Life Is Stranger Than Fiction

        There is a scene in European Vacation where Clark Griswold is driving in London and he gets on a roundabout but he cannot get off.  Well, the story you are about to hear is not written for a movie—the story is true, and I have not changed any details to protect myself. 

        Friday dawned bright and beautiful in Turin.   Joyce and I enjoyed our last breakfast in the lavish breakfast room of the Turin Palace Hotel.  Our friendly waitress who cheerfully provided our Americano Coffee each morning wished us a warm, “Arrivederci!” as we departed.  

        The Turin Palace Hotel is right across the street from the main train station of Turin.  Our train was literally a few feet away from our room.  I’m the type of person who likes to be at the airport at least two hours or more before our flight, so Joyce was getting concerned when we had not left the room 45 minutes before our train was scheduled and I told her we had plenty of time.  At the train station you don’t have to check in, you don’t have to go through security, and you do not have to check your bags—in fact, you cannot check your bags, and that was our biggest concern at the beginning of the day. 

        We had packed for both warm and cold weather, so we have two large and one small suitcase.  In Europe, you must carry your bags on the train and store them over your seat.  There is a space at the end of the car for some luggage storage, but it is very limited.

        We walked out of our hotel and in less than five minutes we were standing in front of the big information board that announces arrivals and departures.  Our train was scheduled to leave at 9:25 a.m.  Our train was a “Trenitalia Frecciarossa,” formally known as the Eurostar.  It is Italy’s version of the high-speed train.  The English translation of Frecciarossa is red arrow.  We were scheduled to cover the 285 miles from Turin to Florence via Milan in 3 hours—and that included 5 stops!

        The Frecciarossas are very modern and sleek, with engines on both ends shaped like an aerodynamic bullet.  These trains stand in stark contrast to traditional trains, therefore we thought we were standing in front of our train which was parked on platform 18.  But you cannot make your way to the train until the platform is officially displayed on the board, which is normally 15 minutes before departure.

        We wanted to be one of the first ones to board to make sure we could find a place to store our luggage.  Unlike airlines where you board by groups, in Italy once the train platform is announced it is first come, first serve.  Our seats were in car 4.

        At 9:10 a.m. on the dot, platform 18 flashed on the board beside our train and we joined the multitudes making our way to the cars.  The majority of the people were in 2^nd class cars.  One other couple was in front of us waiting to board car 4, a “Prima” first-class car.  When the doors opened we grabbed our suitcases and walked up the steps into the car.  The luggage space was empty as this was the origination of this train and I quickly claimed the bottom half for my three bags.  It was so easy.   We made our way to our comfortable seats and precisely at 9:25 a.m. the train pulled out of the station. 

        Twice during our 3-hour journey attendants came by with a cart serving water, juice and snacks.  They even sold sandwiches.   The seats were very comfortable and could easily recline.  I had my laptop, working on Thursday’s journal.

        Once we got out of Turin, we increased speed.  When we reached 200 km/hr (124 mph) the speed was displayed at the front of the car.  We kept going faster.  220—240-260—280, all the way to 300 km/hr!  That is traveling at 186.4 miles per hour!   When the conductor (they call them managers in Italy) came by to scan our tickets, I told her we had never been on such a fast train.  “In the US,” I said, “Trains are slow and not usually on time!”  She smiled and seemed to enjoy the contrast.  We arrived in Florence at the main train station right on time.

        Everything was “Perfecto!”   But that was about to change!

        The car rental place was within walking distance from the train station.  After making only one wrong turn and asking for directions once, we walked into the office.  It only took a few minutes to process the paperwork.  The lady handed me a paper and said, there are two places on the car where damage has already been noted.  Then she walked me out front.  I assumed our car was parked on the street, but she pointed to a garage over a block away and said, “You walk there to get your car.”

        Several rental companies share this downtown garage.  We had rented our car though AAA.  It is a European company named Europcar.  The lady told me her colleague would be waiting for us.  There was one guy carefully washing a red Fiat that didn’t look large enough to hold our bags, much less us!   I gave him my papers and he pointed to a larger dark colored car and said, “This is your car.”  

        It was a Fiat sedan with a stick shift.  Now, we are used to someone walking around the car with us, pointing out any scratches or dents.  And they would make sure we knew how to open the gas cover and would show us any unusual things about the car, like how to put the car in reverse if you have to pull the gear shift up and over—but this guy just kept washing that little red car.  All he had said was, “That’s your car.” 

        I asked him where the keys were and he said, “In the car.”   

        I pulled the car up a few feet and loaded our luggage.   I adjusted the driver’s seat, the mirrors, and made sure I was comfortable with the gear shift.  Then we tried to load our destination, “Greve in Chianti,” in the Google Maps, but we could not get a signal in the parking deck.  We had a map the rental company had given us, so I asked Joyce if she was ready.  She was, so we started to pull out of the parking garage.  We drove and few feet and the car cut off.  

        “You need to give it more gas,” Joyce said. 

        I tried it again, this time with more gas.  It cut off a second time.  Not a good start.

        Finally, I pulled out of the parking deck and we were off to the races.  We were following the directions on the map. Traffic was heavy.  There was one place I turned left then needed to turn right quickly.  Scooters were flying past me, cars were not willing to let me in, finally at the turn I slowed and the car behind me started blowing the horn.  Somehow, I squeezed into the right lane and made the turn.   We were following the signs to Siena.  We also had a cellular signal and it was agreeing with the highway signs. We were moving out of the heavy downtown traffic and I was beginning to feel a little better about things.  Then we turned on the AC.   There was a terrible odor like something was burning.

        Then Joyce said, “Is that smoke coming out of the hood?”

        “No,” I said.  “It couldn’t be smoke.”

   We were moving faster now, but I started to notice people waving at us.  Friendly Italians!   Then, they were honking their horns.  The car behind me was flashing its lights.  I slowed down and they pulled beside us and rolled down the window.

        “Do you speak English?” they shouted.  “Your car is smoking very bad.  It may be on fire.”

        “Ray,” Joyce said. “If the car is on fire, don’t you think we ought to stop?”

        The only problem was there was nowhere to park.  After a short way, I pulled into the only open space I could find—a no parking zone beside a dumpster.

        We got out of the car and sure enough, smoke was pouring out from under the hood.  I found the map that had the Europcar number.  I dialed the number and got a recording.   About this time an Italian lady came up and saw the smoke.  She tried telling Joyce where a mechanic was located.  Mechanic was the only word we understood.  Joyce tried telling her that we only spoke English, but she kept talking.  Finally, I got a real person on the phone.

        I explained that we had just picked up the car from their downtown office in Florence and the car was smoking. 

        “Did you take off the brake?” the lady asked.

        “Yes, of course,” I said. 

        “Do you know how to use the clutch?   It may be the clutch.”  she added.

        I sure thought I knew how to drive with a clutch.   Then she said, “Wait a few minutes and if the smoke does not go away, call the emergency number on the key.”

        Is that the only help they can give me? I thought.  Wait until the smoke clears?

        “Maybe we should look under the hood,” Joyce said.

        I looked for the release for the hood, but could not find it.  Joyce got the owner’s manual, but guess what?  It was in Italian.  Finally, I gave up and said, “Even if we get the hood opened, what good would it do?  We wouldn’t know what we were looking at.”

