It's All Greek to Me

Last night our son called with the news he passed the first part of his CPA exam. He sounded so happy, and is now studying for the second part which he will take Thanksgiving week. (The test is four parts: Auditing and Attestation, Business Environment and Concepts, Financial Accounting and Reporting, Regulation.) He and some buddies have a pact to pass the entire exam before they graduate next May with a masters degree in accounting. And like always, I am awed at people who are good in things I am not ...

As an English major studying at The University of Georgia, all I wanted to do was take literature classes, write short stories, study Shakespeare, and go to poetry readings. But college doesn’t quite work that way because I also had to fulfill math requirements. It was a necessary evil, so I plowed ahead: algebra was easy, I actually liked geometry, but then there was Trigonometry . . . a class taught by a foreign exchange grad student who had such a thick accent that I couldn’t even determine his nationality.

I didn’t understand Trigonometry. I didn’t understand my professor. Combine the two and there you have it … a disaster of epic proportions. I stayed after class, I went to tutoring in the Math Lab, and I asked questions, but by exam time I was headed for a big, fat F . . . my first, ever. So I threw myself at the mercy of my professor:  “I am an English major! This is my LAST math requirement!” And just for good measure . . . “If I have to take this class again I will die.” (English majors have a flair for the dramatic.) The professor barely spoke English so I know he didn’t understand half of what I was saying, but desperation has a language all on its own. In the end, he gave me a D in the class (and I have no doubt he was being very, very generous).

As someone who was always an A student, I REJOICED in that D. I called my parents with the news. “I got a D in Trig!” They were (understandably) confused. “But a D is bad, isn’t it?”

I paused. “Well, yes. I mean no.”

Whatever. I got a D, and I would gladly take it thank-you-very-much.

So, taking into account that I don’t have a math gene in my body, I am awed at those who do . . . not because I think they are smarter, but because they are smarter in something different. And every day I am awed that this English major, Italian speaking, bad poet, and sometimes writer has sons – three of them – who are good in everything that I am not.

When I listen to my husband discuss a physics problem with our son, a problem with so many steps that it takes an entire sheet of paper to solve, it takes my breath away. When I walk past my son doing his homework and all I see are numbers and scientific notations, I marvel that writing something can include equations. I have one son studying computer engineering, another who will be studying math and accounting, and a third who is all about engines, architecture, and creating. Sometimes I think, “Who are these guys?”

And then I’ll think, “These are my math guys . . . and I’ll write a story about them.”

with my math and engineering guys

(at Nicholas' Clemson graduation two years ago)

Speak to Me Sunday: Poetry

Yesterday I purchased a book of selected poems by Robert Frost.

Now close the windows and hush all the fields;

  If the trees must, let them silently toss;

No bird is singing now, and if there is,

  Be it my loss.

I remember, as a little girl, I liked to find poetry in words.  I would come across a single word, or a phrase, and listen for the music and rhythm. Chattanooga Choo Choo, for example. I’d say the words over and over again, listening to the sounds which, the faster you said them, made you sound like a train.

I was fascinated how a single word would be so perfect that you couldn’t imagine any other in its place. Mr. Mistoffelees, for example. When I saw Cats at the Fox Theater in Atlanta, I thought that

T. S. Eliot was brilliant when he chose Mr. Mistoffelees as the name for the original conjuring cat: He can pick any card from a pack,/ He is equally cunning with dice;/ He is always deceiving you into believing/ that he’s only hunting for mice.  Mr. Mistoffelees … really, how perfectly perfect.

One day I tried to explain to my boys how a single word can be poetic. To illustrate, I used the Italian word for blue, azzurro. Listen how the word just rolls off your tongue. Doesn’t it just sound like the color of an ocean wave lapping along the shore? To compare, I offered them the French word for the same color, bleu, which (to me) sounds like someone is gagging. To be clear, there is poetry in both words, but azzurro would be the color of the ocean along the Amalfi Coast, whereas bleu would be the color of the bubble gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

In college, I took a class on poetry. I lugged the hefty volume, The Norton Anthology of Poetry, with me for an entire semester. It was a challenging class, and I loved every minute of it. I can still hear the professor as he read to us, his voice soaring and plummeting and dancing to the poetry of the words. It was musical, it was magical.

