Finding the Pause

This morning's Gospel reading of Mary's fiat brings to mind Adrea della Robbia's masterpiece, "The Annunciation", which I saw several years ago at the Sanctuary of La Verna in Italy.

This familiar scene has been reduced to the essentials in which everyone is waiting for Mary's reply. The angel, God, the cherubs, and even the wings of the dove are waiting in suspense for the free will decision of Mary. Her face is thoughtful; one hand rests on the passage from Isaiah (Behold, a virgin shall conceive...) while her other hand rests on her heart, searching for God's will.

This incredible work demonstrates the moment—that silent moment—just before Mary gives her fiat. And her words, not yet uttered, are inscribed on the base: "You see before you the handmaid of the Lord, let it be done to me as you say."

It is a hold-your-breath kind of moment, a little drama before something monumental happens.

One can find that same thing happening in the caesura dividing the two stanzas of the Hail Mary. The first stanza ends with the words "blessed is the fruit of your womb" (hence, Mary is with child). In the silence of the caesura separating the first stanza from the second stanza (which begins with the words "Holy Mary, Mother of God"), Mary has given birth and is now a mother.

A lot happens in the silence of a pause, and in our busy, every day lives it can be incredibly beneficial to find that silence: before speaking, before an important decision, in prayer to hear what God has to say, as a way to begin, or end, the day.

A simple pause where silence can speak volumes.

[photo: The Annunciation, Andrea della Robbia, La Verna, Italy

Advent Sunday 3: Journeys (Verso l'Alto)

This is part III of a series called Journeys, personal reflections on the season of Advent presented in four parts – Readiness in Memory and Hope, Setting Forth, Verso l’Alto, and The Return. Join me in following in the footsteps of Joseph and Mary as they traveled to Bethlehem and the Wise Men as they followed the star.

Verso l'Alto

Last Friday I attended an evening Christmas concert at St. Teresa’s. Sitting in the semi-dark church, listening to the performance of the choir and the orchestra, my gaze kept shifting upwards: to the crucifix, the ceiling, the beautiful stained-glass windows illuminated by candlelight. And sitting there, taking it all in, it wasn't long before my very soul was uplifted. 

So much about the architecture of a church is about that upward movement: the vaulted ceilings, towering columns, pointed arches, tall candlesticks, raised altar area, and hanging crucifix all draw our eyes upward.

Even the rituals of Mass direct our eyes heavenward: the Book of Gospels is lifted on high, incense curls toward the heavens, candle smoke drifts heavenward, the consecrated host is raised, and even our voices are elevated in praise and prayer.

After the Christmas concert, we wandered outside on the church grounds where spotlights illuminated the Three Wise Men figures positioned at the bottom of a hill. During Advent, they will slowly be moved up toward the stable perched on top of the hill. Again, the verticality of movement. 

When we returned home, I pulled out a prayer card with a photo taken in 1925 of Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati climbing a mountain. Written across the top are the words Verso l’alto, which translated literally means towards the heights. Those words have become a rallying cry of what it means to walk on this earth while striving to reach the summit of eternal life.

It’s a simple idea, but while verso l’alto can refer to the physical act of climbing, on a deeper level it refers to what we are doing while climbing: who we are as a child of God; how we act, forgive, live our faith, help the sick, love our neighbor. And during Advent, this season of preparation, we are reminded of those things we need in order to find meaning and purpose on our climb. 

Verso l'alto. 

Advent Sunday 2: Journeys (Setting Forth)

During these Sundays in Advent, I am posting a series called Journeys, personal reflections on the season of Advent presented in four parts – Readiness in Memory and Hope, Setting Forth, Verso l’Alto, and The Return. Join me in following in the footsteps of Joseph and Mary as they traveled to Bethlehem and the Wise Men as they followed the star, and let’s reflect on this journey we call life.

 Setting Forth

The suitcases were packed and standing in a line by the back door; I was in that in-between place of being ready, but not yet going, balanced between two worlds: the one I was coming from (familiar and safe) and the one I was going to (full of the unknown).

Incredibly exciting.

Equally as frightening.

Trip, journey, pilgrimage, sojourn … there are so many ways to describe that act of going forth, of venturing into what is unknown because any movement into the future will have the unexpected, the unplanned for, the closed doors and detours.

This past August I was standing next to my father on the stern of an Alaskan cruise ship. This cruise, sandwiched between my father’s lengthy hospital stay and his unexpected cancer diagnosis, had become a metaphor for sailing into unchartered waters of radiation and chemotherapy treatments, all of which awaited my father once we returned home.

There were so many unspoken questions with no clear answers, but sometimes you just have to live the question and take that first step of a journey, whether physical or metaphorical, and trust that with faith, hope, and more than a little courage the path will be illuminated with every step.

But oh …  it is that first step, when you have to let go of the known and grasp the unknown, which is the most challenging because we know, deep in our soul, that we are about to be changed.

During this Advent as we embark on a journey connecting memory and hope, Joseph and Mary show us what it is like to take that step into the unknown. And by their example, we are reminded how any journey – spiritual, physical, redemptive, etc. – begins with that first step. It may be the biggest step you may ever have to take, seemingly impossible and impossibly difficult; it may be a hesitant step, or a bold one; it may even be a forced one.

But that one step can become a leap of faith.

 

Advent Sunday 1: Journeys (Readiness in Memory and Hope)

For the next four Sundays I will share a series called Journeys, personal reflections on the season of Advent presented in four parts: Readiness in Memory and Hope, Setting Forth, Verso l’Alto, and The Return. Join me in this Advent journey toward that stable in Bethlehem.

Journeys: Readiness in Memory and Hope

Yesterday I ordered my 2025 planner. I always look forward to its arrival: empty pages with quotes and blank spaces to write down goals and, most importantly, the 365 empty squares lined up like stepping stones going forth into a year of tomorrows.