        I was also concerned that I was parked in a no parking zone next to a dumpster.  I got in the car to back it up a little, but when I put it in what I thought was reserve, I went forward.   I tried it 3 times.   Now I was almost on the dumpster.

        “We’ve got to get the car pushed back,” I told Joyce as the Italian lady continued to chatter.

        “How?” she asked.

        “You get behind the wheel and I will push.”

        Joyce got behind the wheel and now I was pushing the rental car backwards because I couldn’t get it in reverse.  Meanwhile cars kept flying by and people were staring at us.   At least the car had not blown up.  It had stopped smoking.  

        We were supposed to be at a beautiful Villa in the Tuscan hills right now, sipping wine in the lovely gardens.  Instead, I’m pushing the rental car away from a dumpster because panicked bystanders thought our car was on fire and an Italian lady we can’t understand, can’t understand why we don’t go see the local mechanic.  This is not the way I had it planned.

        Finally, Joyce started the car and easily put it in reserve.

        “How did you do that?”  I asked.

        Joyce explained that she used to own a Fiat.  You always have to pull up on the gear shift before shifting into reverse.

        “Maybe you should be the one driving,” I said.  But Joyce quickly rejected that notion.

        “What should we do?” asked Joyce.

        “There’s only one thing I know to do,” I said.  “Let’s get in the car and drive.”

        “But what about the smoke?”

        “We will see what happens.”

        We both got in the car and decided to go somewhere besides where we were.  We could still smell the smoke, but we didn’t have any more trouble—at least not with the car. Our adventure was far from over.

        We finally got Google Maps working again and tried to follow the directions.   We pulled out on a main highway and the Google Map lady said, “Take the first exit on the right.”   

        “Where is it?” I asked.

        “You just passed it,” Joyce said.  

        Google Maps was trying to recalculate when I saw a sign for Siena.  I took the exit and followed the signs.  Finally, Google Maps kicked in again and we followed the directions for about 10 minutes.  It seemed we were taking every turn and every exit.  Finally, the Google Map lady said, “Take the first exit on the right.”   We were back at the same place we had been several minutes before.

“Where is the exit?” I asked.

“You just passed it, again!”  Joyce said. 

        We started the same slow circle and before long we were back again.   The Google Map lady said, “Take the first exit on the right.”

        “Where is that exit?” I asked.

        “You just missed it again!” Joyce said.  “Don’t you trust Google Maps.”

        “It’s not that,” I said.  “That dadgum exit just keep coming too fast.

        This time Google Maps kicked in quicker and the digital lady decided to route us a different way.   But the next thing I knew we were approaching a huge toll booth plaza, you know, the ones that fan out to about 15 or 20 lanes.  As we got closer I kept looking for the toll booth with a person, because I didn’t have any change and I didn’t know what the toll would be.  The problem was, all the gates were automated—not a single one was manned by a human!  Not knowing what to do, I slowed down and got as far to the left side as I possibly could.  I looked around but there was no way out.  The only thing to do would be to back up, backing against all of the 100s of cars and trucks flying into the toll plaza.   If I backed up several hundred feet, there would be an emergency turn around I could use. 

Hoping St. Christopher had not deserted me, I started to carefully back the car (true confession, Joyce is still having to show me how to put it in reverse) as I watched cars and trucks swerving to miss me in the backup camera.  Having finally backed up enough to turn into the emergency lane, I moved forward until I was headed in the opposite direction.  I noticed several policemen watching me closely as I joined the traffic leaving the toll plaza from the opposite direction. 

        We listened closely as the Google Map lady had us turning here, then there, then going up one ramp, then another.   After about 15 or 20 minutes I said, “Look!”

We were back at the same toll plaza!  This time I pulled into the emergency turn around and stopped.  Several policemen were staring at us. 

Joyce rolled down the window and cried, “Help!”

A policeman walked over to the car and Joyce said, “English.”

He called to another policeman. 

 A nice pleasant policeman walked up to the car, leaned down and said, “Little English. How can I be of service?”

        We explained that we were trying to go to Greve in Chianti but were just going around in circles.   He said not to worry he could help us.  He told us to get on the toll road (which is what the Google lady had been trying to get us to do for the last 45 minutes) and go until we saw the Florence/Siena exit.   Then he said that we should see signs for Greve in Chianti.  

        “I have one more question,” I said.  “How do you go through that toll booth.  There is no one to take your money and I have not easy pass.”

        “That is because you do not pay now.  You pay when you exit.  All you do is collect the ticket.”

        Thanking the officer profusely and feeling very much like Clark Griswold, we joined the cars in the lanes of the toll plaza and collected a ticket.  As we picked up speed down the highway, the Google lady sounded relieved!

        When we reached our exit, we went to the exit toll plaza, but again there was no human on duty.  I became concerned when we pulled up at the machine and inserted the ticket.  We owed 2 Euros and the sign said “Coins Only.”   But then I saw a place to insert a bill.  I sent a 5 thought the slot and received 3 Euros in change.  The gate opened and we drove through.  Soon we saw a sign that read: “Greve in Chianti!”

        We followed the signs and the Google lady.  Only once did they not agree and we followed the Google lady.  Soon we were driving into Greve in Chianti. 

        Our destination was the Villa Bordoni.  They had a notice on their web site not to follow your GPS once you enter Greve.  So we turned off our friend from Google Maps and followed the written directions.

        The Villa Bordoni is one of the most beautiful Villas in Tuscany.  It is a “Patrician Villa”—the former country home of the Bordonis, a family of wealthy merchants from the city of Florence.  But the origins of this amazing structure go back to the 11^th century, over a 1,000 years ago! 

        Long before Italy was a unified nation, Italy was ruled by different city states that were frequently at war with each other.  Two of the fiercest rivals were Florence and Siena, and the valley of the river Greve was right in the middle.  Over 1,000 years ago a stone tower with a dungeon was constructed.  The tower was a fortress with thick walls and arrow slits.  The dungeon was to hold prisoners of war.  As time went on alliances were made and a farmhouse was attached to the tower. 

        In the 17^th century this “casa colonica” was purchased by the wealthy Bordoni family from Florence and slowly transformed into a Villa for their summer home, with it stucco façade and Italian Garden. (The beautiful garden continues to this day and I am sitting in the garden as I write this on a picture, perfect Sunday morning).

        During the 18^th century Giuseppe Bordoni made the Villa his permanent residence, invested heavily in the vineyards, and in 1782 started producing the renowned Chianti Classico, taking the name of “Mezzuola.”

        The Bordoni family continued to own the property and produce the famous wine until the Second World War.   After the war the heiress of the property married a painter of “dubious talents” and he dwindled the family fortune paying for expensive exhibitions all over Europe.  The final member of the Bordoni family vacated the house in 1997.  

        After three years of extensive renovations, the Villa opened to the public in 2005.  In 2006 and 2007 it was voted one of the “Best New Hotels in the World” by Conde Nast Traveler.”  In 2010 Reuters listed the Villa Bordoni as one the “10 most romantic hotels in the world.”  

        We are staying in a Junior Suite, that overlooks the olive groves and distant Tuscan hills.  There is a comfortable king size bed and a separate mezzanine level with a day bed.  The bathroom is spacious and luxurious with a walk-in shower with hydro massage jets. 

