Musical interlude

Sorry that I haven't been blogging much here lately. I'm still having some great adventures in Rome, and I'll try to catch you up with those soon.

But tonight, a confession: I'm a little homesick. And this evening, I decided to either combat or indulge the homesickness by playing some Bruce Springsteen music. There's something about the album Born in the USA. In these days of iTunes and shuffle and what have you, we don't often just start an album at the beginning and listen to it all the way through. But that album goes through all the way from the anthem-like title track, through the strange but captivating "I'm on Fire" to the never-say-die "No Surrender" and the we're-not-that-old "Glory Days," all the way back to the quiet American life of "My Hometown." There's a lot there for someone far from home to connect to.

But then, unable to resist, I took it up a notch. This started with just listening to it (I have his live albums in my iTunes library, too), but then I went and found a video--the better to share it with you. Here is Bruce doing Woody Guthrie's "This Land is Your Land," which he says is just about the best song about America ever written. It's hard to disagree with that, especially the way Bruce does it.

I'll add just one more thing. I recently read an article about comedian Jon Stewart, who was asked (among other things) about what Springsteen meant to him. I'm not going to find the exact quote for you, but the gist of it was this: "When I listened to Springsteen growing up, I didn't feel like a loser. I felt like a character in an epic poem about losers. And so somehow there was hope that it would all turn out okay."

Yeah, I needed a little Springsteen today.

Help us help NAMI

MB adding to the PeaceLove at the walk in 2010.

Every year, I do a post on my brother Paul, mental illness, and NAMI, in hopes that I can persuade a few of you either to walk with us or to make a donation to NAMI.  Actually, even more important than that, I want you to know what NAMI is, because someone you know needs to know about NAMI.  I've written before about NAMI's phenomenal Family to Family program, and about the walk itself, so I'm going to tell you another story, one that I haven't blogged about before.  (See similar posts from 2008, 2009, 2010.)

NAMI is the National Alliance on Mental Illness.  It is an organization that started in the grassroots; family members of people with major mental illnesses banded together to try to demand something a little better for their loved ones.  And now, NAMI is in every state and has parallel organizations in many other countries.  NAMI offers support and education for people with mental illnesses, their family members, and those who provide them with care.  They also do a ton of lobbying and advocacy work.

My parents got involved in NAMI in my hometown in Texas not long after my brother Paul was diagnosed with schizophrenia in 1994 (his diagnosis was later changed to schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type).  When my mom died in 1999, and later when my dad died in 2002, NAMI folks showed up in full force at the house with food, at the funerals.  The names and faces hardly registered, but I knew that NAMI people were good people.  In the months that followed, I would occasionally get an email from a NAMI person in Texas who would report to me that they had seen my brother somewhere in town, and he was fine.  It meant a lot.

About 9 months after our dad died (and right after i sold the house), Paul completely disappeared.  I was beside myself.  I was living in North Carolina, and he had last been seen in San Antonio, Texas.  After about 6 weeks, he surfaced in a hospital in San Antonio, Texas.  I learned this when a social worker, who had (miracle #1) managed to track down my phone number, called me.  I spent about 2 weeks on the phone with her trying to figure out what was next for Paul.  It's funny to think that what turned out to be such a defining moment of my life happened on the phone with a person I had never met, and would never meet.  Suddenly, I was agreeing to wire money to San Antonio so that Paul could be put on a bus to me.

I hung up the phone and googled "NAMI Durham NC."  I called another person I had never met before, a volunteer named David.  I explained my brother's illness and that, if all went as planned, Paul would be showing up in Durham in about 48 hours.  How could I get him medical treatment? Housing?  Other social support?  He had a ton of ideas for me--names, numbers, He shared some of his own family story as well.  He assured me that everything would be okay--or at least as okay as these things go when you are dealing with mental illness.  He also encouraged me to call him again if I needed anything else.  (Although I didn't call him again, and never met him, we since become Facebook friends!)