In big ways and in small, each of those stepping stones will lead me on a journey propelled by Time which marches forward in seconds, minutes, days and years. With every breath, with every step, with every thought or action or prayer, it will all be a journey.

Sometimes the journey will be planned and carefully mapped out, but other times it will yank and pull and drag us where we do not want to go—the illnesses, tears, and hardships that give us "what" without understanding "why". Sometimes the journey will be a battle with inner demons of self-doubt. Sometimes it will call us to foreign lands, a new career path, or a religious vocation. Oftentimes the journey will be exciting and adventurous, but just as often it will be a whirlwind of the ordinary with carpool, dinner, chores, work, and children.

I will turn the pages of my brand new planner. I will fill in the squares with birthdays and anniversaries and family trips. I will embrace the empty squares as stepping stones of hope rather than blank squares of the unknown.

Then, I will put away my old planner, its squares of yesterdays which were once tomorrows but are now stepping stones of memory.

Tonight, we will light a candle to mark Advent’s passage, and I am grateful for this season with its gift of time to both recognize the journey and to reflect on it—to gather and learn and step forward in readiness.

In his book, Seek that Which is Above, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger (Pope Benedict XVI) describes Advent as a connection between memory and hope; that is, the healing memory of the God who became a child, and the hope that memory brings.

Memory. Hope. A readiness to journey onward.

When Golf Saves Christmas

This was us yesterday.

Joe brings down the tree from the attic and puts up the lights. Colored lights this year.

Me: There are not enough lights. It is not sparkly enough.

Joe: I strung up 500 lights. That is plenty.  

Me: Colored lights are not as bright, so there really needs to be more of them.

Now, we have this discussion about lights Every. Single. Year. Joe looks at a number and says plenty. I look at the brightness (or lack thereof) and want more.  

We go back and forth until Timothy enters the discussion. He is Team Mom.

There is a little tension in the air, despite the Christmas music playing in the background, and tree decorating has come to a full stop. But then … inspiration.

Me: Hey, weren’t you guys going to the golf course this afternoon? You should go now while the weather is great!

So they go golfing and I run to Walgreens and purchase more lights. I add 800 more lights and—this is the absolute truth—the song “O Christmas Tree” comes on the radio.

Our tree is SPARKLY.

The End

 

P. S. What was the reaction of the guys when they came home?

Timothy: Now THAT is a Christmas tree.

Joe: Okay. It does look better.

And he gives me a Christmas hug.

my interview with mi.o (my modern italian network)

Let's Meet Author Maria Novajosky

Let's welcome Maria Novajosky to mi.o! She is a relatively new member to our community, but has been blogging a very long time! Maria tells us her story on exploring her Italian-American heritage and how her Nonna made a HUGE impact on her life. I can certainly relate, and I'm sure many of you can, too. Regardless of your own heritage or where you live, Maria reminds us how written words on a piece can help us stay connected with our roots!

Q: When did you first create your blog and what was the inspiration behind it? 

I started my blog, La Dolce Vita: The Sweet Life with Three Sons, twelve years ago.  I was working as a contract writer for a Catholic company (conducting interviews and writing articles), but I was looking for ways to write on what I was most passionate about—family, food, faith, and my Italian heritage. Blogging was a good fit for me. In my very second post (My Nonna and Michelangelo) I described how Nonna became emotional as she gazed up at the majestic ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. That was the beginning of what I call my Nonna stories where I write about my Nonna and what she taught me through the years. And while I also write about the perfectly ordinary day-to-day life (with a husband and three sons there is ALWAYS something to write about), my Italian heritage is the foundation for everything I write.

Q: Which topics really resonate with your readers and why? 

My readers especially enjoy when I share our Italian traditions—such as making homemade tortellini, celebrating the Feast Day of St. Joseph, or choosing Italian bomboniere for our son’s First Communion. Also popular are the posts about our travels to Italy—the trip with my entire family when we rented a farmhouse in Tuscany, the time we traveled with the Nonni to Rome and the Amalfi Coast, and the two Girls’ Trips that my sister and I organized (22 women accompanied us on the first trip, 31 on the second). I also write on Italian culture and art, and have a Fun Facts series in which I list the highlights of a specific city or region.

Q: What is the Italian-American culture like in the Deep South? Could you recommend authentic Italian eateries or cultural events?

Prior to moving to the United States, we had been living in Vicenza, Italy—just 30 minutes from my mother’s hometown of Verona. When my father retired from the military and we moved here to Augusta, Georgia, my life turned upside down. The world was much bigger then—there was no internet, instant messaging, or skype to make it smaller—so it seemed as if I was cut off from everything I had known and loved. I truly felt I would lose a part of myself and that the South would swallow me whole. But through Nonna’s letters (she wrote to us weekly for almost 50 years), and the visits we made to Italy or that our relatives made to us, I held on to my Italian heritage. Eventually our family met a group of Italian-Americans who, like us, had retired from the military, and when we gathered there was a fun mixture of Italian and English, heaping plates of food, backyard bocce, and plenty of espresso, homemade limoncello, and red wine. 

Today, it is much different. There is so much about Italy—the food, culture, history, art—that appeals to people all over the world, and it is no different here in Augusta, Georgia. There may not be a large Italian-American population such as you would find in New York or Chicago, but we are just as passionate about our heritage. For example, our local Italian-American Club hosts an annual Pasta Festival, several members of the club have taught Italian at our local college, my mother worked as a translator for the Italian athletes during the 1996 Atlanta Olympics and for the Italian President of the National Barrel Horse Association (NBHA) who was competing here in Augusta, and a few years ago I was invited to give a presentation on la cucina povera at The Sacred Heart Garden Festival, one of the premier gardening events in the southeast.