        The dining room is located in the original 1,000 year-old tower.  A wood fire warmed the room.  The room is small, only tables for 16 people.  The tables were covered with linen tablecloths and candles were burning.  The first night we enjoyed Wild Boar Ragu with Rabbit as the main course.  The second night we enjoyed a Lamb Gnocchi with Guinea as the main course.

        We have walked through the beautiful gardens and olive groves.  We have rested, read, and meditated.  The days are warm and sunny.   Sitting in the garden is most serene and peaceful----except we now have a problem.

        We have met some wonderful people who are staying here.  A couple from New Jersey, another from Arizona, and a newlywed couple from California—he has an uncle in Polk County, North Carolina.  But yesterday, a couple from Germany appeared at lunch.  She is very tall, nice and quiet.  But he is big, loud, and obnoxious.  All he does is talk—very loudly.  And this morning, as I was hoping to have a quiet time in the garden, all I can hear was his loud rantings on politics.  I think he is a radical.  I do not want to engage in conversation with him.  

        It is an example of what is wrong with the world.  Most people are kind and gracious, level headed, understanding and compassionate.  Most people are tolerant and accepting of those who are different.   But one person with radical ideas and a loud voice can create problems for everyone. 

        World travel is one of the most important ways to experience different cultures and meet people of different faiths.  If more of our young people could travel internationally they would learn that the world is one big family and we must learn to respect each other and live together in understanding and peace. 

        We will enjoy one more day and night at the Vila Bordoni, then we travel to our home away from home, the Torraccia di Chiusi outside of San Gimignano, our beloved farmhouse.

       

We Will Rise Every Time We Fall

“As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God.”  Sidney Lanier

        How do we build a nest on the greatness of God?  How do we reflect God’s greatness, God’s glory?  How does mortal man even begin to comprehend a transcendent, immortal God? 

        Any attempt to answer these questions must begin with reverent hearts and devoted lives that are committed to glorifying God through acts of kindness, mercy, and grace.  Saint Francis and Mother Teresa did not leave any tangible monuments to honor, but lives of total commitment and sacrifice that continue to inspire and challenge us to this day.  But there is also a deep desire to glorify God in a tangible way.

        King Solomon wanted to build a “house for God” that would be much greater and more extravagant that any human house.  When the Temple was dedicated in Jerusalem, Solomon proclaimed, “I have built thee an exalted house, a place for thee to dwell in forever.”  (1 Kings 8: 13)

        From the earliest days of Christianity, the faithful sought to glorify God by building great houses of worship, just as the Greeks and Romans built magnificent temples to honor their gods.  The Roman Emperor Constantine commissioned the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem in 327 AD.  This grand basilica remains the oldest church in Christianity to this day.

        It was in the Middle Ages when humanity was developing great skills in art, architecture, and science that majestic cathedrals started to appear.  Between the years 1050 and 1350 over 500 grand houses of worship were built in France alone, perhaps none greater than the majestic Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. It is considered the crown jewel of medieval Gothic architecture.  Even before the devastating fire this week, Notre Dame was the most famous of all the medieval cathedrals.  France is the most visited country in the world and it’s most popular monument is not the Eiffel Tower, but the Notre Dame Cathedral. 

        Many people, both believers and unbelievers, consider grand cathedrals like Notre Dame to be decadent wastes of money.  I beg to differ. 

        From the beginning of Genesis, Scripture teaches us to give our best to God.  These majestic cathedrals represent the very best of humanity.  A cathedral is a masterpiece that represents the greatest human gifts we have to offer from an architectural, acoustical, musical, aesthetic, artistic, scientific, religious, and engineering perspective.  Through the creation of these magnificent edifices of worship, we are giving back to God these incredible gifts that he has given to us.  We are giving glory and honor to his name.

        In the wake of this week’s terrible tragedy, we have witnessed the power of this beautiful cathedral to bring all of humanity together.  On Monday night in Paris and around the world, believers and unbelievers, doubters and disciples, saints and sinners, conservatives and progressives, Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, Buddhists and people of all faiths and people of no faith, were drawn by a powerful force to this heartbreaking scene of fire and smoke. 

        Throughout the city of Paris, a city not necessarily known for its religious fervor, thousands of people gathered in somber silence, in prayer, and often in song, because of a building.   But you see—it is much more than a building.  This is a magnificent house of God and deep within every person, whether one knows it or not, is a need to be close to God. 

        How significant is the fact that this tragedy took place on Monday of Holy Week?   This is the week that we celebrate the transformation of despair into hope, darkness into light, and death into life.  We have already seen a miraculous transformation in the wake of the Notre Dame tragedy.  Over a billion dollars has already been pledged for the restoration.  As Emerson said, “The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”

        But those of us who follow the Christ already know this.  Tomorrow morning we will gather in our houses of worship, large and small, simple and magnificent, and we will proclaim:  Christ is Risen!  He is Risen Indeed!  Yes, we will rise every time we fall!

Drama in Rome on the way to Turin

       We could not leave Positano without one more visit to La Taverna Del Leone.  Our same driver picked us up and greeted us like an old friend.  When he found out that we were leaving in the morning, he wanted to know what time.  He was sad that he had another commitment because he said he wanted to take us to the airport.  But he said, “My colleague will be good for you—just like me!”

        The first night I had paid him when we arrived at the restaurant and again when we arrived back at the hotel.  However, tonight he said, “you not worry about paying me until later!”

        The staff at La Taverna Del Leone greeted us warmly and welcomed us back.  They had read the review I had posted on Trip Advisor and they were most grateful.  We ordered salad and Margherita pizza with buffalo mozzarella.  As we were eating another couple came in and after we finished a conversation with our waiter, they said, “Where in the south are you from?” 

        They live in Cary and have a son at Elon and a daughter at High Point University.  Their son is studying in Florence, so they came to see him and tour Italy.  They actually drove a rental to Positano and had some harrowing tales to share.  The waiter shared with them that we had enjoyed the lamb on our previous visit.  They ordered it and agreed it was divine!  

        Our driver picked us up and said good-bye at Hotel Gabrisa.  The next morning his colleague picked us up and we headed to Naples, but not without a surprise.  As we drove through Positano we stopped where a man was sitting on a bench, neatly dressed in a tie.  We almost didn’t recognize him—it was our driver from the previous nights!  He again said a heartfelt good-bye, told us we had an excellent driver, which we did.  It reminded me of a scene out of a movie.

        Our driver to the airport was from Sri Lanka.  He moved to Italy when he was sixteen, now has an Italian wife, and his family now lives here.  He was very knowledgeable, friendly, and spoke excellent English.   He asked us about North Carolina.  It is still true in Europe that the magical name they associate with North Carolina is Michael Jordan.   Our driver told us that last summer Michael Jordan and Lebron James came to vacation in Positano with their families. 

        It took us an hour and a half to drive 47 miles to the Naples airport.  Our driver said in the high season, the drive can take 3 hours or longer.  The traffic was already terrible, especially coming into Sorrento.  I would not want to visit during the high season.