Well, Paul's journey didn't quite go as planned.  The voices and/or the Greyhound personnel kicked him off the bus in Montgomery, Alabama.  (I've never been sure what happened.  I've also realized what an incredible lot it was asking of Paul to get discharged from the hospital and get right on that bus.  It's a miracle (#2) he made it as far as he did!)  Miracle #3 was that I happened to have a friend who was planning to drive from Birmingham, Alabama, to Durham the day before this all happened.  He was delayed by a day, and was happy (he actually insisted!) to swing by Montgomery on his way to Durham (probably 3 hours out of his way).  Miracles #4-6 were that Paul was able to spend the night at a truck stop, he called me with an address, and he was actually still there when my friend showed up the next morning. (Wow, that sounded far too easy: he also called me every 10-15 minutes all night long.  Literally.  But I told him to.  I told him that if the voices told him to leave that spot, he should call me, and I'd tell him not to.  Every few minutes.  All night long.  Worst night of my life.  And miraculous, guaranteed.)  And Paul made it to Durham, a mere 20 hours later than planned.  And, thanks to David and NAMI, he saw a doctor within 48 hours and had housing first thing Monday morning.

Now, having been much more involved in NAMI, I could tell you a ton of stories of the ways NAMI, or one of their support groups or classes or volunteers, has thrown a lifeline to a person or a family struggling with mental illness.  For those of us who have mental illness in our families, it is such an isolating thing.  You want to keep it quiet, for the sake of your loved one.  But it is so healing when you realize that your family is not alone in this struggle.

The statistic is that about 25%, or 1 in 4 adults, has a diagnosed or diagnosable mental illness.  As Jeff Sparr of PeaceLove Studios likes to say, that number is high enough that 100% of us know someone who is struggling with a mental illness, whether we know it or not.

So, what do you say?  Can you walk with our team, Paul's Pals, at Roger Williams Park, at 10am on Saturday, October 1st?  Click here to join our team.  Can you sponsor one of our walkers?  Click here to sponsor my brother Paul.  (If you want to sponsor me, click here, but know that I'll be completing my 5K in Rome this year.)

The most important thing is that you file away that name: NAMI.  When your co-worker tells you her son has been having some issues, when your cousin mentions some trouble her sister is having, when your neighbor is clearly dealing with some depression.  Send them to NAMI.  It can really help.

Il Centro Storico

Here in Rome, I live in the area known as "il centro storico," the historic center of Rome.  With a few exceptions, this includes all the area that is within the ancient city walls.  I live a few blocks from the Piazza di Spagna, the site of the famous Spanish steps that somehow show up in most movies set in Rome.  I'll admit, there is something very nice about being able to walk (not more than 20-25 minutes) or hop on a bus (much quicker if the timing is good) and find myself at the Pantheon, Piazza Navona, or the Roman Forum.  It's hard to complain.

There is, however, a downside to living in such a great location.  Tourists.  The past few days, there have been a couple of times where I was trying to walk quickly from point A to point B, just trying to get through the neighborhood, and I got sort of "locked in" to packs of tourists.

Also, today, I had to go to a certain bookstore to get the books for the Italian class I'm taking.  On the way back, there were a couple of young women passing out balloons and flyers that turned out to be for a Gap store about 2 blocks from my apartment.  Now, within about 3-5 blocks of my apartment, there are stores for not only Gap but also Nike, Adidas, FootLocker, Disney, and Swatch.  I'm sure there are many many more that could be named, but I haven't really been paying that much attention.  I'm just saying, it is a little strange to go halfway around the world and realize that walking through your neighborhood isn't that different from walking through the average mall in the U.S.  Well, not every mall has Swatch or Disney.  But, if my Italian were better, maybe I'd be able to make a joke that implies that "il centro storico" is the "store center" rather than the historic center of Rome.  Except the only word I know for store so far is negozio, and the joke is lost.  Oh, well!

