We All Live Under the Sky

  In the beautiful, rolling Tuscan hills south of Florence, Italy, there is a little town on the top of a hill that looks like it belongs in a fairy tale.  The Medieval City of San Gimignano was once one of the most powerful and wealthy cities in Italy.  The walled city can be seen from miles in every direction, as all medieval cities were elevated for defensive purposes.  It rests on an ancient Etruscan road, that became a Roman Road, later used by the Crusaders.  Several hundred years ago it became an important pilgrim road, the Via Francigena, that went all the way from Canterbury, England to Rome.  

 

In medieval times, rich families would build towers to display their wealth; the more money you had, the taller the tower.  At one point there were 72 towers in San Gimignano, including two identical twin towers that the architects of the Twin Towers in New York City studied.  Today, there are 14 towers remaining.  From a distance, the towers rising from the walled city give the appearance of a fairy tale castle.

           

Around 30 years ago, a group from our community traveled to Italy.  Outside of San Gimignano we visited a winery, the Tenuta Torciano that dates back to 1720.  Here is where we met the charismatic and charming owner, Pierlugia Giachi.   

 

Joyce and I returned to San Gimignano in 2010.  We were quickly reunited with Pierlugia who acted like we were long lost friends. Joyce asked me if I thought he really remembered us.  “Well,” I said.  “If he didn’t he sure put on a good show.”

 

I think he did actually remember us, because a few years later we planned a trip back to Italy with several friends.  I contacted Pierlugia to see if we could arrange a dinner at his winery.  He not only arranged the dinner for us, but he invited us to visit his home which happens to be one the 14 remaining towers in San Gimignano.  His is the only tower that is a private residence—his tower dates back to 600 AD, it was once the home of Italy’s Prime Minister.  

When someone invites you into their home it is a great honor.  It is the Biblical gift of hospitality which Pierlugia obviously has.  We socialized on his terrace together and then he invited us to climb to the top of the 1400 year-old tower.  The views from the top were absolutely stunning.  

           

As we were standing there, I expressed to him what a great honor he had given to us to invite us into his home.  He told me the honor was all his.  

 

I shared with Pierlugia that when we first met him, there were a number of people in that group who are no longer with us.  I was thinking specifically of Bob and Marge Team, and Bill and Sara Delapp. 

  

Pierlugia thought about it for a moment, then he looked at me with tears in his eyes as he pointed to the beautiful blue sky.  I will never forget his words. 

 

“Ray, we all live under the sky.  Every day is a gift.  We must Carpe Diem, ‘Seize the Day.’” 

 

We all live under the sky.  Now that Joyce is no longer with me, I think about his words often.  I look back at those wonderful trips to Italy, to Israel, and to Belize.  I think about special moments with family, of trips when the children were young.  I think about us celebrating our 25^th wedding anniversary in Hawaii and our 40^th anniversary in New York City.  

But there was one special moment in April of 2019.  Joyce and I had returned to our Tuscan Farmhouse where everyone is like family.

 

In 2010, I received a generous Sabbatical grant from the Lily Endowment. They encouraged me to use part of the money to travel.

 

I spent many hours researching our options and reading travelers’ reviews.  I kept coming back to a farmhouse outside of San Gimignano named La Torraccia di Chiusi.  All of the reviews were consistent in their glowing praise.  In fact, there was not one single negative review, not a negative word.  We went to this wonderful farmhouse wondering if it could possibly live up to our lofty expectations—we did not need to worry, it exceeded them.   

 

Joyce and I visited the farmhouse four times, the last time in 2019. Our last day at the farmhouse was Joyce’s birthday.

 

The farmhouse manager, Maria, gave Joyce a gorgeous purple Iris from her garden along with a letter describing the purple Iris as a symbol of Tuscany, hope of spring.  Then she added, “Happy Birthday, Dear Joyce.  All the best for you. . . . a little scent from my garden.  Maria”

       

There was also a gift from Donatella who owns the farmhouse with her husband, Stefano.  She wrote:  “Dearest Joyce, this is a little thought for you, but with many good wishes for a sweet and very special woman with heart.  Donatella and Stefano.”  