Q: You wrote your first book An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Full of Kisses. What was the most challenging part of writing it? 

Two years ago, I was at my mother’s house looking at a box of old photos from Italy, when I noticed that many photos were taken in downtown Verona in front of a fountain in Piazza Bra; in fact, there were so many photos of this fountain that I took them all out and placed them in a line. Some photos were black and white, while others were in color; some featured my Nonna or my mother and her sisters standing in front of the fountain, while in later photos my sons were throwing coins into that very same fountain. As I looked at all those photos, I was struck how each one was different, and yet the fountain was the anchor that tied the photos together.

And I saw a parallel between that fountain and my Italian heritage. My circumstances may be constantly evolving—where I live or what season of life I am in—but the essence of who I am as an Italian-American is, like that fountain, the constant in my life.

A few days later, my mother showed me all the letters Nonna had written us through the years—weekly letters that began in 1966. As I read each letter, I realized how much Nonna’s love had influenced my life, especially after we moved to Georgia when I had to learn to find happiness on this side of the Atlantic. So much of who I am today as a wife and mother, or how I entertain, worship and raise my sons, can be traced back to her. It was then I decided to write An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Full of Kisses.

Writing the book was definitely an emotional journey. Just touching the thin pages of the letters and running my fingers over Nonna’s handwriting brought forth the sound of her voice and the joy of her laughter. It’s a wonderful thing to travel back through memories, but it’s also bittersweet.

Q: What’s been your most important skill you've developed as a writer?

Patience. Nothing about writing a book—from the manuscript, to the editing process, to the cover design—is done quickly.

Q: Which kinds of tours to Italy do you put together? Could you offer a travel itinerary that is a little out of the ordinary? (Something for more experienced travelers to Italy)

In 2014 I came across a Caravaggio painting where I was not expecting a Caravaggio painting to be—in Kansas City, Missouri. Hanging in the European art wing of the Nelson-Atkins Museum of art, St John in the Wilderness is one of the few Caravaggio paintings in the United States. As I stood in front of that unexpected discovery, exploring the feelings evoked when art, history, culture and travel collide, I decided then and there that within a year I would organize a trip to Italy.

Exactly one year later I was standing in St. Peter’s Square waiting for Papa Francesco to give his Angelus blessing. With me were 23 women from Georgia, South Carolina, Maryland, Illinois, and Washington State who had signed up to travel with my sister and me for 9-day adventure to Rome and the Amalfi coast.

The trip was such a success that we organized another one this past September—a customized 12-day tour to Tuscany (Siena, San Gimignano, Firenze), Santa Margherita Ligure, Portovenere, Stresa (Lago Maggiore, Isola Bella, Isola dei Pescatori), Isola San Giulio, Bolzano (Otzi the Ice Man), Verona, and Venezia.

Our last few days were in Venezia, which was the perfect way to end our trip. But as much as we loved la serenissima, everyone on the trip also loved the Northern lakes region of Italy—especially Santa Margherita and Stresa. (It’s a little of the beaten path, but I highly recommend visiting Isola San Giulio with its peace and serenity.) Finally, and this may sound odd, but we all enjoyed our visit to Bolzano to see Otzi, the 5,300 year old glacial mummy discovered by hikers in 1991. It was fascinating.

Grazie to Maria Novajosky for sharing her story with us! Please feel free to visit her blog and check out her book An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Full of Kisses on Amazon.

Debating the Debate (not the way you think)

Questions to ponder after last night's debate: When was the last time I changed someone’s mind? Persuaded a person with diametrically opposed views to see things my way? Convinced someone to abandon their core beliefs?

I mention these questions because here we go again. Another presidential debate. Instead of an evening of civil discourse, we, the American people (and the rest of the world), had front row seats to two individuals exchanging insults, lies, vitriol, accusations, and personal attacks, all of which will fuel further division.

And the debating continued long after the candidates walk off the stage.

In today’s world of Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, everyone has a voice. With posts, tweets and blogs, people are vying to be heard. With news broadcasts, radio programs, talk shows and podcasts, the entire country is talking. Everyone wants to offer their opinions, confer their beliefs, and promote their political agenda. And by golly, everyone better listen.

But what happens when what we are saying is not getting through? When our words scatter in the wind like confetti?

The talking gets louder. And faster. It becomes accusatory, dismissive, and very, very judgmental. The talking resorts to name-calling and labeling people as Democrat or Republican, Christian or non-Christian, middle class or poor, educated or uneducated. We reduce the entire essence of a person or group into one tiny label until that label is all we see anymore.

One cannot change someone’s mind by yelling at them, pointing a finger, or calling them names; one cannot solidify their position by toppling statues or breaking windows; it is impossible show someone the way when they have been shoved to the ground.

Civil discourse is a lost art, mainly because listening is a lost art. Once upon a time people listened with the intent to understand; but today people listen only to hear themselves speak.

So, after we witnessed yet another poor example of politics in America, ponder these questions instead: When was the last time I listened? Responded to what a person said rather than focus only on what I wanted to say? Explained my position without trying to push an agenda?

Conversed, rather than pontificate?

It is not an easy thing to do. Passion fuels our political ideals, but when we can acknowledge that passion and hate bubble forth from the same wellspring … well, maybe we should calm our bad selves down. 

"I love argument, I love debate. I don't expect anyone just to sit there and agree with me."

-Margaret Thatcher

The Most Perfect Saturday Morning

A perfect day is so subjective. It can depend on the weather, or whether you are on vacation, or if your favorite football team is winning. It can involve doing something grand, or nothing at all. It might involve sleeping in. Sometimes a perfect day is planned, while other times it is wholly unexpected.

As I type this I am reflecting on what was, without a doubt, a most perfect Saturday morning:

Sitting on the covered patio of my favorite coffee shop, sipping a cappuccino, listening to the drip, drip, drip of a lightly falling rain.