Maria sopra Minerva

Well, I'm already falling behind on blogging.  A couple of quick reports: I went to Mass last Sunday at St. Peter's, the full-on Latin solemn chant "smells and bells" version.  I was glad I did that ... once.  Today, I decided to go to my favorite church from my first visit to Rome, Santa Maria sopra Minerva.  Now, as if to form the complete contrast, there wasn't a lick of singing there today.  Very simple Mass.  In fact, it felt sort of like daily Mass, even though it was Sunday.  I may have to keep looking.

But I do love the church at Maria sopra Minerva, probably mostly because I love Catherine of Siena, and it seems like a bit of a miracle to be so close to her earthly remains, to light a candle, and to pray in thanksgiving for all of the wise and holy and strong women I know, and to pray that I might be one, too.  I actually knelt before her body for quite a while, entrusting friends with health crises, friends with faith crises, friends with vocation crises, to the intercessions of this powerful spiritual force.

I'll also add that I really feel a dose of "girl power" in this place.  Centuries upon centuries of honoring holy, wise, strong women in this place are palpable.  It was good to be there.

Surviving Italy without Italian

Well, I've survived my first major run-in with Italians where I really wished I knew more Italian.

My intercom buzzed this afternoon (for the first time!), and when I answered the phone, I realized that (1) the volume was incredibly low, (2) someone was talking to me in rapid Italian that I didn't have a chance of hearing, let alone understanding, and (3) I actually have no idea how to "buzz someone in" even if I wanted to. I said "no capisco" several times, but she seemed so insistent that I finally said "I'll come down." I actually heard her say "no capisco" as I hung up, grabbed shoes and keys, and ran down the four flights of stairs.

I found two young Italian women. It was actually a little funny how easy it was for me to understand the basics of what they were saying, and how impossible it was for me to communicate anything to them. They knew I had just moved in and were here to put the gas and light bills in my name. The problem is that I'm not certain those bills are supposed to go in my name. But how does someone like me (with so little Italian) explain that I think someone else is supposed to be handling this stuff with my utilities and I am not going to mess with it without checking in with them. Especially when half of my attempts to speak Italian still come out in Spanish.

I eventually made it clear that I wanted to call my friend. Once they understood that this was someone who could speak both English and Italian, they were all over it. They came upstairs and I called the office and got a quick call back from someone who was able to talk to them, tell them we weren't interested, and tell me that they were sales people and I should get rid of them as soon as possible. Which I did.

I'm glad I trusted my instincts. I was pretty sure that someone would have told me that I needed to sign up for utilities with some women who came knocking on my door if that was in fact the case.

Arriving in Rome

I'm safe and sound in the Eternal City.

I was so busy leading up to my departure, what with packing and goodbyes, that I hardly had time to process this major change in my life. It's funny. It didn't really hit me until Friday afternoon how hard it is to walk out of the whole life that you know for a year. It's funny. In this virtual world of Facebook, blogs, digital cameras and what-not, it is easy to be in relationship with people that you don't see every day. For me (like many academics), I also maintain plenty of pretty close relationships with people that I only really see at 2-4 conferences a year. I think because of those two things, I imagined that it wasn't a very big deal to walk out of my life for a year. The leaving was a lot harder than I thought.

The packing was an adventure of its own. All I'm going to do here is claim this supreme victory of packing efficiency: my two checked bags (maximum of 50 pounds to avoid overweight charges) weighed in at 50.4 and 49.5 pounds. And no, she didn't even think about charging me for that .4 pound difference.

The voyage was harder than it should have been. My flight out of PVD was delayed by about 90 minutes because of thunderstorms in Philadelphia (my connecting city). They let us know that after we boarded, so I sat on that plane for about 2.5 hours. Arriving in PHL about 6:40, I found that my connection to Rome, originally listed for a 6:15 departure, was listed for 6:45. I booked it as fast as I could to the international terminal. I arrived at the designated gate to see that my flight was now listed as a 7pm departure. Of course, it was 7:02 and there was not a single soul at the gate. I went across to the opposite gate to ask about my flight. The agent tap-tap-tapped at her computer and looked at me with absolute confidence and said: "That flight is now delayed until midnight. You should go sit at the gate and wait for an update." I took one look back at the still utterly empty gate, turned back to her and said, "Are you sure? I mean, wouldn't there be a lot of people sitting there? Can you double check?" Tappity-tap-tap. (By the way, as she taps, a couple comes up also looking for this flight. I update them.) The agent begins again, with absolute confidence, and as if nothing that preceded had happened. "I'm sorry, but that flight already departed. You'll need to go to customer service across from gate blah-blah-blah and see about a rebooking."

