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

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

But Belinda, Maria, and Wendy lagged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHERE WAS BELINDA?!

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

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

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

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

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

But still no steeple.

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

“Drug dealer,” said Belinda.

“Doesn’t look good,” said Maria.

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

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

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

The church steeple.

It really did exist.

CHAPEL OF THE PLAGUE DEAD, 1630

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

Speak to Me Sunday: There, and Here

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

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

And so, I will start with the churches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because the world is a beautiful place.

Because we were there, 

and now we are here.

Amen.

Speak to Me Sunday: Lessons from a Nun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how she laughed!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Verso l'alto

Hanging on our refrigerator is a prayer card with a photo taken in 1925 of (as of today!) St. 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.

This past August, we visited a Medieval Cathedral and Abbey in Dunfermline, Scotland. As I wandered around inside, my gaze kept shifting upwards: to the crucifix, the ceiling, the beautiful stained-glass windows illuminated by the early morning sunlight. Even outside I kept looking up: to the spires, the bell tower, the enormous wooden doors. 

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 of it is meant to draw our eyes upward.

The rituals of Mass also 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.

This is why verso l’alto are words to live by. On one hand they can refer to the physical act of climbing toward heaven, on a deeper level they refer to what we are doing while climbing: who we are as children of God; how we act, forgive, live our faith, help the sick, love our neighbor. All the things we need to do in order to find meaning and purpose on our climb. 

Today, just in time for the canonization ceremony in Rome, there are now two prayer cards on our refrigerator: one of Pier Giorgio Frassati climbing a mountain, and one of St. Giorgio Frassati standing on top of a mountain.

A reminder to keep striving.

Verso l’alto.

Writing the Next Chapter

 In early January 1988 Joe packed up his black Nissan 200SX (a new purchase befitting a recent college graduate with a job offer) and took I-95 south towards Augusta, Georgia. While he had job offers from several companies during his senior year at Penn State, a generous offer from SRS, as well as the presence of numerous golf courses within a 50-mile radius, helped him make the decision to move south.

Joe arrived in Augusta without knowing a single person. He signed a lease on a 2-bedroom apartment just off Washington Road. His apartment,14P, was on the second floor, and he furnished it with items passed down from his parents. In his closet were five white dress shirts (one for each day of the week) and on his dining room wall hung a professional dart board worthy of any pub. With his first paycheck he purchased a state-of-the-art stereo system. He worked during the week and played golf on Saturdays, after which he went straight from the golf course to evening Mass at St. Teresa of Avila Catholic Church (still wearing his golf clothes).

 After one year of working (and golfing), in November he purchased a ticket for a spaghetti supper at St. Teresa’s, which is where we met. We dated six months, got engaged, and six months later (exactly one year from our first date) we married in that very same church. Just before our wedding, we closed on a tiny patio home … our first mortgage.

Over the years his work continued at SRS; there was still the occasional golf game, but not as often because our family was growing. One son, then two, then three. And with a growing family came the need for a bigger home. On May 22, 1998, we sat with lawyers and realtors around a huge conference table and reviewed contracts and transferred funds and signed on the dotted line, after which we took the boys to McDonald's to celebrate the fact that we had just bought a house, the one in which we still live in today.

Years went by, and life was full of responsibilities: Catholic school, mortgage payments, house repairs, car loans, college tuitions. Joe continued his 45-minute daily commute, waking up at 4:30 am (two hours before the rest of us) and changing in the closet so as not to wake me up. At separate times during the ensuing years our sons had summer internships out at the site, and Joe loved driving in with his sons.

When the older boys were in grade school, Joe was promoted to Program Manager and started travelling for work—to Oak Ridge, Kansas City, Albuquerque, Los Alamos, and Livermore. He lived by a self-imposed code: book your travel, prepare your slides, and arrive on-time (or early)! Over the years he boarded over 1400 flights, using the same carry-on which, today, has one wonky wheel and one non-turning wheel. All offers to replace it have been turned down because that bag has become a badge of honor for him. Joe still had that carry-on when, in 2021, he achieved One Million Miler Status with Delta.