        There was a long line at the Alitalia counter.  We had almost two hours before our flight so we were not concerned.   While we were waiting a group of young people from London came in.   Their group leader told us that they were scheduled to fly home yesterday, but the baggage handlers for Alitalia had been on strike.  That explained the long line and we were thankful the strike lasted only one day.  

        When I arrived at the ticket counter the agent seemed surprised that I had luggage to check.  “But sir,” he said. “You must pay for your baggage.”  

        Our plane tickets to Turin cost us around $75.  My checked bags cost me almost $190!   $265 for two plane tickets from Naples to Turin plus baggage is still not a bad price, even if we did have to change planes in Rome.

        We only had an hour to make connections in Rome and I could see us running through the massive Rome Leonardo da Vinci Fiumicino Airport trying to make our connecting flight.  It was pouring rain when we landed, then we taxied for a good 15 minutes to our gate.  When we got off the plane we found an information monitor and looked behind us, our flight to Turin was the same gate we had just exited.  We would be flying on the same plane!   Also, at our gate a concert pianist was entertaining everyone on a baby grand.  This was our lucky day!   Little did we know that our luck was about to run out . . . or maybe, our blessing was about to begin.

        We re-boarded our plane and backed away from the gate early.  By now, the sun was shining and our flight had many empty seats.  I had been reading a very good novel, “The Tuscan Child” by Janet Quin-Harkin.  I had never read anything by this author, but I was intrigued by the title and the book was excellent.  I only had a chapter or two remaining, so I started reading as we taxied to the end of the runway for takeoff.  

        Joyce has always told me that she prays for safety every time we fly.  I guess I’m too trusting, but I think I will start doing this too.   As we picked up speed down the runway, everything seemed normal.  I looked at my watch and thought; we will be arriving early in Turin!

        There is a point in the takeoff process when you realize you are airborne.  I had just glanced out the window, thinking that we were about to leave the ground, when boom!   There was a loud noise, we were all thrust forward in our seats, and the pilot hit the brakes.   Everyone was stunned.  What just happened?

        When we came to a stop, the plane turned and taxied off the runway, then the pilot made an announcement.   Since it was in Italian, I didn’t have a clue what he said.  The nice lady sitting beside me recognized my confusion and said, “Birds.  We hit birds.”

        We taxied for a few minutes, then the pilot had another explanation.  The woman told me, “We are going to have the plane checked for damage.”  Then she typed something in her cell phone and handed it to me.  She had typed in Italian and the phone translated into English.  “There were seagulls on the runway.”

        We taxied to a remote place where airline mechanics started checking the engines and the brakes.  The pilot got off and we waited for the next ninety minutes.  Every now and then he would make an announcement which the nice lady translated for me.  “Very soon, we will be on our way.”

        Two men got up and went to the front of the plane.  They looked like businessmen, probably upset they missed their business appointment in Turin.  They got off and did not return.  

        Finally, the door was closed and the pilot made an announcement in Italian, followed by English, thanking us for our patience and telling us we would soon be on our way to Turin.  When we landed in Turin I thanked the pilot for keeping us safe.  I also thanked the nice lady for her kindness.  And I thanked the good Lord for his traveling mercy.  Since I’m in Italy, perhaps I should have also thanked Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers.  In my book, this lady was always praying to the different saints. 

        I should have had an icon of Saint Christopher when we got into the taxi at the Turin Airport.  “Momma Mia!”  The driver practically shouted, “Welcome to Italy!”

        The next thirty minutes made our aborted landing at the Rome Airport seem like child’s play.  Our driver spoke very little English.  Joyce told him we could talk with sign language, which he quickly enjoyed.  The only problem was that he was using his hands to talk, which is a problem because you need at least one hand to drive, and when Joyce would answer with her hands, he would turn around to see what she was saying, which is a problem because one is supposed to look at the road as he drives.  Then he would exclaim, throwing both hands into the air, “That is good!  That is good!”

As we barreled down the highway to Turin, our driver was constantly chattering about beautiful Turin and giving us advice on where to go and what to do.  As we entered the city we found out he did not like red lights.   When we would stop for a light he would shout, “Red, very bad!”  “Green, very good!”   And off we would go.  He was driving in the streetcar lane, although I’m not so sure he was supposed to be there.   He was trying to explain to us that one section of town was dangerous after dark.  When I finally figured out what he was saying I said, “We old.  We no dance.”   He thought that was splendid, and he threw up his hands and laughed and laughed before launching into another oration.   He was telling us about a cinema museum (I thought he was telling us where to go to the movies, but I found out later that a world-famous cinema museum is here) and trying to tell us how big it is he spread his arms as wide as could, which would not have been a problem if he had not been driving.   Thankfully, Saint Christopher was riding with us and after screaming at a few more red lights and trying, unsuccessfully, to squeeze past two buses in a loading zone, we pulled up in front of our hotel, the magnificent Turin Palace. 

        The fare in the taxi showed 34 Euros.  I gave our driver two twenties.  At first, he looked disappointed, then he laughed and thanked me profusely.  I think he was going to kiss me but I got away.   

        We made our way into the elegant hotel lobby and all our worries quickly went away.  This is a first-class hotel next to the train station.   The rooms are beautiful and very spacious.  We have a king size bed, a walk-in closet and a full bath.   The staff is professional and most attentive.  Everyone speaks perfect English.  

        We decided to have dinner in the hotel tonight.  A first-class hotel like the Turin Palace also has a first-class restaurant.  Restaurants in Turin don’t open until at least 7:30 p.m. and precisely at 7:30 we were escorted into a gorgeous dining room in the fashionable Les petites Madeleines Restaurant.  Our distinguished waiter invited us to enjoy an Aperitif before dinner.  Then we received two very dainty and unusual pre-dinner treats.  The top third of an eggshell had been removed and the eggshell was filled with warm egg whites followed by potato puree, a liquor, and raw egg.   We also received a veal tartara, a true Italian treat.  We enjoyed a salad with tuna, cauliflower soup, and veal filets. 

        The next morning, I went to the stunning breakfast room and asked for two Americana coffees to take to the room.   The friendly waitress responded by bringing me a silver tray with a pitcher of steaming coffee, two coffee cups, cream and sugar.  “Is this okay,” she asked?

        After an excellent breakfast that included scrambled eggs and pancetta, we caught a taxi to the Museum of the Shroud.  The Shroud of Turin is one of the world’s great mysteries.  It is a linen cloth that bears the image of a man who has been crucified.  Many believe that this was the actual burial cloth wrapped around Jesus of Nazareth following his crucifixion.   Others believe that this was an elaborate forgery by a medieval artist and in 1390 a Bishop claimed an artist had actually confessed to the forgery.  In 1988 carbon dating placed the cloth around 1260 to 1390 AD.  Others have pointed out inconsistencies with the carbon dating approach, and so the debate goes on.  Is this the actual shroud of Christ or not?  

        The Museum of the Shroud does not try to convince you that it was the actual shroud of Christ.  It is devoted to the history of the Shroud and the many years of scientific research that has been devoted to this relic.  I found both the museum devoted to the Shroud and our visit to the nearby Cathedral where the actual Shroud is kept in a protective case to be fascinating.  To me, whether the Shroud is authentic or not is not the important thing—what is important is that this relic has inspired faith for millions of people and hundreds of people have devoted their lives to the study and preservation of this amazing ancient cloth. 