 

Donatella creates women’s organic cosmetics and creams and has started a company named Vicustuscus, based on the secrets of the cosmetic art of the ancient Etruscan people, today rediscovered in San Gimignano. “Beauty creams that tell real stories of a magical, distant past.” She gave Joyce a tube of her hand cream.  In addition to being an archeologist, Donatella is also a chemist.

 

Maritza and Maria were excited that they could prepare a birthday lunch for Joyce.  Maria kept talking about how simple it was, but it was a lovely meal.  We started with a salad with fresh greens and the most delicious cauliflower cooked in olive oil and sautéed onion.   There was a simple dish of spaghetti, homemade pasta with tomato sauce.  It was actually some of the best pasta we have tasted in Italy.  Then we enjoyed a sautéed chicken with mushrooms and olive oil.  It was so tender it would melt in your mouth.  This was served with potatoes.  

 

When the meal was over we were getting ready to go back to the room when Maria appeared with two bowls of fresh strawberries topped with homemade whipped cream.  They were served in lovely china bowls with flowers.  Maria said, “Maritza insisted on the fine china!”

 

That evening, we made our way to the dining room where Bruno, Maria’s husband and our cook, had been working all afternoon.  Luka was the waiter tonight and Bruno was serving from the kitchen. Joyce and I were the only guests.  

       

The first course was an excellent bruschetta with tomato.   We had bruschetta every morning, but Joyce had commented one day to Maria how she enjoys bruschetta with tomato.  Then came a delicious bean soup followed by pasta with vegetables.  This was followed by the main course:  Rabbit!   Rabbit is a delicacy in Tuscany.  Bruno was going all out for Joyce’s birthday.  The rabbit was amazing---but there was more! 

       

Bruno came out with two small strawberry cakes, made with fresh strawberries.  We found out later that he had worked on the cakes all afternoon.  He lit a birthday candle, placed it on the cake and presented the cake to Joyce!   But there was even more!

       

Stefano produces an extravagant champagne.  The champagne is stored in an old Etruscan cellar.  Bruno brought out a bottle of champagne and presented it to Joyce.  “A gift from Stefano!” he exclaimed as he popped the cork.  

 

What a night!   

       

But suddenly Joyce and I looked at each other.  Bruno and Luka had returned to the kitchen.  Here we were, stuffed like birds, with delicious strawberry cake and a whole bottle of champagne.  

       

“What are we going to do with this champagne?” Joyce asked.

       

I took the champagne bottle and went into the kitchen.  There was Bruno, lighting up his usual post-dinner cigar, Luka the server, and the woodcutter for the farmhouse.  

       

I said, “Please come and join us for a toast.  We want to share the champagne with you.”

       

And they did.

       

Everyone got champagne glasses and stood around the table.  We raised our glasses high and saluted Joyce on this special birthday.  And as we did, I thought how appropriate, on this night of nights, this special day in this sacred place, that we would all enjoy a glass of extravagant champagne together—the two of us, the cook, the waiter, and the woodcutter!

       

The woodcutter smiled and seemed to relish in the moment.  In the morning he would be back at his task, chopping wood, filling his wheelbarrow, and keeping the fireplaces and wood stoves burning.  But tonight, we celebrated together as one family, all equal in the eyes of God.  As Maria said, “You are part of the Torraccia family.”

       

Joyce and I returned to our room, but before we got ready for bed we walked out on the terrace.  We looked across the beautiful Tuscan valley and saw the lights of San Gimignano with its towers shining in the distance.  We looked above at a cloudless sky and saw the stars and a crescent moon, all of God’s creation in its majestic beauty. We all live under the sky.

       

We have felt that we were living in a painting, that it couldn’t be real.  But this night was even more, it was truly magical.  And the magic came not from the breathtaking scenery, the mouthwatering food, the extravagant champagne—the magic was found in the love of friends who have accepted us as members of their family and blessed us with their kindness and compassion.  The magic came as we knew without a doubt we were a part of this loving family where even the woodcutter can raise a glass and celebrate our joy because we are all one in the family of God.

 

We all live under the sky.  Every day is a gift.  Carpe Diem, “Seize the Day!”

         

 

 

There's Something in the Water

 This Sunday we are celebrating baptism.  Emma Knopf, a Central Davidson High School Junior who has recently started attending our church will be baptized.  

