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