Yesterday I purchased a book of selected poems by Robert Frost.

And there has been poetry in my day.

It will be long ere the marshes resume,

  It will be long ere the earliest bird:

So close the windows and not hear the wind,

  But see all wind-stirred.

An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Full of Kisses

Through her heritage Maria found a bridge between la dolce vita and life in Georgia.

I’m very excited to announce that my book, An Ocean, an Airplane, and Two Countries Full of Kisses, is now available for purchase (links below). I am emotional just typing those words. Taking excerpts from letters my Italian Nonna wrote through the years, the book explores how the hyphen between the words Italian and American became a bridge connecting espresso and peach cobbler, red wine and pit barbecue, the Amalfi Coast and Hilton Head Island, and La Dolce Vita with life in the Deep South.

To Order:

Amazon

marianovajosky.com

Barnes & Noble

Lulu publishers

"This book is a complete joy for anyone with even a remote connection to an Italian heritage! It captures the heart of a "Nonna," an Italian grandmother, and how her love for family transcends distance and time. Narrated by a beloved granddaughter, the chapters revolve around excerpts from letters written by Nonna to her family in America. I laughed and cried throughout the read and was left with a renewed pride in my Italian heritage."

~Amazon Review

Truly, a lovely read. Captivating novel about the profound love shared between a family across an ocean. How intentional, encouraging, and selfless love shown by a beloved Nonna. The immense impact of tradition, integrating into a new environment, and how it all encompasses the steadfast love a Nonna has for her loved ones near and far. The author emulates this prophetic love in her novel.

~Amazon Review

Writing, Fall, Waiting

The past few months I faced a looming deadline which was all sorts of scary, but wonderful, too. Yesterday I met the deadline and closed my laptop. And so now I wait ... and decorate for fall.

It's All in the Title

One Hundred Yesterdays of Tomorrow ... That's the title of the book I was writing in my dream last night. I don't even know what that means, but it sounds like it would be good. Yes?

The Best Seat in the House

Some of you may know that I work from home as a writer.



I really love my job. I love being able to contribute to our family income from home and I love having the chance to write. But in order to write the articles I have to first conduct a phone interview, and I am not good at interviewing.



Oh, I am prepared with questions, I do preliminary research, and I know exactly where I want to go with the article, but the problem is that five minutes into the interview it's not an interview any more. It's a conversation.



Through these interviews, I have encountered people who are so interesting, so inspiring, and so full of faith that I forget my questions and want to just to buy them a cappuccino and sit and listen to them talk.



Recently I interviewed a man in Illinois who takes communion to the elderly and homebound every single Friday. When he told me how humbling it was to witness a cancer patient's connectedness to God through the Holy Eucharist, his voice trembled. Hearing his emotion made me teary-eyed and then, there we were, two strangers crying over the phone.



I interviewed a Catholic art teacher on a special scholarship and working on an Indian reservation. When I asked him about his very interesting last name, he explained to me that his father was full-blooded American Indian and that his mother was Italian. Well. I ask you, how could I not take that further? So we spoke for a long time about many things ... just not his scholarship.



On a recent article I did on Advent, I spoke with a priest who passionately shared why Advent was his favorite liturgical season. He quoted that it was time for spiritual renewal and preparation. He pointed out the readings from Isaiah and the prophets, the beautiful references to the lion and the lamb, and the visions of peace and social justice. I could have listened to him forever.


Truly, I may not conduct an interview very professionally, but with each one I get a tiny glimpse of how many good people there are in this world.


With the news focused on wars, murders, and greedy politicians it's comforting knowing that in Iowa there is a couple married for 53 years who still serve their parish as adult altar servers; or that in Texas there is a priest who learned Spanish so he could connect with his new parish; or that in Oklahoma there is a retired Hispanic couple who recite the rosary together while they clean their parish every Monday morning; or that a mother in South Dakota, after tragically losing her son, is still so full of the love of God that she became a CCD teacher to honor her son's memory; or that a group of doctors back from a mission trip to Guatemala are still humbled at the generosity from the very people they had gone to help.