 

My sermon is titled: “Something in the Water,” that is inspired by the Carrie Underwood song.  She sings, “I followed that preacher man down to the river and now I’m  . . . changed . . . And now I’m stronger.  There must’ve been something in the water.  Oh, there must’ve been something in the water.”

 

I believe with all of my heart that there is something in the water of baptism.   

 

Baptists shun the word “sacrament.”  We have always said that baptism is a symbol, just a symbol.  But I tell you, it is much more than a symbol.  I know that there is something in the water, something powerful and transformative.  I have seen it many times.  

 

I will never forget one of my first baptisms at Pollocksville Baptist Church that took place almost 50 years ago.  

 

Johnny Parker was a kind, gentle, and pleasant young man.  I’m guessing he was in his 20s.  People told us he was “a retarded boy,” a term we don’t use anymore.  Like many who are limited in different ways, Johnny made up for with an over-abundance of love and kindness.

 

He rode his bicycle into our back yard one day and stopped for a visit.

 

“How do you get that water in the pool?” he asked. At first, I didn’t know what he was talking about.  

 

“What pool, Johnny?”

 

 “The one in the church,” he said.  

 

I asked him if he wanted to go and see. We walked over to the church and I showed him the pipes that supplied water to the baptistery.   

 

He silently studied it for a few moments and then asked, “Is it cold?” 

 

I explained to him how we heated the water with a makeshift gas stove that looked suspiciously like a still. (Another story for another day!) Having no more questions, Johnny got on his bicycle and returned home.

 

His father approached me a few days later and told me that Johnny was talking about being baptized.  “We have never pushed baptism with him,” he said.  “There’s so much about it that he doesn’t understand.”

 

Over the next few weeks Johnny would stop by and we would continue our discussion about baptism.  We went from the mechanics of the water, to what one would wear, to the meaning of baptism.  He nodded his head in agreement but I didn’t know how much he comprehended.  

 

Finally, Johnny told me one Sunday morning that he was ready to be baptized.  I explained to him that in our Baptist Church, one would come down to the front during the final hymn so I could share his decision with the church.  He agreed but when the worship service started, Johnny had disappeared.  

 

I found him later that week and asked if he still wanted to be baptized.  I sensed he was fearful so I tried to reassure him. He said he did and I talked to his father to confirm a date. 

 

It was my responsibility to fill the baptistery and rig up the suspicious heating system that really did look a lot like a still.  It was a complicated process that involved running a gas line from an outdoor propane tank, removing an air vent under the baptistery and lighting the makeshift gas stove.  As I was rigging it all up, I wondered if we would have a baptism or not.   

 

Johnny was there that Sunday morning, but he was scared to death.  I talked to him and really thought he was going to back out.  He was still in the church when the time came for us to get ready for the baptism..  He followed me out the door and the choir sang a special while we prepared for the big event.  

 

Johnny was taking forever to get ready.  The choir had stopped singing and I knew everyone was sitting in silence, wondering what was going on.  Finally, Johnny appeared in his bathing suit and a t-shirt.  

 

“Are you ready,” I asked?

 

He was literally shaking.  I put my arm around him and tried to calm him down.  He finally nodded his head and said, “Okay.”

 

 

We walked to the steps leading into the water.  I walked down into the water and looked up at him, holding my hand out, inviting him to come.  He hesitated.  For a long time, he stood at the top of the steps staring at the water, trying to make up his mind.  

 

“It’s okay,” I said.  “You will be fine.”

 

Slowly, Johnny took a step and then another.  As he entered the pool he let out a yelp and loudly proclaimed, “Whoo boy, this water’s cold!”  (I don’t know what happened.  I guess the suspicious gas heater didn’t work.)

 

Everyone laughed, which was good.  It broke the tension.

 

He stood in the water, shaking.  I said.  “Are you ready?”  He nodded his head.  

“Johnny, what is your confession of faith?”

 

“Jesus is Lord,” he said in a soft voice.

 

I held his arms and said, “Because of your confession, I now baptize you Johnny, my brother, the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

 

He held his breath and went under the cleansing waters of baptism.

 

Just as quickly, he emerged, shaking his head like a puppy coming out of a bath, and he looked at his hands as if they had been transformed.  He smiled a big smile and confidently walked out of the pool.  