Walking around the downtown Farmers’ Market with my polka-dot umbrella.

Purchasing a miniature painting, not because I needed it, but because I knew it would make the vendor’s day—a sale when crowds were small due to the weather and competition from the annual Aiken's Makin’ Festival.

Listening to live music, the musician huddled under a tent. The music, sunshine on a rainy day, so a few bills in his tip jar to give him a little sunshine in return.

Purchasing the most perfect heirloom pumpkin, in the most perfect shade of verdigris and sporting the most perfect curlicue stem.

Typing this.

Reflecting.

Smiling.

Speak to Me Sunday: Foolish Actions

Once Upon a Time, two elderly gentlemen knocked on our door. They were missionaries wanting to spread God’s word and were so polite, lovely really, that I chatted with them a few minutes. We spoke about God and faith and how the two are becoming increasingly pushed aside in culture and society. They had some pamphlets, but I told them I was secure in my faith and to save them for others who might need them more. I thanked them for sharing God with others, we shook hands, and they left.

A few minutes later I had an idea: I should have offered those nice gentlemen some bottled water and snacks for the road! It was a thought that came out of nowhere and so I felt it was divinely inspired. It was not too late!

I gathered the items and looked out the window. The gentlemen were no longer on our street. No problem! I jumped in the car and drove around the neighborhood looking for them.

And I could not find them anywhere.

Huh. I drove back home a little deflated because, after all, hadn’t I been answering a spiritual prompting? Hadn’t I been obedient to the whispers of the Holy Spirit spurring me into action?

Apparently not. Truthfully, I felt a little more than a little foolish. This is not the first time that I believed I was listening to the Holy Spirit, acted on it, only to arrive at a complete and total dead end.

A few days later came the announcement that Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. had suspended his presidential bid and was offering his support for “the other side.” “Political suicide,” said some. “A betrayal,” said others. “Foolish,” said many. There were opinions and commentaries aplenty.

But I was not listening to any of it because in the midst of all that hoopla I saw a man who was brave enough to forge a new path and stand by his convictions, all without knowing how this would all play out. Whatever one may think of his decision, it was incredibly courageous to leave a party he was no longer comfortable with and to do so despite the protests of his very influential political family. On the current political stage where there is so much talk without substance, RFK Jr. listened to his inner convictions and gave us something different … whether or not you think him a fool for doing so.

Again, this is not a political commentary, but it did get me thinking: one cannot know if a conviction, or a spiritual prompting, is valid unless it is acted upon. And does it not take faith to take that step when the outcome is unknown? And courage to stand strong against the naysayers?

In the ways of the world, a “yes” to any of the above can be seen as foolish. 

But that can be a good thing.  

Thinking back to that day with the missionaries, I see now that it did not matter my actions did not turn out the way I had imagined they would, that my good intentions fell flat.

Instead, what mattered was I felt a spiritual prompting, and on blind faith I acted.

And sometimes, it is the action (and not the result!) that is the point.

Speak to Me Sunday: Sustenance

Once Upon a Time, we were traveling with my parents in southern Italy. One day we took the train from Naples to Sorrento, then a boat to the island of Capri where we spent several hours enjoying that very hilly island. When we made the return trip, we decided to stop in Sorrento to explore. For some reason, my dad had not been privy to that decision and therefore got a little grumpy about even more walking. So, we did the only thing that would remedy the situation: we settled him in a pizzeria, ordered him a pizza, and all was right with the world.

I was reminded of this story during church last weekend. The reading was about Elijah, sitting under a broom tree, essentially telling God that he was tired and did not want to go on. So, what did God do? He sent an angel to deliver a hearth cake and a jug of water. Elijah ate, then took a nap, after which the angel woke him up and told him to eat again. After two meals and a good nap, Elijah then walked 40 days and 40 nights.

I love these Biblical glimpses of human shortcomings—not the kind due to sin, but to the simple fact that we are limited by bodies that get tired, thirsty, and hungry. Both the Old and New Testaments provide instances when God, or an angel, or a Good Samaritan saw to a person’s physical needs. Often, food or drink were provided before a miracle or a spiritual lesson. When Jesus heals Jarius’ daughter, he tells her parents to give her something to eat (Mark 5:40-43). At his mother’s request for more wine, Jesus performs his first miracle in Cana. The story of Martha and Mary juxtaposes human nourishment (Martha) with that of spiritual fulfillment (Mary). And Jesus' compassion for the multitude of people coming to hear him speak results in the miracle of the multiplication of loaves and fishes, and with their physical needs met the next day Jesus gives them his Bread of Life Discourse.

Hospitality, kindness, fellowship, compassion can all be made manifest by the offering of food and drink. Eat to live, or live to eat? I believe the two go hand-in-hand because food is so much more than sustenance. We eat to celebrate and to mourn. We toast a new bride and groom. We bring meals to a neighbor and send care packages to a college student. We light candles on a birthday cake and bake cookies for a fundraiser.

All this to say that food is a Love Language, one which has taken on new significance in light of my father’s cancer journey. My father (praise God!) has finished his cancer treatments, but for a while he will continue to experience the effects of the weekly radiation and chemotherapy treatments; namely, loss of appetite and a throat that is incredibly raw. For some time, he has been unable to eat anything. All the things that one would ordinarily do for someone who is ill—the chicken noodle soup, homemade bread, nourishing meals, vanilla milkshakes—have been removed from the equation, and we have had to re-think how to fill that gap.

It is harder than you would think to offer comfort, distraction, and sustenance in ways which do not involve food. We have had to think beyond the kitchen table. So, we make movie suggestions and bring my parents interesting magazines or books. We visit. My dad paints and draws, my mom goes through old photos and notebooks, and they both take a morning walk. My mom makes a big production of labeling the syringes of protein my dad takes as “appetizer” or “entrée” or “dessert” because laughter helps. They go to Mass, sitting quietly in the back to limit contact. We still gather every Sunday, but not for a meal; instead, we play cards.