        I was deeply moved by the experience of standing in front of the Shroud.  No, we could not see the actual Shroud, it is under a glass that is covered with an elaborate pall.  But to know that we were standing just a few feet from this holy relic was indeed awe inspiring.  As Pope Francis prayed when the Shroud was last on public display in March of 2013:  “Dear Jesus, in front of the Shroud, as before a mirror, we contemplate the mystery of your passion and your death for us.  It is the greatest love with which you have loved us, even to give your own life for the last sinner. . .”  Pope Francis also stated that the look of the man in the Shroud “is directed not to our eyes, but to our heart.”  

        In 1598 the care of the Shroud was entrusted to a Catholic Brotherhood known as the Confraterniti of the Sudario, the Holy Sudarium.  The Museum of the Shroud is located in a Sudarium church, “Santo Sudario.”  The museum is staffed totally by church volunteers and the two ladies who greeted us at the front desk were volunteering for the first time.  They asked us if we also wanted to see their church, and of course we did.  As the only lady who spoke any English was escorting us to the sanctuary, she told us that the mission of their church was the mentally ill.  This mission had been given to the brotherhood by the King in 1728 when he provided a lot for them to build a mental hospital. 

        If one wishes to prove the resurrection, it will not be found in authenticating the Shroud of Turin or any other type of scientific evidence.  The proof of the resurrection is found in acts of mercy, love, and kindness like that of the Holy Sudarium who ministers to the “least of these.”   This is the only proof we need.

        We left the Cathedral and enjoyed a leisurely stroll past the Palace and the Piazzo Castello and down the famous Via Roma, the primary shopping boulevard that runs from the train station to the Palace.  There are many fashionable shops with recognizable names.  It was a cool day, but felt very good in the sun.  Perfect weather for walking! 

        We went to the train station where we purchased our tickets to Florence on Friday.  In our 2010 Sabbatical we had a Eurail Pass, but many trains are reserved trains and there is an additional charge.  The only time I encountered an ugly Italian (In Europe, Americans with an attitude are called a UA—Ugly American) was at the train station at Monterossa al Mare when I was trying to purchase reserved seats.  He was irritated that I didn’t understand Italian and was practically shouting at me.   With this experience in the back of my mind, Joyce and I made our way to a ticket agent.  With a welcoming smile and a kind demeaner, she quickly answered our questions and within five minutes we had two first-class tickets on the fast train (I’ll explain in the next chapter).  Our hotel is literally across the street from the train station, so we stopped by the room to search for a place for lunch.  I turned to my trusty resource, Trip Advisor, and said, “There’s a sandwich shop not far from here.  Believe it or not, they are the #1 rated restaurant in all of Turin!”

        I was using my Google Maps to find Mollica, but felt like since it was the #1 rated restaurant it would not be hard to find.  Good thing I had Google Maps.  When I walked in the door, I did a double take.  There were only three small tables, the menu was posted on the wall, and two men with smiling faces stood behind the serving counter that displayed all the delicious meats and cheeses to choose from.  You could choose from 4 different types of homemade bread.  We really didn’t know what to order, but the owner cheerfully told us not to worry.  He prepared two amazing sandwiches full of Italian meats, cheeses, vegetables and condiments.  When he asked us how we liked our sandwiches, I asked him if he knew his little shop was the # 1 rated restaurant in all of Turin. 

        “Yes!” he said with a wide grin. 

        I told him that after my review they would continue to be #1---and I wrote a glowing review for Mollica.

        We decided to eat again at the hotel tonight.  This time we ordered spaghetti.  It was homemade pasta of course and very good.

        Thursday morning, we took a taxi back to the Cathedral and spent a more reflective time in front of the Shroud, watching the pilgrims who came to worship in its presence.  Then we walked to one of the greatest Egyptian museums in the world, the Museo Egizio.   The Museum was Smithsonian quality, containing many amazing Egyptian artifacts. There were hundreds of school children there!   While it made conditions in the museum very crowded, and at times, noisy, we were grateful that these children had such an excellent opportunity to learn.  It seems that Italians still believe in the importance of field trips!

        After spending a couple of hours at the Egyptian Museum we decided that it was time to indulge in a culinary experience that was beyond description.   We dined in the most historic restaurant in Italy, one of the most beautiful and historic in all of Europe.  Located in a 1757 Palace on Piazza Carignano, the elegant dining hall with its golden mirrors, dental moldings, and sparkling chandeliers look exactly like it did when it served as the favorite dining spot for the heroes of the Italian Risorgimento (The Italian Unification).  The waitress showed us the table where the first President of the Italian Unification, Victor Emmanuel II would dine in the 1860s.

        I told Joyce that the room reminded me of an elaborate historical room you would visit on a tour, only to be allowed to peer in.  But here we were having a grand meal and being served as if we were the King and Queen of the country. 

        After several petite antipasti, our first course was “Insalata Piemontese Di Matteo Baronetto.”  This is the most incredible salad I have ever seen, much less enjoyed. This salad is so exquisite that the restaurant provided us with a color picture that points out the 24 different ingredients.  It was full of colorful salad greens of different varieties, cheeses, various peas, herbs, and seeds, tomatoes, artichoke, asparagus, violets, and berries.  Yes, it was as delicious as it sounds!  Our main course of veal was almost anticlimactic, but we were still a long way from the end of this fulfilling adventure. 

        Our waitress rolled a large box on wheels to our table that reminded me of something a magician might use.  She opened the box and the sides folded down and behold, there was a delectable display of wonderful cheeses!   We selected three cheeses and she showed us which order to eat them.  My favorite was the Gorgonzola.   

        But there was still more!   We had the most amazing dish of Pistachio Gelato, with four silver goblets full of enticing candies to adorn the dessert.  Then, just when we thought we were finished, our waitress said, “We have one more surprise!”  We were presented with several chocolates on a silver serving tree. 

        We will never forget this rich dining experience.  As we were leaving we were thanking one of the managers and he asked where we were from.  He told us about his only experience in Raleigh.  He lived in New York and flew to Atlanta to see the Falcons play his favorite team, the New York Jets.  He changed planes in Raleigh and he added that it was the worst flight of his life to Atlanta.  And, the Jets lost.  

        I mentioned Joe Namath and he said, “Joe Namath!  That is why I became a Jets fan!”   When I told him that I saw Joe Namath play in college, he said: “Bear Bryant—you must be one of the Bear’s boys.”  I took it as a tremendous compliment!

        We made our way back to the hotel where I worked on this journal. Tomorrow will be a big day.   We are catching the “fast train” to Florence! 

       

Positano

        It was sad to say good-bye to lovely Sorrento.  We had come to know and love this charming city, a city where we could easily return.  The wonderful staff at the Palazzo Montefusco said heartfelt farewells and promises to meet again as Angela helped us carry our luggage to the Piazza.  Our driver was waiting for us.  

        When I was planning for the trip, I did have enough sense to know I shouldn’t drive on the Amalfi Coast, and today as our driver whisked us around the hairpin curves on the road to Positano, I understood why.  That and the fact that parking is almost impossible. 

        We are still 2 or 3 weeks away from the start of the “high” season in Positano.  But that doesn’t mean it is not crowded.  Summertime can bring oppressive heat and huge crowds of tourists. 

