we start thinking like that. Yes! Thank you! YES! God IS good!

As in past visits, we had made plans for the week, the first being a day trip to the University of Georgia.

When Sister first met Timothy, he was just three years old. Over the years, through letters, photos, and visits, she has watched him grow into a young man. But she had yet to see College Timothy, so we drove to Athens for the day where Timothy and two of his housemates greeted us, lined up like the von Trapp children, freshly showered and beaming. (And the house was spotless.) Timothy gave us a campus tour, we ate lunch at Bolton so Sister could experience a college dining hall, and we visited the Catholic Center. She was very impressed with Sanford Stadium.

We also visited my sister in Columbia who fed us a delicious lunch and taught us how to make beaded pens. Sister loved the colorful beads, and I loved seeing them, two sisters, seated side-by-side at the dining room table, one biological and one just as dear. Sister left Columbia with over twenty pens to hand out to her fellow sisters back at the convent.

One afternoon Joe was watching golf and Sister wanted to know about the game. He explained the basics and the next day we took her to Putt-Putt.

When we got out of the car, she was excited to see Africa so well represented: an elephant (tembo), a giraffe (twiga), and a hippo (kiboko)! She wanted to take photos to send home to Tanzania. Then, because we did not want her to think that a round of golf always includes fun animals and waterfalls, we explained that this was PRETEND golf, that Joe played REAL golf. And right there, on the FIRST hole, Sister made a hole-in-one!

Oh, how she laughed!

(An aside: I also made a hole-in-one on that very same hole. And Joe, who plays REAL golf, made it in two.)

When we finished playing, we noticed a large group of disabled adults who were sitting under the patio waiting for their caretakers. Sister walked right in their midst and boldy, yet humbly, stood there with a smile. “Hello!” she said quietly. It was a beautiful thing to see, this way of being bold in a humble way. One by one, everyone perked up. A few of the adults waved, or responded verbally, and the caretakers came forward to talk to Sister.

I love witnessing how people respond to Sister. For some, the response comes from a shared faith. For others, it is a curiosity. But what I genuinely love is the response from those who are not Catholic, or who do not belong to any faith, but who will still recognize her outward expression of faith and are moved by it, this “something” that they cannot explain. And it brings out “something” in them that they cannot name. I witnessed this when we drove to Athens and stopped at a gas station where, inside, were men playing on video poker machines. They all looked up when we walked in. Instantly, one sat up straighter, one smiled, and another one actually tipped his hat.

The week went by so quickly. We stayed busy during the day, and in the evening we talked and watched two movies: Hidden Figures (the true story of three African-American women who were essential to the success of early spaceflight at NASA) and The Way (the story of a grieving father making a pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago while carrying the cremated remains of his son). She loved both movies and wrote them down for the next time the sisters at the convent have a movie night.

On the morning of Sister’s departure, I drove her to the airport for her early morning flight. It was very dark on Bobby Jones Expressway. There were no other cars around. And because the world was still sleeping, we were taking quietly. Sister led us in prayer. As I drove, I realized that I could not see beyond the beam of the headlights. If I thought too hard about it, it would have been scary, but I trusted that as I moved forward in the darkness the headlights would reveal the road ahead.

And that is what Sister taught me this week. Having arrived in the midst of political, social, religious, and cultural upheaval emblazoned across the headlines, her presence reminded me that if you surround yourself with what is good, pure, brave, and humble, if you are grateful, if you walk by the light of God, carry it with you and allow it to be your guide, then not only does the world where you are standing becomes a brighter place, but you can light the way for others who come into your path.