Sometimes, in a moment like this, I sort of wish I were another person, the sort of person who could just yell at a person and tell them what a complete and total idiot they're being. But with more expletives. But I am who I am, so I took a deep breath and said, "I'm really sorry, but you've just told me two completely contradictory things, and I'm not going down to customer service or anywhere out of sight of this gate until you can confirm that flight has left." So, someone did show up at the other gate. Now a family of 5 has arrived, and there are 8 of us. A few more trickle in. The agent informs us in no uncertain terms that the flight has left and we will not be able to get on it. The problem is, it has become clear to us that the flight is, in fact, sitting at the gate. No, he is certain it left the gate. Isn't that it? Well, yes. There were a few minutes of a LOT of confusion. All of a sudden, another agent appears on the scene. She lets us know that the flight did in fact leave the gate, but returned due to a maintenance issue. Well, we suggested, isn't that good news for all of us? You can let us on that flight and we can get to Rome basically on time and you won't have to book (what has become about) 15 seats on tomorrow's flight. There were a few more minutes of "we just don't do that ... this flight is already boarded and departed ..." And then, somehow, she was taking our tickets and letting us through.

The flight attendants were pretty shocked to see us. And I'm not completely unsympathetic. By the time we boarded the plane, the rest of the people on board had been sitting there for at least 90 minutes. And, honestly, there was some sort of poison in the air. I watched an elderly gentleman absolutely refuse to trade his seat (for another aisle seat within a couple of rows) that would have allowed the father (of the aforementioned family of five) to sit together in a single row of four with his wife and 3 kids (one a lap baby). I heard the loud (Italian) insistence: "I paid for this seat and you cannot make me move!" I thought he was a horrible excuse for a human being, but this morning at baggage claim, I talked to the mom, who confirmed that he did in fact trade with her husband right after take-off and apologize to her. Basically, he felt very deeply disrespected by the flight attendant (for the previous 90 minutes), and her tone in this ("you have to move right now to help us accommodate these people who shouldn't have been allowed in anyway") was unacceptable, too. Although I didn't hear that story until after the flight, it made sense of much to me. Everyone just seemed more on edge than they needed to be. I think the flight attendants sort of set a tone.

Then there was the boy--about 12, I'd say--who had a brother, 2 parents, and a grandfather (Poppy) on the plane. All of them were somewhere within the 2 rows in front of me, in a couple of groups. But seriously, for 10 hours, every thought, observation, question etc this kid had was communicated in a voice far too loud for these close quarters.

Anyway, it was a long flight. We actually didn't leave until well over an hour after I got on board. The good news? My bags actually made the flight, too! I gathered everything up (another small miracle of efficient packing), got some euros, grabbed a cab, showed up to my apartment, and had the guy from the study abroad company waiting for me to help me get settled.

I'll post some pictures soon, but the apartment is very nice. It's a little quirky. It's small but still more space than I really need. It has sort of a hotel feel to it (there are towels and sheets and a hair dryer). The kitchen is stocked with a few pots and pans, dishes, etc. Pretty basic, but it will work.

I walked around the neighborhood a little today. There is a grocery store very close (about a half a block down from me), and several restaurants, bars, pizzerias. I was at first too hungry and then too hot and tired to explore too much. Tomorrow!

Witness to kindness

No long apologies for the lack of blogging. But I'm sorry, and I expect to do better starting in about 4 weeks, when I leave for Rome for the academic year. Until then, it will likely remain sparse.