Yes, there are bad things that happen in this world; we know this because we face it every day in the news. Bad news make headlines, but I see why God loves us so much. From His vantage point he sees it all. The bad, yes, but also all that is good.


And there is so much that is good.

Santuario Madonna della Corona
(near Verona)

Finding the Words

This morning I spent an hour and a half interviewing a woman whose husband was murdered.

Grace, forgiveness, mercy, redemption ...

I don't know how I'm going to find the words to tell her story.

Would You Believe?

A few months ago I was assigned to write an article which involved interviewing Fr. John Osom, a Nigerian priest from the Missionary Society of St. Paul. It was a lengthy interview, part of which (believe it or not!) was conducted in Italian. Unfortunately, a week after I submitted the article he was reassigned out of our area and, as a result, they decided not to run the article (I was still paid).

But his story is too inspirational not to share ...

Father John Osom

Pro Christo Legatione Ergo Fungimur

(Therefore we are ambassadors for Christ)

2Cor 5:20

When Fr. John Osom talks about his journey to the priesthood, he often uses the expression would you believe? before revealing an important event in his life. It’s a question which delivers a dramatic pause to emphasize something wonderful and unbelievable. And in Father’s story, there are many such moments.

As a little boy growing up in Akwa-Ibom (one of Nigeria’s 36 states), Father John knew at a very early age exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up.

“I remember that the priest would invite the children to come and sit closer. I saw him raise something up – was it a white cookie? – and then say something which I didn’t understand. I was only five or six years old, but I knew I wanted to be him,” explains Father. “Would you believe that I would even play Mass? I would gather my friends, they would kneel, and I would hold up a piece of bread and make up some words. When I was finished everyone would say Amen!”

The idea of the priesthood stayed with him even as he began his primary education. In Nigeria, religion in the schools is heavily taught, along with discipline and moral instruction, so Father was in an environment which continued to foster the idea of the priesthood. In fact, at the age of 13 when he was faced with the decision of attending secondary school or enrolling in a junior seminary, he chose the junior seminary.

            And Father did well. He studied, worked hard, and was even awarded a scholarship during his second year which would enable him to continue his studies at the university level. But when he passed his final examinations with honors and graduated at the top of his class, the scholarship complicated things because while the seminary was one pathway – one which he always intended to take – the university was also calling to his heart.

“The scholarship divided my attention,” he explains. “But then I heard about the Missionary Society of St. Paul, and would you believe that is what sealed my intention to enter the seminary?”

Unbelievably, this was a pathway Father hadn’t foreseen since he always thought he would attend the traditional seminary and, once ordained, return to serve in his diocese. But the Missionary Society of St. Paul (MSP), which was being established that very year in Nigeria, was different in that ordained priests would be following in the footsteps of St. Paul and be sent to all parts of the world to serve as “ambassadors for Christ” (2Cor 5:20).

The next eight years were difficult ones. The formation program was challenging, and to gain pastoral experience Father was sent all over Nigeria to work with different ethnic groups and with people who spoke different languages. Of the nine seminarians in Father’s class, over the years the numbers dwindled until, in the end, Father was the only one left. On June 22, 1985, Fr. John became the first member of the Society trained in the seminary and the first to be ordained.

Immediately following his ordination Fr. John returned to his diocese and began traveling from village to village to celebrate a Thanksgiving Mass. Not only is this an important tradition in Nigeria, but it is such a huge celebration that the Mass is held in the village square so everyone can attend. During this time Father assumed that he would now spend two years working in his diocese, but when he was in the middle of his 18-village tour something extraordinary happened.

“Would you believe that I was told that I was being sent to Rome to continue my studies?” he explains. “Everything happened so fast. I had to start celebrating two Thanksgiving Masses a day so I could finish them all, and I had almost no time to say goodbye to my family.”

Within the month, Father obtained a passport, boarded a plane, and for the first time in his life left his country.