        Our hotel, the lovely Hotel Villa Gabrisa was recommended to us by Kathy Evitts at Dehoney Travel.  The best way to describe this hotel is simply “extravagant.”   We have a lovely room with so many gadgets that we don’t understand them all.  All I know is that when you walk into the bathroom the toilet lid automatically raises!  And you don’t need a night light because, well . . . the toilet bowl is lighted! These rooms were just renovated two months ago so they are practically new.  We have a large balcony overlooking the magnificent Tryennien Sea.  The Tryennien Sea encompasses the western coast of Italy, from north of Rome to Sicily, where our son Knight was stationed a number of years ago. The city itself is nestled on the side of a mountain cascading down to the water.  There is only one street in Positano that allows traffic—all of the rest are steep stairs and lanes for pedestrians.  

        Our room was not ready when we arrived and the friendly young lady at the desk suggested that we walk down the steps to the downtown area.  She recommended a local bar and grill with a breathtaking view of the city.  Getting there proved to be a unique challenge.  We descended down 133 steps to the one-way street that was busy with cars, mini-buses, and scooters.  We continued to walk down, and down and down until we reached the heart of Positano.   After taking a couple of wrong turns, we started going up, and up, and up!   I finally told Joyce to wait and let me go ahead and see if there actually was a bar and grill.  There was.  We finally made it.  The food was good and the view was spectacular.  But there was no way we were going to walk back up to the hotel.  Our waiter called a taxi.

        Our host at the hotel recommended a restaurant for our meal tonight—the La Taverna Del Leone. 

        Our taxi picked us up at 6:45.  Our driver was quite the animated Italian, talking about how happy he was he was away from his wife!   Joyce asked him if he loved her.  “Yes,” he said.  “When she is asleep!”

        He was excited that we were going to the La Taverna Del Leone.  Once we got there, we were also excited!   This was another memorable, amazing meal.   We were greeted by the head waiter who called us by name.  He immediately made us feel like family.   He seated us at a choice table where we could watch the chefs preparing the meals. The kitchen was open, warm and inviting. 

        There was also a smaller kitchen with a brick oven where a “nonna” was making pizza.  We know she was a “nonna” because her family came to eat and she greeted each grandchild with a big and cheerful hug.  Her apron was adorned with flour and now the grandchildren were adorned with flour too!

        Our waiter recommended the lamb that had been simmering for 24 hours—another spot-on recommendation.  You could cut the lamb with your fork and it would melt in your mouth.  

        As we enjoyed our meal we kept watching people come for pizza.   We commented on this to our waiter who told us that the “nonna’s” pizza was exceptional.  Joyce then told him about our quest to find a Margherita Pizza like the one we had in Naples years ago.   A few minutes later a complimentary mini-Margherita Pizza was sitting on our table.  One bite and we knew—we had found it!

        We said good night with a promise to return on Monday.   Our driver picked us up and was anxious to hear how we enjoyed our experience!  It was another night to remember.

        The hotel provides a good breakfast which we enjoyed sitting outside overlooking the water.  It was Sunday morning and church bells were ringing.  It was also so peaceful and quiet.   It has been a long time since I have enjoyed a peaceful Sunday morning without worrying about putting the finishing touches on a sermon, making sure I had all the announcements I was supposed to make, checking to see if the batteries in the wireless needed changing, etc. etc----I was finally able to take a true “Sabbath” day.  

        Many places close in Positano for the low season.  As someone explained, this is not like a tropical island where the temperature is warm year-round.  Winters can get cold and nasty.  Many hotels and restaurants close for the off season.  While our hotel is open all year, their restaurant will not reopen for three more weeks.   There is really not a lot to do here, unless you just want to rest and relax and go for challenging walks---which is what we came to do.

        We stayed in our hotel most of the day with our balcony open overlooking the sea.   It is truly an incredible and thrilling sight.  It reminds me of the time we went to Niagara Falls.  The view from our hotel room was so sensational that we spent most of our time in the room simply admiring the view.  As we look out from our scenic balcony over the sea, we know why the Amalfi Coast is one of the world’s most popular tourist destinations. 

        Our host recommended another restaurant for tonight, the Il Ritrov.  It had also been closed for the low season, but had just reopened the night before.  They sent a shuttle to our hotel to pick us up and the ride to the top of the mountain where the restaurant is located was breathtaking.  As we climbed higher and higher, Positano appeared below us like a magical painting.  We finally arrived at the top and were greeted warmly by the owner who seated us at a choice corner table looking out over the mountain.  

        We were about to experience another culinary adventure.   This time, Joyce really stepped out on faith and ordered Octopus.   I don’t what Octopus is supposed to taste like, but this wasn’t what I expected.  It certainly was not slimy and fishy.  It had the texture of chicken.  It had a light taste and was quite good. 

        We ended our dinner with a chocolate soufflé that did not disappoint!  Several people joined us for the shuttle back into town.  Two of the ladies were from New Zealand, from the same town where the mass shooting took place.  In fact, one of the ladies said her children had been in lockdown during the shooting. 

        Tonight our plans are to go back to the La Taverna Del Leone where we can’t wait for our “nonna” to prepare delicious pizza!   Tomorrow morning we say good-bye to beautiful Positano and fly north to Turin.  

2019 Sabbatical Journal Chapter 1

        19/03/19 (The European style of writing dates) was our day of departure.  The night before I told Joyce I felt like a kid at Christmas.  It was not just that I was excited, but I wondered if after two years of planning I might feel the actual experience would be somewhat of a letdown.   I can truthfully say as I write this on the second full day of our Sabbatical that the actual experience has exceeded all of our expectations!

       We flew Lufthansa Airlines out of Charlotte.   European airlines put our airlines to shame with their customer service.  They still believe in pampering you and it makes flying fun.  They actually sent the menu of our meal to us a few days before our flight.  However, the flight was late leaving Charlotte and we had a tight connection in Munich.  I was concerned but we made up time in the air, landed in Munich early, and we were sitting at the gate for the flight to Naples 45 minutes early. 

        The Naples Airport is small and after we retrieved our luggage we saw a man waiting for us with a sign that read “Ray Howell.”   When I told our driver Benjamin that we had a grandson by the same name he laughed and said, “So you name your grandson after me!”   Like most Italians Benjamin was friendly, engaging, and spoke perfect English.  He loaded our luggage in his Mercedes and we were on our way to Sorrento, comparing notes with Benjamin on family and grandchildren!   He lives in Pompeii and used to have a shop there, but now drives for tourists like us.

        It is only an hour drive to Sorrento, the first stop of our Sabbatical.  After much research, I decided to stay in a small, five-room, boutique B&B in the heart of the historic area of Sorrento—the Palazzo Montefusco.  Everyone talked about the wonderful staff who made you feel like family—we have not been disappointed.  Benjamin drove to one of the main squares in Sorrento, but there were no parking places, so he drove around a second time.  Finally, he stopped in the middle of the street and we unloaded.   Angela was there to greet us.  She took two of our big suitcases and we snaked through narrow streets and alleys until we came to a charming courtyard, then climbed several flights of stairs to the Palazzo Montefusco.   We met Anna, who works with Angela, and they told us we had been upgraded to a mini-suite.  They didn’t even ask for a credit card!  