But here's a quick story for you, from my day attempting to get some work done in a coffee shop.

Older woman, looking for directions, very confused. Asking again and again for clarification of the obvious. She just couldn't get it. Young lady behind the counter, not more than 20 years old. Remarkable patience. Explaining again and again. More patience. I was really impressed. I told her so. Her coworker, who had approached by then, seemed to think she was TOO patient, and should have blown the woman off. The young woman said "that just wouldn't have been right; she was confused and needed help."

I was glad I witnessed this little kindness, this small evidence of a well-functioning moral compass.

Is it still Lent?

I occasionally reflect upon odd convergences (or divergences) in the two calendars that dominate my life, the liturgical calendar and the academic calendar. This week is an odd week. Liturgically, it is the first full week of Lent. It is the week of settling into our penitential practices, finding the rhythm of fitting in those things we've added or taken away to draw us in. Actually, for a great reflection on how the fasting that we do in Lent can and should lead us to put on the mind of Christ (which, by the way, turns out to be a mind of mercy), check out Emmanuel Charles McCarthy's "The Only Guide That Will Serve You Well Is Mercy."

On the other hand, the academic calendar marks this week as spring break. No, I'm not at some beach somewhere, but the interruption from the daily routine of teaching and meetings and class prep and all (welcome, welcome, welcome though it is), can seem almost decadently self indulgent. And, of course, a little added time (for instance) to go out to lunch and catch up with a friend, etc, can add to that feeling of self indulgence rather than penitence.

Add some other calendar issues (St. Patrick's Day, March Madness) and the week really has seemed downright un-Lenten at times. Of course, that has more to do with my willingness to grant myself "dispensations" from my Lenten observances in the name of these other things than anything else.

So, here's to renewed commitment and to staying focused on the more important markers of time.

Kindness, love, and unity

Through the miracle of Facebook, this poem came across my awareness today. It seems to me to get it very much right. Once you know the depth of the sorrow and loss that pervades the world, you know that without kindness, going on would be impossible.

Sometimes, everything seems connected. I'm reading this book, on the Focolare movement. I'm really struck by the simplicity of the Focolare spirituality, which seems merely to put together three basic questions for every aspect of life: (1) how can I love Jesus in the person before me; (2) how can I live for unity in this moment; and (3) what does Jesus forsaken on the cross call me to do in this moment?

These questions are pushing me to think I should be more kind and more loving. They also seem like great questions to ask during Lent.

Loving kindness, of course, is never out of season.

1984 or 1776?

Today, I found myself with a little time to wander in a Borders. Actually, I was very much looking for books to help one learn Italian, in preparation for next year when I'll be living there (and, I promise, promise, promise: blogging more regularly).

As I came upon the section on languages, two young men (14ish) sort of stopped behind me and I overheard one say, "There's totally a book called 1984." The other retorted: "No way. You can't just name a book ... a number." "It's not a number. It's the year. It's a history book, but I sort of think it's a classic." As the other guy refused, yet again, to believe this was possible, I couldn't resist. "There's totally a book called 1984. It's by a guy named George Orwell. It's not exactly a history book, but the rest is right." Oddly, they verified that it was a classic, asked me what section to find it in (if not history) and walked away.

Within a couple minutes, they were back. "Excuse me, but is 1776 a classic?" "The book by David McCullough?" "Uh... I think so." I tried to explain the difference between a piece of literature that speaks to people in a timeless near-universal sort of way and a very high quality, well-written work that reports the history of a particular event. I don't think they got it. I still wonder what kind of an assignment they had. Were they supposed to find a classic? A history book? A classic history book? Or--who knows--a math book? I really hope that they were supposed to read a history book, and I hope that they chose 1984. What would it be like to read that book as history? Would that be possible?

It still cracked me up and made me think that I should blog again. So, here I am!

A promising start

The first week of the semester is behind us.

