Gratitude #3: Bob.

Every Monday for over 4 years, I called Bob on the phone. It used to be right after I put my kids to bed, when the night was winding down and I finally had a minute to myself. We would talk about the weather, or his tomatoes, or the yard sale he had been to the Saturday before. We talked about death, a lot. It wasn't a gloomy thing - we just weren't afraid to go there with each other, and it came up a lot, because Bob missed his late wife Mary very much. In fact, he never got over her.

Bob always called me "sweetie." I loved it. I loved that we were friends. I loved that he got this excitement in his voice when he picked up my phone call. Oh, the guilt I felt when I forgot to call! He would always forgive me, but I always needed a good excuse for why I didn't call. I never liked thinking about him waiting all night for my call, and so I tried to not forget often.

A few months ago, Bob moved close to me. I visited as often as I could (which wasn't enough.) I always wished I could bring him over to my house; one Friday I almost accomplished it (with the lure of lasagna, no less) but it just didn't happen. The 3.5 months he lived close to me were a gift I never expected to have (nor did anyone else who knew and loved Bob.)

Bob was my grandpa by marriage. I think it was part of what sealed my decision to marry Shane; the thought of having grandparents again was just so amazing (I lost my grandparents when I was 9; my grandpa died then, and my grandma was captive in the tangles of Alzheimer's by then, so I sort of lost them both at the same time, even though my grandma lived until I was 15.) While Bob's wife was alive, we would see them at Christmas or when babies were born or if we went south for a vacation. But it was when Grandma Mary died that we started talking on the phone each week. At some point, those conversations stopped being chats between a grandfather-in-law and granddaughter-in-law and became conversations between two friends. I loved talking to him.

When I saw him for the last time on Wednesday, I held his hand and told him I loved him as many times as I could. I tried to memorize the feeling of being loved by a grandfather. He healed something that I didn't know I needed healing while I sat there when he told me he loved me back, because I had so wished when I held my dad's hand 2 years ago when he was dying that he would magically wake up and be able to talk and tell me he loved me just one more time. It was such a comfort to know that Grandpa heard me, and that he could respond.

Bob died yesterday. His little body had outgrown his giant soul and they came to the decision to part ways. I knew it was coming, but I still have so many emotions. I will miss my friend. I will miss him calling me "sweetie." I would have loved him to continue living here for a lot longer, but I know how happy he is to be where he is. He missed his wife so much. I'm sure it was hard to be left behind by so many of his friends and family.

I'm grateful for Bob. I am grateful that I know he is in a better place and that I will see him again one day. I am grateful to have been his granddaughter. 


This is us on Halloween. I don't remember them taking our picture, but I am so grateful to the person who did.

Gratitude #2: Mary.

One of my favorite categories of blog posts is the one I call "pagan at heart." For some reason, even though the are polar opposites, I lump my pagan proclivities in with my second-choice of religions: Catholicism (I mean no disrespect for the Catholic church in saying this; I just know that if certain parts of my testimony that keep me from changing religions ever changed, and if I were looking for another religion to raise my children in, it would be there.) So part of my excitement of going to Italy was knowing I would be spending time in centuries-old churches, wandering them, seeing their altars and saints and sculptures and basins full of holy water.

I read a book a few years ago called Expecting Adam. In the course of this book, the author has some very singular, sacred experiences while pregnant with her second child, who has Down's Syndrome. There is a moment in that book where she feels actual comfort from an angel that she can't see. In that moment, her heart cries out, wanting that comfort to come from a female angel. She immediately felt a change in the persona of the angel comforting her, and she knew it was a woman. Kind of strange in our world that doubts anglic visits, but in the context of this book, I have always sort of connected with the author in this desire of her heart.

Even being a non-Catholic, I see the draw of Mary. A female presence, a mother, a woman who can intercede on our behalf to the more patriarchal line of the Father and Son. There is a softness in Mary that speaks to my soul. And while I was in Italy, I saw depiction after depiction of Mary. Michelangelo's Pieta in St. Peter's Basilica is breath-taking, and seeing it was an experience I will always treasure. Additionally, I saw many representations of her in all her stages of life.