        We went to our spacious room with a small balcony overlooking the Corso Italia, the main street in historic Sorrento.   Sorrento predates the time of Christ.   Wedged on a ledge under the mountains, with a stunning view of the Bay of Naples and Mount Vesuvius, Sorrento is a charming city full of lemons and olive groves.   Without question, this was the perfect place to begin our Sabbatical.

        The day was overcast, cool, and rainy.   We found a pizzeria thinking that our Margherita Pizza would be as good as the last time we were in Naples—but it was not.   We were exhausted from the overnight flight and by 5 p.m. we were in bed. 

        Fourteen hours later we were greeted by a perfect, cloudless, sunny day in beautiful Sorrento.   Whenever we travel I get up and go find us a cup of coffee.  I went downstairs where Anna (the second Anna of the Palazzo Montefusco) was preparing our breakfast.   I asked if I could get two cups of coffee to take to the room.  “No,” she said.  “You cannot take coffee to your room, I will carry two cups of coffee to your room!”  And so, a perfect day began!

        Anna had prepared a typical European breakfast with fruits, vegetables, cheese, meats, breads, and cakes.  But I had read that she would also fix delicious omelets and she did—we were not disappointed.  We had another cup of “Americana Coffee” and orange juice.   We finished our first breakfast in Italy with an Expresso!

        One thing I was looking forward to on this Sabbatical was not to have a schedule, not to have an agenda, not to have to be somewhere in 30 minutes, not to have a deadline, etc.    With no agenda, I went walking, exploring the town of Sorrento.   I walked around 3 miles, including a jaunt down to the marina—easy going down, a challenge climbing up—and stopped in a shop where several grizzled old Italians were making beautiful small boats.  Thinking they did not speak English, I pointed to my phone asking if it was okay if I took a picture.  One of the guys answered in perfect English, “You want to buy it?”   I took the picture anyway.

        We found a sidewalk café where we enjoyed a tomato salad and a Margherita Pizza (still not as good as Naples), then went to a lemon grove where Limoncello is produced.  We held huge lemons in our hands while our host took our picture and explained how Limoncello is made.

        Thursday night we celebrated the beginning of our Sabbatical with one of the most remarkable and memorable meals I have ever experienced.  Our destination was the historic L’Antica Trattoria.  This amazing restaurant has been in the same family since 1930.  We were greeted like royalty as we were led, as if walking through a labyrinthine, to our seats.  The rooms are adorned in historic furniture and you had the feeling you were dining in your great-grandmother’s house.  I was spellbound.

        The L’Antica Trattoria promises that their restaurant in the heart of the ancient center of the city is “a dream corner, a blissful oasis, where one can lose sense of time and place, a magical little kingdom, where the happy visitor can imagine, or re-live his dreams and fantasies.”  “So come, come with persons precious to you to discover the joy of an unforgettable evening, an evening with the warmth, hospitality and the perfect blending of superlative food and wine that only L’Antica Trattoria of Sorrento can offer.”  

        This was not hyperbole—we found it to be literally true.  We sat for a long time savoring the experience even more than the meal.  

        Friday morning dawned bright and beautiful.    Anna again delivered delicious coffee to the room and prepared delightful omelets.

        Our original plan was to have a light lunch and have dinner in an old historic wine cellar, but my how plans can change.   We decided to find a place on the waterfront since it was another gorgeous, cloudless day.  But we couldn’t find the waterfront restaurant we were seeking and we wandered into the historic, five-star Imperial Hotel Tramontano.  This historic property has hosted guests from Milton, Longfellow, Byron, Scott, Shelley, Keats and Harriet Beecher Stowe.  In 1862 the Prince of Wales, the future Edward VII, King of England visited here. 

        We walked into the main dining room that was stepping back in time.  It was elegant and spacious with a stunning view of the Bay of Naples and Mount Vesuvius.  We were greeted like a King and Queen and had some of the best onion soup we have ever tasted along with a dish of gnocchi pasta.  As we prepared to leave the head waiter gave Joyce a copy of an 1820 painting of the coast of Sorrento.  

        After two amazing meals we didn’t want to think about dinner.  We had a late afternoon gelato and I went down to a deli where I got us some Parma Ham with pecorino cheese plus bread.  It was all we needed for dinner.

        Tomorrow we say good-bye to the lovely town of Sorrento but we will always hold this beautiful place in our hearts as the place our Sabbatical began.

       

       

       

You Are My Brother

    On Thursday afternoon in Turin we were strolling down the Via Roma and decided to visit the little church of Santa Christina on Piazza San Carlo. This beautiful Baroque style church was designed in 1620, but it took 100 years to complete construction.  It suffered damage in the Second World War. There is a beautiful organ inside and gorgeous frescoes and carved statues.  

         We paused for a few minutes inside to absorb the beauty of this holy place.  We were seated on one of the back pews.  I got up to explore a small chapel on the side and Joyce remained in her seat.  When I came back Joyce was engaged in conversation with a Priest and a young lady, who was his niece.  They were from a little island off the southern coast of Italy and she was bringing her uncle to see the Shroud of Turin.  They asked Joyce what brought her to Turin and she was telling them about our Sabbatical and the fact I was a minister.

         When I walked back to where they were seated, the Priest smiled and extended his hand.  I responded by saying, “Hello Father.”   

         He looked at me and said, “No, not Father.  You are my brother.   We are brothers in Christ.”   

The Unforgettable Prayer Service

         When Joyce and I first visited Torraccio di Chiusi in 2010, there were several nights that we were the only guests.  Bruno had prepared all of our meals, but we were told that Bruno had the night off and in his place, Stefano, the owner and former Italian Senator would provide our meal. It was a night we will never forget!

         We were in awe that a such a great man, a powerful corporate executive, a former Senator, would be so humble as to prepare our meal.  As we enjoyed the excellent meal, we learned about each other.  Stefano told us how he and Donatella decided there was more to life than power and money.  He shared how they had adopted a little girl from Ethiopia.  

         Then he learned that I was a minister, although I don’t know that he understood exactly the role of a Protestant minister because he kept calling me Father.   But when he found out I was a minister, he became very emotional and shared a personal story with us.  When Stefano and Donatella first purchased this ancient property, one of the first things he discovered in the almost 1000-year-old house was a chapel. Stefano took this as a sign of God’s blessing and he told us that the very first part of the house he restored was the chapel.  Then through tears, he asked if after dinner we would go to the chapel with him to pray. We have never forgotten that powerful experience.

         On Saturday morning, Joyce and I asked Maria if the chapel would be open on Sunday.  She smiled and said, “Of course.  So, you can lead the prayers.”  

         At dinner Saturday night a couple from Denmark remarked, “We hear you will conduct prayers in the chapel tomorrow.  We must leave early, so we cannot be there.”

         Then Stefano came to us and said, “You will conduct prayers in the chapel.  What time?  If okay, I will invite my family.”  

         At first Joyce thought he was asking what time we would be in the chapel so he would not conflict with us. But I said, “No, he wants me to lead a prayer service for his family.”

         So you must understand this picture.   Here I am, a Baptist Minister from North Carolina being asked to conduct a prayer service for a powerful Italian family who live on the Via Francigena, the Pilgrims’ highway to Rome that has been traveled by Popes, Saints, Cardinals, Bishops, Priests and the everyday faithful!  Talk about being overwhelmed!