Here's the funny thing: I really liked it. I know, people who know me know that I love teaching, so they probably don't get the strangeness here. But I usually hate the first week. I hate it, basically, because I hate teaching strangers. I love teaching when I'm into the semester a bit and I know my students and they know me. But I hate that first week, usually.

This week just felt ... different. Maybe it was that I knew at least one student in every class before going in. Maybe it was that when I went around the room and asked them little ice-breaker questions about theology, more of them were positive than usually. I really don't know. It just felt good.

And so the semester is off to a very promising start.

Rosaries and a love stronger than death

I just prayed a rosary for Chad, who passed away yesterday of a drug overdose. Chad's cousin was a classmate at both college and masters level and remains a friend, through the magic of Facebook. He asked for prayers, rosaries specifically, and I said I would pray a rosary for Chad.

Now, officially, the rosary-the-night-before-the-funeral went out with the Vatican II reforms. A very nice Vigil service has been designed. I've been to those Vigils a couple of times, organized by eager, informed priests for families who had no real sense of what should happen at/around a funeral. (I was there not as a mourner so much as parish staff.)

I remember gently suggesting the Vigil instead of the rosary for my mom's funeral. Not to put too fine a point on it: hell, no. What WE do when people die is we pray the rosary.

So, it was good tonight to pray the rosary for Chad, and to have a sense that I joined with people in something of a "virtual" collective rosary for him. It was also bittersweet to remember those losses that have hit me closer to home, but to keep plugging through, praying the same prayer.

The rosary--especially its backbone the "Hail Mary"--really is the perfect prayer in the face of death. You find yourself repeating over and over the request that Mary "pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death." There is nothing like a death to make that line stand out, and I heard it each time I said it but for Chad, for those deaths past, and for my own death coming at some future time that I don't know yet.

I know that sounds a little ... morbid, a community of death or something. But I actually don't mean it like that at all. I'm really convinced that the good news of Christ in the midst of death is that love is stronger than death, and that the way that gets best embodied for us is in the love of the Christian community in the face of death. We offer love, and prayers, and that gentle reminder that the last enemy to be defeated is death. The love of Christ conquers all.

Timely reflections?

Happy New Year!

For some reason, I've been thinking a lot about time this week: the passing of time, how I use my time, what I have time for, make time for, the ways I protect my time sometimes, only to end up squandering it.

As I often do this time of year, my thoughts turned to Auden's "For the Time Being." Usually, I'm most struck by the line about "Remembering the stable where for once in our lives / Everything became a You and nothing was an It." But this week, the lines about time have grabbed me, especially that the time being is the "most trying time of all" and the suggestion that we feel we must redeem it from insignificance.

Time, of course, has already been redeemed from insignificance, not simply in the stable Auden mentions, but in the 33 years or so that followed, and especially in the death and resurrection of the babe from that stable. (Quick parenthetical shout-out to the brilliance of the gentle inclusion of the Cross in this Christmas poem, mentioned only in the "whiff of apprehension" at the coming of Lent and Good Friday.) But, of course, that is precisely what makes the time being so very trying: the battle is won. The temptation is, then, to simply bide our time, to live in the Aristotelian city. And, of course, the challenge is to figure out how to be in the world in such a way that we know that we don't need to redeem it and yet we also know that the difference we makes matters.

I'm not sure how well I do that, but I've been thinking about what I do make time for, fail to make time for, etc, and I want to change a couple of things. I'm usually not a great one for New Year's resolutions, but it seems the time is ripe, and I want to make one here publicly: I will blog more this year. Of course, blogging more than last year would probably not be much of a challenge, so I'll be more specific. I'll aim at blogging weekly, even if something brief.

My others are, I suppose, more personal. Or, to put it another way, they don't involve any of my potential readers so directly. Suffice it to say that they involve me becoming more disciplined with my time so that I manage to do the things that I want or need to do, rather than doing the things that I sort of drift into. There are, after all, bills to be paid, machines to keep in repair, and (always my favorite!) irregular verbs to learn. There are also a number of books and articles that need me to write them. And there are some other things I would like to find a way to get done as well.