Sustenance, but not from food, and if we are being honest there is a little spark of joy missing. We miss sharing a meal together, we miss seeing the grin on my father’s face as he enjoys a grilled steak, we miss the clinking of forks and knives and the hustle and bustle in the kitchen as we prepare a meal. My dad misses ALL food, but when asked about what he is most looking forward to eating once this is over, he replies, “Popeye’s fried chicken.”  

Okay, then.

Leaning against the wall in my parents’ kitchen is a bulletin board calendar with the days in June, July, and August marked off with large X’s, each one representing a day of treatment. The footprints of those red X’s highlight how far my father has come. It has been hard, but not impossible. And my father, who once grumbled about “more walking” while on a vacation in Sorrento, will soon get his pizza.

Except this time, it will be Popeye’s fried chicken.

When All You Have to Do is Wave Goodbye

Two years ago, we helped Timothy move into O-House at UGA; one year ago, we helped him move into a house rental just off campus.

Today, Timothy is again leaving to go back to school, and what are Joe and I doing to help?

Absolutely nothing.

This week Timothy told us not to make a fuss. He’s going back to the same house, with the same buddies, and his room is just as he left it. Before he left campus, he cleaned his bedroom and bathroom, as well as washed and folded his sheets so he can make his bed as soon as he returns. He still has pantry supplies. The only thing he needs to take back are the clothes he brought home for the summer.

Joe and I keep trying: what about groceries? (me) or A/C filters? (Joe) or toiletries? (me) or toilet paper? (joe). What about school supplies? (Timothy: already done)

No fuss. And he means it.

It is fun watching him straddle two worlds. On one hand, he still sprawls on the couch while watching YouTube videos, loves Legos, eats anything with watermelon or cotton candy flavor, and STILL does not like to read anything except instruction manuals or car magazines. On the other hand, the majority of the summer he worked 40-hours a week as an engineering intern, spent an evening standing on a ladder to change Nonna and Nonno’s laundry room light fixture, pushed Nonno’s wheelchair through the craziness at the Seattle airport, and is not afraid to express his opinion on current events. He is the one who suggests we go to confession before Saturday evening Mass.

We will miss him. Joe will not have his Friday golfing buddy, and I will miss someone who makes me laugh—like, really laugh. He is funny, that one. When Timothy is around Joe and I are more cognizant of not falling into “old” routines—eating dinner at 5:30 or going to bed before 11 pm. While in Hilton Head he convinced us to go jet-skiing, and he helped organize my workouts into “leg days” and “arm days” with days for back and core sprinkled in.

So, no fuss today. No air filters or groceries or toilet paper. No accompanying him to campus.

As parents, we raised him to go off into the world, to make decisions and be independent, but it still comes as a shock when all this actually happens.

And when it does, like today, we will stand in the driveway waving goodbye. 

Speak to Me Sunday: Passion and Hate

It is a beautiful thing to be passionate about something. Passion fuels belief systems, provides focus and clarity, and propels action. It inspires leaders to lead, missionaries to evangelize, activists to protest, artists to create, and pacifists to make peace. It unabashedly spills forth, compelling one to share, teach, and proclaim because you want others to experience what you have.

Passion anchored in kindness, patience and example, leaves room for growth. It opens doors and encourages dialogue. It helps you stand strong in your convictions, but it understands, empathizes, and welcomes. It does not force your way. It does not make you superior, or anyone else inferior.

But the same passion that inspires creation of the Sistine Chapel can also spark a war.

When passion is mired in hatred and scorn, accompanied by finger-pointing and name calling, when it snarls and spits, the result is alienation to the point that the only people listening to your message are those who are just like you. And this leaves absolutely no room for growth. 

It is human nature that passion and hate bubble forth from the same wellspring of heightened emotions, but while the former can be inspirational, the latter often leads to abandonment of all reason to the point of irrationality. It is passion without reason. The ability to see good (any good at all) in the opposing side is lost. Haters are gonna hate to the point it becomes pro forma.

And here we are.

Today, passion in our country is satiated with hatred that festers, boils, bubbles, and breeds destruction on all sides. It is ugly. It is dark. It hurts and maims and kills. Sadly, so many people miss the point. If your passion is fueled by hatred and violence, then you are just promulgating hatred and violence. 

It is that simple.

Among the hills, when you sit in the cool shade of the white poplars, 

sharing the peace and serenity of distant fields and meadows—then let your heart say in silence, 

"God rests in reason."
And when the storm comes, and the mighty wind shakes the forest, and thunder and lightning proclaim the majesty of the sky—then let your heart say in awe, 

"God moves in passion."
And since you are a breath in God's sphere, and a leaf in God's forest, 

you too should rest in reason and move in passion.

-Kahlil Gibran

A No-Birthday Birthday

Today is my mom’s birthday.

Two days ago, she called to tell me she does NOT want anything for her birthday—no gifts, no fuss, no birthday cake. Nothing. “We will celebrate later,” she said, and I knew she meant after … after this month, after my dad’s cancer treatment is finished, after all this is behind us. My mother has a bullseye focus, and right now she is focused on my dad.

When my parents met with the oncologist, he told them: “My job is to cure cancer. Your job is to keep up with nutrition.” Well. The doctor was speaking my mother’s language, the language of food which is home-cooked, fresh, and nourishing. THIS was something she could do. Homemade minestrone? Done. Freshly baked bread? Done. In the mood for banana pudding? Protein pancakes? Baked chicken? Done, done, and done. When my father switched to eating smaller, more frequent meals, my mom set up a schedule to ensure his caloric intake was where it needed to be. 

She is tiny, but mighty.