When he landed in Rome he was hit with the harsh reality that all his classes would be taught in Italian (instead of English), and so he was given a train ticket to Puglia where he would take Italian language classes to help prepare him for school. Sitting in the train station, alone and away from home, Father felt overwhelmed; he didn’t know where to go and he didn’t know the language to be able to ask for help.

“Would you believe at that moment a man – a stranger – approached me and asked if I needed help?” he explains. “When I showed him my ticket he walked me to my train, bought me some snacks, and arranged for two young men on the train to help me at the next stop. At the next stop these two found a woman to help me during the next stage, and she arranged for a taxi once we got to our destination. All these strangers helped me in my journey.”

In six weeks Father mastered conversational Italian, in six more weeks he could understand the lectures at school, and at the end of the school year he challenged himself to take his final oral examinations in Italian instead of English. When he eventually left Rome he had a doctorate in Moral Theology.

The jump from Nigeria to Rome was the beginning of Father’s life as an ambassador of Christ, a life of going where you are sent. It has meant living in different countries, learning new languages, and being “all things to all people” (1 Cor 9:22). Today, as a missionary priest Father has worked in Nigeria, Rome, England, the United States, and Grenada. While he is first and foremost a missionary priest, he has also served as a chaplain, a pastor, a lecturer, and a teacher. And in all the places Father has been sent, and in all the places he could go, would you believe that now, for a short while, he is here with us? What a wonderful blessing for our parish.

“Anywhere I go I am comfortable,” explains Father. “I am where I am supposed to be. A missionary has to be as happy as any person, and I find happiness being with the people.”

 

Maybe is Good Enough for Me

"Please, Miss, can we have some money for food?"

I had just come out of Hobby Lobby when I was approached by a twelve year old girl pushing a battered umbrella stroller, and with her was an overweight woman carrying an eight month old and another younger woman. They all looked poor and unkempt.

"Where do you want to eat?" I asked.

"Anywhere," said the girl.

I was hungry, too. It was almost 1:30 and I was in a hurry to get home. I even knew exactly what I was going to have for lunch: toasted ciabatta, tomatoes, cheese, and a cold glass of water with a slice of lemon. No worries on my part ... it was all there waiting for me.

But this little girl was worried enough to ask a stranger for help.

Food. Water. Shelter. Safety. Such basics in life, and yet many people don't have them. As we walk around our nice city, living our lives and relaxing in our homes, it is tempting to ignore the man on the side of I-20 with a Will Work for Food sign, or a bag lady pushing a shopping cart, or a hungry girl in a parking lot because, after all, we aren't in Africa, or Indonesia, or Haiti, or Calcutta.

And because we aren't faced with situations like these on a daily basis, it is easy to become suspicious, fearful, and even judgmental. It's easy to lose sight of the fact that everyone is so much more than what we see ... that everyone has a story.

I didn't know that little girl's story; all I knew was that she was hungry, so I gave them what they needed.

Was I conned? Maybe I was ... but then again, maybe I wasn't.

The fact is I don't know.

The fact is ... does it really matter? I had something that maybe they needed, and maybe was good enough for me.


“One would give generous alms if one had the eyes to see the beauty of a cupped receiving hand.”

~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

February Lessons

At the beginning of this, my birthday month, I gave myself the gift of office hours and the challenge of posting every day for the month of February.

As far as presents go, they were spot on.

By setting specific office hours -- a blocked time period in which to write, work, and answer emails -- I was much more productive. I no longer dragged my work with me throughout the day; instead, I worked during my allotted time, and then moved on to other things.

With the daily posts came some interesting discoveries. Amazingly, writing never became a chore, and throughout the day I learned to gather nuggets of inspiration, store them, and bring them out later in my writing. I also learned to write without worrying about being perfect. I didn't agonize over word choice, or phrasing, or even sentence structure. I simply wrote.

So, the month is over. Now what?

I will continue with my office hours, and I will continue to post ... although I probably won't post every day. When I made the birthday pledge I didn't factor in Lent and my Lenten resolve to tackle a certain project, which is what I really need to be concentrating on during this period.

But February turned out to be a very good month.

A very good month, indeed.



The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Afternoon in February