May 2011 be a blessed and wonderful year for you and yours!

Still not walking alone

For the last three years, I have captained a team in the annual fundraiser walk for NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) of Rhode Island. The team is called Paul's Pals in honor of my brother Paul, who has suffered with a severe mental illness since he was 19. (His current diagnosis is schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type.)

I wrote a very similar post to this last year, but I want to say this again: so often, I feel very isolated as the one person really intentionally involved in my brother's life. Although I have great friends who are always willing to step up and help me out, there is something overwhelmingly wonderful about the feeling of this day. I was surrounded by a bunch of friends--mostly colleagues from work and their families, with some overlap with and some additions from church and neighborhood friends, about 35 people total sporting our purple "Paul's Pals" shirts.

In addition to that, though, I had about 40 other people donate to sponsor me in the walk. I went online this morning to write down all the team members' totals, and I took a moment to look over the list of my own donors. Most of them are my Facebook friends who responded to an invitation to donate (okay, to my begging them to donate). No one could see quite what I see without my explaining it, but I can go down the list and it includes current colleagues, friends from different periods of my life (elementary school, high school, college, grad school), people I was quite close to but have drifted, people that I was never quite that close to, and a few who will always be close. Some have their own reasons to donate--a friend or family member affected by mental illness--and others are basically just doing it for me. But the point is, it buoys me to feel this support. It helps me feel that I am not Paul's only support.

So, thanks to everyone who walked and to everyone who donated. And, if you want to add your name to the list, donations are still being accepted here.

Thoughts on time

This fall, like every fall, time has a way of standing up and demanding to be noticed.

One reason this happens every fall is my affinity for Notre Dame football. Somehow or another--be it through old film during game coverage or YouTube clips posted to Facebook--I find myself watching clips of the Irish throughout history. Notre Dame is one of those places for me that seems to defy time and therefore make you more aware of it. I remember walking across campus on foggy nights (or early mornings!) and having the sense that I might get where I was going and somehow find the place 50 or 100 years before. History seemed to hang about the place thicker than the fog, in just that sort of way.

Now, I find myself on a college campus again, this time as a professor. Today was the first day of my fifth year of classes. That means that, with rare exceptions, all the students who started when I started have graduated. I have seen an entire student body turnover, in a mere four years. On the one hand, that is exactly as it should be. But a college campus is a strange space that way; people walk through for a time and are gone. It's not at all unlike life in the world, actually, except that a generation lasts a mere four years.

Of course, my time in Italy this summer is not far from these thoughts. People are so much less permanent than the space they occupy, the things they build. And something about the fall really gives me the sense of the years flying by, of the transience of this earthly life, and a hope in the "world without end" our prayers promise.

Grateful for Facebook

I sometimes find myself complaining that Facebook is a useless time-suck, but today I find myself oddly grateful for it. I logged in at some point this afternoon, and I read the following collection of status updates in my newsfeed:

An elementary school friend (one I've kept up with a bit in recent years) talking about the fact that her son, eager to head out to a day of Motocross biking, brought her breakfast in bed.

Another elementary school friend (one I haven't spoken to accept on Facebook in 20+ years) wrote about her sons in a way that I found myself saying "that's just like Leo," even though I've never met the kid.

A college friend posted a Haiku about her son's birthday party.

A friend from graduate school posted an announcement about his daughter's birth.

There were others, of course, but these struck me and made me think about a time when most people's lives most of the time were lived out within the confines of a single village, and they knew people for their whole lives.

I found myself--poor self, whose life has taken me far from my hometown--very grateful that Facebook offers me a glimpse of what it might have been like to stay home in the village and watch my childhood friends' children grow up around me.

Of course, I should also note that not a single one of the people whose status I cited above lives in the place where they lived when I knew them, so it is not simply my own mobility that is the problem. But what a gift Facebook can be in the face of such mobility.

Another pilgrim

Well, I've been home over a week, and now my nieces are here visiting, so I expect to have more adventures to share, but there are some untold Italian adventures I want to post.