         I thought about how I should go about the service.   Should I look up a Catholic Prayer service?  Should I try to lead this service as a Priest would?   But the more I thought about it, the more I decided to simply be myself.  I would make a few remarks on what an honor it was to conduct the service, then I would lead an opening prayer, read a Scripture lesson, make a few remarks on the Scripture, and close with a prayer.  

         I decided to use Mark 10: 35-45, where James and John are requesting places of power and authority in the Kingdom and Jesus tells them that the greatest among us will be our servant. 

         Stefano invited Marisa, who prepares our breakfast each morning, to join us for the service.  

         Joyce and I walked over the beautiful little chapel shortly before 10 a.m.  Marisa and Sisi, who also helps in the kitchen and cleans the rooms, were already in the chapel lighting candles.  Then I saw that Marisa was bringing water and wine and a silver chalice.  Oh no, I thought, they are expecting me to perform the Mass.  

         Joyce asked me what I would do.  I told her that I would explain to Stefano that I am not authorized by the Roman Church to conduct Mass.  I must respect their traditions and their line of authority.  

         When Stefano arrived, I explained to him that I could not offer communion, but could lead a service of prayer and Scripture.  

         “Yes, of course,” he said. “I know that.”

         Then the couple with him, who were close friends, said, “We travel to California often.  We understand what you are saying, but prayer is a wonderful way to begin our day.”

         The fact that Stefano understood I am not a Catholic Priest, but still asked me to conduct services for them made it even more remarkable.  

         The small chapel is a beautiful and peaceful sacred space.  We sat together for a few minutes.   There was Stefano, the other couple, Joyce and Marisa, but where was Donatella?   

         Stefano said he hoped she was coming.  I said we were in no hurry, we would wait.  We waited for just a moment, then Stefano said, “Let us begin.”

         I stood and when I did, everyone else stood.  I started by saying it was a great honor to stand in this sacred space and conduct the service.  Then I remarked on how we were standing on Holy Ground.  We know for a fact that many Popes have traveled on the Via Francigena. In November of 1148 Pope Eugene III returned to Rome on the Via Francigena and dedicated the Cathedral in San Gimignano.  St. Francis made his pilgrimage to Rome on the Via Francigena in 1206.   Who knows, maybe Simon Peter or the Apostle Paul also traveled this way.  So yes, this is Holy Ground.

         Then I offered my first prayer.  I turned to the Altar and prayed, asking God to bless Stefano and Donatella and their family.

         Following the prayer, I thought they might be seated, but they continued to stand.  I read the text from Mark 10 and commented on how people seek greatness in the world by assuming power and authority, but Jesus said we find greatness in service.  I made note of the fact that we were of different nations, different cultures, and different languages, but we worshiped the same God and we are all members of the family of God.  

         I shared the story of the Priest in Turin who after I called him “Father” said “No, not Father.  I am your brother, your brother in Christ.”  

         Then I offered a closing prayer and focused on finding forgiveness and grace at the foot of the cross. 

         Marisa is from Peru. She speaks very little Italian and almost no English.  During the last prayer, Marisa had one arm around Joyce’s waist, Joyce had her arms on her shoulders, and she was lifting her other hand to God.  The tears were streaming down her face.

Stefano was also very moved and expressed heartfelt thanks and gratitude. He hugged Joyce as he expressed his gratitude.  The couple with Stefano said they were very touched by the service.   Surely, we felt the presence of the Lord as we stood together on Holy Ground.

         As we were leaving the chapel, Donatella came in.  “Oh no!” she exclaimed.  “Am I late? Have I missed it?”

         I told her not to worry, that Joyce and I would have prayer with her.   We stood and faced the Altar.  Donatella took my hands and I prayed. She was in tears.  She embraced us as the tears of grace flowed from her face.   We don’t know what exactly is going on in her life, but for those few sacred minutes, we all felt the powerful presence of God and his peace, his “shalom” that passes all understanding.

         We slowly walked away from the Chapel knowing that we had just experienced a miracle.  We will carry this experience with us for the rest of our lives.

         Stefano is in the kitchen again tonight, just as he was in 2010, preparing our dinner.

That Could Have Been Us

       Forty-five years ago in late March I was sitting in a dorm room with several other guys discussing the biggest news in sports and it wasn’t the NCAA Basketball Tournament that had just ended with NC State dethroning mighty UCLA.  The major league baseball season was about to begin and the mighty Babe Ruth was about to be dethroned by one Henry Aaron. 

        Baseball is a game of numbers and the number 714 had defined the mythical Babe as the “Sultan of Swat” for all time.   They say that records are meant to be broken, but 714 career home runs was considered sacred by many and they dared anyone to challenge it.  Babe Ruth, the man who had a candy bar named for him, had transformed the game of baseball from a curiosity of the few to our national pastime.  He continued to be revered and adored long after his death.  Babe Ruth was baseball.   But this story was much deeper than a sport. 

        Babe Ruth personified a white man’s game.  It was 12 years after Ruth played his last game when Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier.  The fact that the Holy Grail of baseball was about to be captured was one thing, but considering that a black man from Alabama was about to accomplish it was the stuff of social revolution. 

        Henry Aaron, who played for the Atlanta Braves, finished the 1973 season with 713 home runs.  He only needed one more to tie the holy record.  The off season had been tumultuous as Aaron received many death threats and defenders of the Babe tried to diminish his accomplishments. 

        The Braves were scheduled to open the season in Cincinnati, and when rumors circulated that Aaron may sit out the first few games so he could break the record at home, the Commissioner of Baseball stepped in and ordered the Braves to play Aaron.  The drama continued to build.

        The Braves home opener was on April 8 against the Dodgers.  The small group in the dorm room discussed whether we should try to attend that game.  What were the odds that April 8 would be the night that the greatest baseball record of all time would fall?   We could drive to Atlanta in less than 3 hours.   We finally decided that we should go.   I called to see if we could get tickets.  

        The nice lady at the Braves office told me that only a few tickets remained for the game.   After I gave her the order she said, “Okay, I have five tickets for opening night on Monday, April 8.”   “Wait a minute!” I said.  “Monday night?”

        We didn’t realize that the game was on a Monday.  That meant we would get back to school in the wee hours of the morning with classes to attend.  After a quick discussion we decided to get tickets for the Friday night game.  After all, chances were just as good Aaron would break the record that night.

        Henry Aaron tied Babe Ruth’s record on the first pitch of the season.  He returned to Atlanta on April 8 needing one home run to break the mark.  We were all crowded around the TV in the dorm, watching the packed house at Atlanta Fulton County Stadium as “Hammering Hank” came to bat in the third inning.  As the ball left the park and the crowd went crazy, we watched in silence as two fans jumped on the field and followed the new home run king around the bases. 

        Finally, one of my friends said quietly, “That could have been us.”

        We went to the Friday night game.  I even caught a foul ball that I have in a display box in my office.  But when I see it, I think about missed opportunity.   So many times life gives us an opportunity to do something great.   I’ve learned not to wait, not to delay.  I need to “Seize the Day” every day because 45 years later I can still hear those painful words, “It could have been us.”