Thirty-seven years of working and travelling. Of occasionally bringing us with him on his trips (never complaining that while we explored he had to work). Of sacrificing to provide for our family.

But if you know Joe, then you know he is also a planner, and he has worked and planned and saved so that he could circle the month and year of his retirement: August 2025.

This year. This month.

Today.

The weeks and days leading up to this moment have been celebratory: a farewell luncheon, emails and cards with well-wishes and funny stories, and our 9-day trip to Scotland. But there have also been moments of nostalgia, accompanied by the harsh reality that Tempus fugit; however, the absolutely wonderful thing is that this is not the end of a chapter, but the start of a new one. Yes, the blank pages may seem daunting, and we will have to find our new normal, but we are incredibly grateful for the chance to branch out, try new things, travel more, and in Joe’s case, cheer for the Nittany Lions, build his dream home, and play golf during the week.

Also, he is looking forward to staying up late and NOT having to get up early.

In a farewell email to his colleagues at SRS and across all the sites, Joe ended with these words:

I will leave you with one recommendation. Find your World to Rule.

Maybe it’s as the W80-4 LEP Program lead, or the 1K conical polishing operator, or the Receipt Inspection engineer, or a Sunday school teacher, or a Habitat for Humanity volunteer.

Take ownership, and Rule your World. Best wishes!

I think these are words to live by as we write this new chapter of our lives. Thank you, Joey, for all your hard work, sacrifice, and dedication. Sleep late tomorrow. You deserve it. 

All my love,

Bia

Going, Not Going

Going up: New windows. It was time. Every single window is being replaced in our house and, as you can imagine, chaos reigns supreme. Banging, pounding, hammering. Vacuuming. I am holed up in our family room—the one room where windows do NOT need replacing (only because those were replaced post hurricane).

Going: To Scotland. This is meant to be Joe’s retirement trip—all those golf courses in Scotland called his name whereas Jamie Fraser called mine. Ha!

Not going: At least not this month. Originally, Joe had planned to retire this week, but the Powers that Be convinced him to stay until the end of August. So, what was supposed to be Retirement then Trip, is now Trip then Retirement.

Not going: Me, to the bathroom. With a person at every single window, I cannot GO. This may turn into an issue.

And on that note, I leave you with this because it pretty much goes with all the above ...

Speak to Me Sunday: Write Me a Poem

His name was Cameron.

Nestled among vendors selling grilled kebabs and beaded pens and farm-grown vegetables, his booth had a quietness about it.

A chair and table. An honest-to-goodness typewriter. A banner that read: I’ll write you a poem!

How, I ask, could I not be intrigued?

And so, I let him write me a poem.

At first, he sat with his fingers poised over the keyboard, contemplating our conversation about writing and poetry and love of travel. When he began to type, among the market noises of conversation, laughter, and a musician with a microphone, there was the staccato tapping of an honest-to-goodness typewriter.

Later, when he handed me the finished poem, I recognized the vulnerability of having a stranger read something you had just written, and I respected him for it; there is also vulnerability in having a writer watching you read it.

But that is what poetry does, it pulls you out of yourself, and there was an awareness about his finished poem, an intuitiveness because it was so … me.

We had not talked about my love of books, but his poem mentioned me as both a reader and a writer. I did not tell him about my two-shoebox-full postcard collection, or that I use postcards as travel journals, but he somehow knew. I did not mention that given a choice between the beach or mountains I would pick mountains every single time, and yet it was in the mountains his poem placed me.

But that is another thing poetry does, it creates magic. For there, among vendors selling grilled kebabs and beaded pens and farm-grown vegetables, I found a poet.

His name was Cameron.

And he wrote me a poem.

my poem