I realized that I failed to tell the story of Ann, the pilgrim I met in Assisi, who was walking from Rome to Jerusalem. Side note: this is one of the joys of the hostel experience. Ann and I (and others) had breakfast together in the hostel the morning I left Assisi. Just a little of her story: she had grown up Catholic (in the UK), but had outgrown the faith by the time she was 15. She lived the next 35 years or so of her life in what she now calls misery. She said she had everything she thought she wanted, but she was never happy. Then, as a total unbeliever, she got a sudden and certain sense that she was to make the Santiago pilgrimage. She did. She rediscovered her faith and has never been happier. But God keeps telling her where to walk. She walked from London to Rome, and now she is on her way to Jerusalem. I found her pretty inspiring.

She put my own pilgrim-ing in perspective. Though I tried (cautioned by a friend of mine) to always remember the holiness of the places I visited and be more pilgrim than tourist, I know that I was both, at best. And here was a true pilgrim, driven by vision and the need to answer a call. Still, I was very glad to have my pilgrimage put in perspective in this way.

Tridentine Mass

So, now I'm at this conference on Catholic Theological Ethics in the World Church in Trent. Today I gave my paper, which went very well. But also, we had Mass in the cathedral here at Trent. The cathedral here was the site of a rather famous (in certain circles) sixteenth century Church Council that really charted the course of the Counter Reformation. It was astounding to feel the history bearing down during the course of this Mass. In addition to the ghosts of bishops past, the Mass was interesting (as is the whole conference) for the variety of language groups it included. The liturgy of the Word was principally in Italian, with parts of the homily in English, and the liturgy of the Eucharist was principally in Latin. But at some point, not only these languages, but also French, German, and Spanish were spoken or sung. Four bishops concelebrated, including the local ordinary. Really a beautiful, historic, and global occasion.

The Great Dolomite Road

Up to the north of Trento, heading out northeast of Bolzano, the mountains get pretty dramatic. The road is windy but beautiful, stunning view after stunning view. I don't think I've ever seen mountains with quite these kinds of angles. (I'll try to add some pictures when I get back to the States.) We had lunch in the quaint little town of Cortina. It was a great day. And though we got back a little later than the conference started, it turned out that all we missed was some problems with the translation technology.

Pilgrim's Last Post

Writing this from Assisi, but the meter is running....



Brief recap: when last I checked in here, I had just arrived in Florence. Spent a full day there doing the Duomo, the David, the Uffizi. Cannot begin to do justice to any of it. Still processing the beauty, the sheer quantity of art of ridiculously high quality.

Did a day trip yesterday to Siena. Prayed before the head of St. Catherine for my theological friends, especially the women who have been my teachers, my classmates, my colleagues. Had a phenomenal lunch, hit a museo, the Duomo. So much beauty and holiness through the ages.

Now I am in Assisi. Arrived by train late this morning and spent the day walking my way down from the top of the town (San Rufino) to the bottom (San Francesco). Saw most of the key holy sites in the lives of Francis and Clare along the way.

Here is my thought for the day on Assisi. The cathedral, San Rufino, where Francis and Clare were both probably baptized, was named for the first bishop of the diocese (third century, I think), who was martyred. On either side of the doorway as you enter, there is a lion, faded away by time, with a tasty Christian in his jaws. I found myself thinking that that is the kind of art that makes saints. Imagine the young Francis, who once leapt up on those lions to preach, thinking as we so often do that God wants us to be safe and comfortable. I mean, what is poverty, simplicity, and even a hair shirt compared to being thrown to the lions?

Here is one other thought that I have been having as I travel through all of this beautiful scenery. I share it here even though my Protestant travel buddy was a little scandalized. The thought is: I now see why God saw fit to move his church to Italy. It really is beautiful here. The hills, the valleys, the sunsets. Everything is amazing.

Tomorrow, I head north. Train to Trento. I cease to be a pilgrim and become a conference-goer. Sigh. I have come to love the life of the pilgrim.