On our family cruise last month, stormy weather in Seattle delayed boarding for all the passengers. When the port finally opened, we arrived to complete bedlam—taxis and Ubers everywhere, luggage drop-off points, a lengthy line just to get into the check-in area, and Seattle weather that was rainy, stormy, and cold. We stood there a moment, a little stunned. Where to even begin? How would my father be able to stand for that length of time in the drizzly weather?

Well, my mom was a terrier. She bulldozed her way to a counter, requested a wheelchair, flagged down an attendant, and within thirty minutes we were sitting in the Windjammer enjoying our first meal on board the ship.

My mom will go to battle for you; she will also dance with you.

On that very same cruise, one of my favorite memories was a line dancing class with my mom. All day the weather had been stormy, resulting in a rolling, pitching ship; in fact, several members of our group were out for the count due to seasickness. But the two of us danced in a room with a panoramic view of the choppy seas. We lost our balance due to the ship’s rocking but laughed and danced anyway.

Here is another thing about my mom: anywhere I go in Augusta—ANYWHERE—I always run into someone who knows my mom: from Bible study, church, the Italian classes she used to teach, her work as an interpreter, or her volunteer work. “I love your mom,” they tell me, which always makes me smile.

My mom. She is no-nonsense who does not like attention. It embarrasses her. She does not like to go to the mall, hates shopping for clothes, but will spend hours in a grocery store. She walks fast, likes to dance, and is not afraid to ask questions. She is both smart and practical. During her morning prayers she prays aloud and often sings a song she made up called, “Thank you Jesus, thank you, thank you Jesus!” (her grandchildren tease her about this). She loves honey mustard.

So, today is my mom’s birthday. And she does not want anything.

But if you see her, wish her a happy birthday anyway.

Happy birthday, Mom! We love you!

A Conversation with My Mom at Sea

The ship was between ports, the sun was shining and the seas were calm, and I was having a quiet, one-on-one conversation with my mom. She had been through a lot, lately, during my father's recent hospital stay. A simple question such as how are you doing? or what are you thinking? seems inadequate when addressing the unknown. As you can imagine, it is hard to pin down a specific feeling because they all overlap—fear, hope, anger, anxiety, relief, gratitude.

Earlier that morning, my mother was sitting on deck during her morning prayers and watching the sun dancing on the whitecaps.

“Those whitecaps are like graces,” she told me. “Sometimes you see them, sometimes they disappear without acknowledgement, but just like the whitecaps which are absorbed into the ocean, so are God’s graces. They are present whether we see them or not, given to us whether we acknowledge them or not.”

God’s grace, meant to lead us to a holier life, but also there to offer hope, encouragement, and a reminder that there is power in prayer and that He knows each and every one of us by name.

Shortly before our family cruise, I was having a moment, the kind which involves tears and feelings of abandonment. Does God hear our prayers? How can He hear my prayers when I am but one among many?  Does He see me? Can He reach out and touch me through the crowd, like the woman in the New Testament? I tried to pray my way out of that dark place, but the words would not come. Then, at that very moment my friend Thalia, who was traveling in Greece, texted me a photo of a sign that read: Maria’s Boutique Rooms.

God’s grace reminding me (in a very dramatic way) that he knows my name.

So, sitting there with my mom, talking about whitecaps and the timing of God’s grace, we counted our blessings. This cruise, sandwiched between a lengthy hospital stay and upcoming cancer treatments, was something we were not even sure would happen. There had been so many questions and no answers: Was my father strong enough to travel? What if something happened? Should we cancel? Postpone? But sometimes you have to live the question, so after eight days in a hospital we relished the eight days at sea. Eight days to recover, celebrate family, gather strength, find peace, cling to hope.

A week to feel God’s grace and know that He is, and always will be, there for us.

Even as we face unchartered waters.

Especially then.

Did "juneau" that ...

Did “juneau” that Juneau has only 80 days of sunshine a year? Well, we got one of them. We explored, panned for gold, and saw a Native American festival. Then, Timothy took a 45-minute seaplane flight over five glaciers. No photos of Nonno because he went deep sea fishing with my brother. Remember those 80 days of sunshine? Perfect fishing weather.

A Piña Colada at 10 am

Family dinners, trivia competitions, Skagway train ride on the White Pass Railway, glacier viewing, and today … deep sea fishing and gold mining. And how are Nonna and Nonno? Yesterday Nonno showed up to the trivia competition with his cane in one hand and a giant, frothy piña colada in the other (it was 10 am). And today, after 33 cruises, Nonna was on a team that finally won a trivia competition. She proudly wore her medal.

Carpe Diem

Nine days ago my father was coming out of his fourth medical/surgical procedure in eight days (two cardiac catheterizations, a biopsy, and a cauterization to control bleeding). It had been a grueling eight days. Still groggy from the anesthesia, he looked up at the nurses, technicians, and doctors standing around his bed and said, “I am going to eat, sleep, go home and take a shower, and then I am going on a cruise and get fat.”

Everyone in the room laughed.

But what the nurses, technicians, and doctors did not realize was that my father was not making a joke. He was making a declaration.

So this evening, our family is boarding a ship for a trip to Alaska, a trip we have been planning for half a year. My dad is still recovering from his hospital stay, and the biopsy results did not give us good news, but before he faces seven grueling weeks of radiation treatment … for now—TODAY—we are going on a cruise.

The 7-Minute Comedy Show

Yesterday evening I stopped at a Little Caesar's to order two pizzas. In front of me was a man who looked exactly like the Travelocity Gnome. He placed his order, I placed mine, and the employee said both of our pizzas would be ready in seven minutes.

It is important I mention those seven minutes so you can understand what happened next (and please also note we were the only customers). 

I sat down to wait for the pizza, and that is when it happened. Mr. Travelocity Gnome walked over, stood in front of me, and began to tell me one corny joke after another. Non-stop. For seven minutes.