 

There was a transformation that day, but not just with Johnny.  Johnny was a child of God, always had been, before and after the baptism.  But as I stood there before a trembling young man in the cool waters, I recognized not his weakness, but mine.  I was not the one who lifted Johnny out of the water.  No, it wasn’t me, but a power much greater.    

 

I believe that there is something in the water. 

 

The congregation was also transformed.  Tears of joy punctuated a celebration of God’s goodness and grace.  We realized that in God’s family all are favored and all are blessed.  And I think we heard the words, “This is my beloved child, with whom I am well pleased.” 

 

                                                  

She Will Always Be With Me

 In the well-known poem, “Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep,” we find the words:

 "I am a thousand winds that blow.

       I am the diamond glints on snow.
              I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
                      I am the gentle autumn rain."

 

Almost every day, I am reminded that Joyce is still with me.  I see her fountain in the backyard, her favorite chair still sits in the den, I walk by the Life Center where she spent many good days, and every Sunday I can see her sitting in church. . . she is with me and always will be.  

 

My grandmother died in 1983.  It was a Sunday morning.  There were two or three ladies that my grandmother would pick up on the way to church.  She would always call them to make sure they planned to go.  When they didn’t get her call, they called my mother who went to my grandmother’s house and found her.  She had died in her sleep—a wonderful way to go.  

 

My mother wisely decided not to call me before our church service started.  She waited until she knew the worship service was underway and then called the church office at Roxboro Baptist Church.  I remember hearing the telephone and thinking that it was odd for someone to call on a Sunday morning.  After church, someone handed me a note to call my mother.  

 

That was 43 years ago, but I can still feel my grandmother’s presence at times.  I remember different things from her house.  I inherited her marble clock that sits on my mantle.  I have her china cabinet in my dining room.  

 

My grandmother had a reproduction of a popular painting in her bedroom.  It was a Madonna and Child—which is strange considering she was an old-school Baptist. It is a painting by the Italian artist, Roberto Ferruzzi, named “The Madonnina” or commonly called, “The Madonna of the Streets.”  My guess is that my grandmother purchased this painting on one of her trips to Italy. 

 

I don’t know what happened to this painting, but I vividly remember it in her bedroom.  It would be the painting she would see first thing every morning and the last thing she would see at night.  

 

Seven years ago, Joyce and I were on Sabbatical and traveled to the beautiful city of Salzburg in Austria. We took the train from Munich to Salzburg.  The scenery is breathtaking.  Everything about this city was simply beautiful.

 

I had been thinking about my grandmother because one of her favorite movies was, “The Sound of Music.”  She took me as a child to see it.  She loved Julie Andrews.  We took a delightful “Sound of Music” tour in Salzburg that my grandmother would have loved. 

I made arrangements to stay at a small hotel away from the city center. When I told the taxi driver where we were going, he said: “That is a lovely place close to the mountains.”

 

The Bloberger Hof is like something out of a movie.  It is a Swiss Chalet house run by a wonderful Austrian family with small children along with the grandparents.  You felt like you were staying in a home rather than a hotel.

 

When we walked into our spacious room we immediately walked out to the balcony with the flower baskets in this idyllic home.  From our balcony we had a fantastic view of the majestic mountains—some still had snow—and a distant view of the snowcapped Alps.  We marveled at the scene before us!  Those hills were truly alive!

 

Joyce walked back into the room while I lingered on the balcony.  I was mesmerized by the overwhelming beauty.  I thought about my grandmother who visited Salzburg back in the 1960s.  No wonder she loved this place, I thought.

 

Then I walked back into our wonderful suite and for the first time, saw a beautiful painting on the wall.  I stopped.  I did a double-take.  I could not believe what I was seeing!   

 

It was a copy of Roberto Ferruzzi’s “Madonnia;” the same painting that my grandmother had in her bedroom.

 

I called Joyce and had her look at the painting.  I told her about that same painting being in my grandmother’s bedroom.  We both stood and stared, not knowing what to say.

 

Then, for some reason, I looked at my watch.  The date was May 22, 2019.  May 22.  

 

I froze.   A chill went down my spine.  It was May 22, 1983 when my grandmother died.   

 

Yes, she will always be with me.