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.