Jokes like ...

-What do you call a cow with no legs? (Ground beef)

-What do you call a dog with no legs? (Nothing, 'cause he ain't coming)

-What did the tomato say to the other tomato during a race? (Ketchup)

-Why do cows wear bells? (Because their horns don't work)

No, he was NOT inebriated, he just liked telling jokes. He liked to make people laugh which, evidently, included himself because he laughed uproariously at each and every one of his own jokes. (This was how I discovered he was toothless.) (Mr. Travelocity Gnome with no teeth.) 

Sometimes seven minutes can seem like an eternity. 

But I was a good audience member because, really, what else could I do? I was good and truly trapped. For SEVEN minutes. 

When my pizza was ready I thanked Mr. Travelocity Gnome for the entertainment.

And he laughed.

Did he think it was a joke? Or was the joke on me? 

Ha!

Truth be Told

"...a lie told once is easy to expose, but a lie told a thousand times can look like the truth. 

And destroy the world."

~The Little Liar by Mitch Albom

A few weeks ago,  I downloaded Mitch Albom's book, The Little Liar (our Book Club selection for May). I read ONE chapter, closed my kindle, and went to the bookstore to purchase the actual book. 

Just from that one chapter I knew that it was going to be a profound book, one that would ultimately contain my handwritten notes in the margins of the pages. And that is exactly what happened: my book has been well-read with pages dogeared, passages underlined, and notes scribbled in the margins. 

The book is narrated by the voice of Truth, who tells the story about a boy who lied. It is a beautiful story about how a truth (or a lie) can shape the course of our lives. 

After Book Club ended last night, and thinking about our in-depth discussion, I picked up the book again and took more notes. This book makes you think, especially in light of what is going on in the headlines--political candidates manipulating voters, students protesting, and rising tides of anti-Semitism. What is the truth when someone's truth is different from your truth? Does believing in something make it true?  How do we recognize truth? 

The Greek word for "truth" is aletheia (divine revelation); that is, something which cannot be hidden. And yet, as humans we hide, twist, ignore, or manipulate the truth. We withhold the truth, or tell partial truths, or spin the truth. Or we are silent about the truth. 

There is so much to explore morally, ethically, socially, personally, and globally in this book, but Truth holds your hand and gently, oh so gently, accompanies you down these pathways of revelation and introspection. 

"I believe I was hurled to earth to smash into billions of pieces, each of which finds its way into a human heart," says Truth. "And there I thrive. Or die."

Mother, May I?

In the childhood game Mother, May I? a child asks permission to move forward by using the all-important question: Mother May I … take two giant steps? Five baby steps? One baby step and one giant step? Sometimes, the “mother” answers yes, and sometimes no. If the child forgets to ask the question the correct way, he/she has to go back to the beginning and start all over again.

I was thinking about the game on this Mother’s Day morning. With adult children, the Mother, May I? from childhood has turned into Mother, I may. Then fill in the blank: I may go to Japan this summer, get engaged, move to a new apartment, buy a new car. The flip-flopped words now inform, rather than ask.

And there are no more baby steps.

Just big GIANT steps that mark new beginnings and exciting milestones.

As a mother, this period of our sons forging ahead into Life has resulted in me wondering about my role as a mother because the job description has changed. All the “mom” things I used to do—the nurturing, feeding, teaching, chauffeuring, and Santa Clausing—are done differently, or not at all. Once, not too long ago, the boys would come to me with all their needs while Joe wondered why they did not just go to him. “Just wait,” I reassured. “There will come a day when circumstances will flip-flop.”

Well, that day has been here for a while. With our two eldest sons adulting in the Real World and our youngest a junior in college, it is Joe they go to with questions and discussions about taxes, car maintenance, insurance policies, and finances. They exchange texts about sports, and all three carpooled with Joe when they had summer internships. This is all wonderful—I love having adult sons!—but I also feel as if I do not have a lot to offer other than support, encouragement, and advice (both solicited and unsolicited), as well as homecooked meals and clean sheets and fluffy pillows for when they come home—all things which do not seem as impactful as they did in the past.

But here is where it gets confusing: I like this period in my life; however, the world has shifted just a little bit, which has resulted in an awareness of how my role has changed and will continue to change. Talk about giant steps! But with introspection, personal growth, and an abundance of heavenly grace I will find purpose while surrendering to God’s magnificent and holy plan.

So today, on Mother's Day, blessings abound and I am grateful. I know that no matter how many giant steps my sons take, no matter how far and wide they may wander, no matter what God calls me to be in this new season of life, it is as it should be.

Mother May I?

Yes, of course you may. With all my love.

purple balloon

                   i spy with my little eye                  

a purple balloon

in the sky

playfully bobbing

whooshing, twirling

the wind’s whim

 

purple balloon in the sky

were you set free

with farewell wishes?

set afloat with hope?

or an escapee

from a tiny hand

clutched until not

a toddler’s whim?

                                      

i spy with my little eye

a purple balloon

in the sky

helplessly dodging

snagged, clutched

a tree’s embrace

loving, until it hurts

 

purple balloon in the sky

was it worth it

the fleeting freedom?

there, then not?

love and loss

inhale, exhale

in a single breath?

 

i spy with my little eye

no purple balloon

in the sky

but

hope feathers

and heart flutters

a soul’s whim

News from Casa Nova

A lot of coming and going lately …

Coming: Nicholas and Lauren were able to join us in Orlando during Masters Week where went to three Disney Parks (Epcot, Hollywood Studios, Animal Kingdom). It was a liberating to experience Disney as adults. No strollers, snacks, sunscreen, hats, or backpack … just a small crossbody bag with wallet, lip balm, and sunglasses.

And can I talk about Joe and that Mickey Mouse sweatshirt? It is Timothy's old sweatshirt, oversized for a child, but not for an adult. But he insisted on wearing the "epic Mickey" sweatshirt and what can you do? ;-)

Going: Earlier this month Jonathan and Caroline flew to London and Paris for their official honeymoon. Jonathan spent a year and a half organizing the entire trip—air fare, hotels, museums, restaurants, bars, and Chunnel tickets. As a trip organizer, I was impressed how thorough he was at planning their day-to-day itinerary. They have since returned and had a marvelous time.

Coming: Nicholas and Lauren (again!) when they flew home flew home this past weekend to attend a wedding. Whirlwind visit, but fun!

Coming: Timothy is home for the summer! He arrived home 13 minutes ago, dumped the contents of his car in the rec room, and is already sound asleep on the couch. Like, totally zonked. I suggested he nap upstairs, but he says it is the best feeling to sleep on the couch when he first comes home (even if I am rattling around in the kitchen). And if it is rainy and dark (like it is right now) … Zzzzzzz.

No photo of him sleeping on the couch ... I know better. BUT, here is a photo of him sleeping on (oh the horrors!) Disney Princess sheets on a trip to Disney World several years ago. 

Going: Timothy has an SRNL internship for the summer. He is thrilled to be working in his field (engineering) and super thrilled NOT to be working at Publix. He starts next week.

Coming and Going: Lots of trips lately, both in the past and over the next few months: San Francisco, Washington DC, Orlando, Greenville, Alaska (cruise), Savannah, Hilton Head (twice), Lancaster, Knoxville.  

When 1 Golf Tournament = 10 Art Museums

I have a reputation. Not anything sinister, or lawbreaking. Just that I am known for dragging, coercing, or bribing my guys to walk through art museums with me. And everyone is always SO sympathetic. Poor Timothy. Poor Joe. What good sports they are! There evidence aplenty of their sacrifice: glazed eyes while standing in a room of Renaissance art, sitting slumped on benches waiting for mom to finish reading placards, the visible sigh when I pull them aside to describe chiaroscuro or sfumato.

But now it is time to be sympathetic for Bia, and it all started when I surprised Joe with two tickets to the RBC Heritage last Saturday. I declared it Joe’s Day!

The Venue: Hilton Head Island

The Menu: a full day at a golf tournament

The seating: none (we walked an 18-hole golf course many times)

The Weather: 85 degrees (but add in Hilton Head’s humidity, so like 110 degrees) 

As you can see, sarcasm is starting to seep in, but first allow me to accentuate the positives!

Everything worked out perfectly: the ticket purchase, the shuttle ride to the tournament (we parked at the Discovery Center), the weather (it did not rain). It was exciting to be THIS CLOSE to famous golfers: Scotty Scheffler, Rory McIlroy, Justin Thomas. At one point I was three feet away from Keegan Bradley and I so wanted to say, “Hey Keegan. You rented our house last year!” But Joe wouldn’t let me. Golf etiquette is a real thing.

But now the sarcasm. It was sooooo hot. The thermometer registered 85 degrees (which sounds pleasant) but 85 degrees on Hilton Head is not a true temperature. Factor in no breeze, off-the-chart humidity and limited shade, and suddenly Hilton Head Island turns into Dante’s inferno.

Sticky. Sweaty. Oppressive.

But, it was Joe’s Day and I was a GOOD SPORT. Nary a complaint from me about the heat. I smiled as I drank my 10^th bottle of water. I offered nothing but enthusiastic support as we walked along with the sweaty, teeming mass of humanity following golfers over 18 holes (something we did several times).

In fact, we walked more on that golf course than our longest day in Disney World … without the itzakadoozie. 

THIS is the point where you should be saying, “Poor Bia! What a good sport she is!” And you would be correct. Many, many times over.

Later that evening, once I showered and managed to lower my body temperature back into a normal range, I declared the following: 

one golf tournament on Hilton Head = five art museums (at least)

After all, an art museum is air conditioned, there are benches, and you don't get sunburned. 

So there. We are even. 

Keegan Bradley, Rory McIlroy, Joe Novajosky ...

I'll let you figure out who is who. 

Nine Photos for a 2,777th Birthday

Yesterday was Rome’s 2,777^th birthday so … BUON COMPLEANNO, ROMA! To commemorate, here are 9 of my favorite photos from past visits to the Eternal City … the funny, nostalgic, and downright scary.

1-     Cheesy tourist shot. My friend Jill, with me on a whirlwind 3-night, 4-day trip to Rome for my 40^th birthday. Jill-the-gladiator with the killer instincts.

2-     McDonald’s in Rome. Near the Pantheon my guys (big and little) spied the Golden Arches and wanted hamburgers for lunch. I was most annoyed when Joe agreed, but my heart melted when I took this photo. Then we got a gelato.

3-     Two sisters, two photos (top 2015 and bottom 2023).

4-     The correct way to toss a coin in the Trevi fountain: according to our friend and tour guide, Jane Stortiglione, one should use the left hand to toss the coin over your right shoulder. As you can see, three of us got it wrong. We laughed so hard. THEN we had to toss another coin to undo the bad toss.

5-     Yowza. The same two sisters from #3 above, in front of Castel Sant’Angelo, in serious need of a gelato, or something.

6-     First Girls’ Trip to Italy (2015). Within ONE HOUR of landing in Rome, we found a leather shop.

7-     Back to front: The time my parents and I wanted to take two seminarians studying in Rome out to dinner and arranged to meet them in front of the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore. We waited and waited—where were they? Then we realized we were at the BACK of the church. We ran around to the front, very late, where we found the seminarians waiting for US.

8-     With my sister in front of Michelangelo’s Pietà (photo taken by my friend, Julie).

9-     Favorite photo. Ever. Totally captures my love of Rome and, indeed, of travel in general.