One of our final stops was in Bologna. I was having a rough day: the immense lack of sleep from jet lag had caught up with me; I  had stayed up late the night before talking with Amy and listening to an amazing thunder and lightening storm; and I had been late for the bus and made the whole group wait for me. We reached San Petronio's basilica in the mid-morning on a cloudy day. Bologna is a very northern Italian city; the countries to its north (Austria, Hungary, Germany) had a lot of influence in its architecture. Gone were the deep-set windows with shutters that you see in Rome. Heavy Gothic arches and windows are apparent everywhere. Further, it had been days since we had toured a church; most of the smaller towns all had churches that cost money, or we simply didn't have time to tour them. So it was a relief and a joy to tour another church, and such an interesting and historical one at that (the facade was never finished, and it fell a few years ago during an earthquake that rocked Bologna. Scaffolding covers the damage and shows a representation of what the church looked like before it was damaged). My emotional state led me to a side chapel in the church (San Petronio has 22 side chapels, 11 on each side, that each have their own art, relics, and saints) that had a beautiful statue of Mary wearing a golden halo ringed with blue stars.

I sat in front of this statue of Mary and had a Moment. She was so beautiful. Her posture showed her humility, her embodiment of the Sacred Female, her love for her son and the human family that his eternal sacrifice would redeem. I lit a candle for myself (the only one I have ever lit in a church; I so love the idea of lighting a candle, of giving light and hope to the dark world around) and wrote in my journal, tears streaming down my face. It was only 15 minutes, but they were minutes that I know will stay with me for the rest of my life.

This is part of what I wrote in my journal: "I am looking at Mary. She has a crown of stars. She is so kind and has such love. It reminds me I have a Mother in Heaven who loves me."

The next day in Venice, I found a glass pendant that had a ring of blue with stars in the center and I bought it so I could always remember that moment with Mary. I have scoured the internet looking for a photo of her, crowned with her stars, to no avail (imagine: no one has yet recorded all the art, sculptures, statues, and objects in a building that has 22 chapels. Lazy internet, lol.) I want to find a representation of her somehow. But, even with the lack of a physical picture, it's ok. I know how she looked in my memory. I know the pact that she and I made together as we watched my candle light up the darkness.

I am grateful for Mary and the hope she gave me.

Italy: Getting there.

The morning I left for Italy, I was super calm, which was exactly the opposite of the way I thought I would be. I had arranged a ride with my sweet mother-in-law, and she was due to come at 5:30 am. I therefore got up at 4:30 and thought to myself as I showered: "My next shower will be in Italy!" Everything went perfect that morning - I kissed my kids and husband good-bye, packed my suitcases down the stairs, grabbed a banana, and headed out. The anxiety I had planned for was nowhere to be found, but the excitement was just under my skin.

It was so unbelievable to drive to the airport, knowing I was going to Italy, not knowing how I was going to meet my family there. Due to my anticipatory nerves, I hadn't talked my mom or sisters about what time I was planning to get there, nor checked when they would be there. I had planned on getting myself through security all alone; the moment I had waited for mentally was the one where I put my shoes back on, grabbed my bags from the plastic bin, and headed to Starbucks for a celebratory hot chocolate. Having never flown to Europe, I didn't know what to expect. But I knew 100% that there was an airport Starbucks and that my trip would start there. It was as much as my brain could handle.

It was with surprise and excitement that I heard Vonnay say as we got to the airport: "Look! There's your mom!" We had somehow arrived at the same place at the same time, all by ourselves. I hugged Vonnay good-bye and headed toward my mom, Amy, and Suzette. It was finally real! We all chatted through the baggage check, worrying if we had over packed and if we would be over the weight allowance (no one was!) and then, right after we got through security, we were riding the people-mover to Starbucks. Our visit on the bench right in front of Terminal 2 security was fun; we all had something warm to eat and drink. Vacation started!

The flight to Philadelphia was unremarkable. We read, we chatted, we slept. In Philly, we ate at a yummy place called Chickie's and Pete's, famous for its Philly cheese steaks (I had the South Philly sandwich with American cheese and onions; I picked the onions off but they made it taste soooo good.) We killed some time after eating by playing on the internet, charging our phones, figuring out how our phones would work in Europe, and buying neck pillows and then, suddenly, we were boarding the plane to Rome.

Yes! It says "Rome" on the screen behind me! Eek!

Now, before August of this year, it had been over 16 years since I had flown. I would hear people talking about flying with a sense of disdain and I would think: "But yeah, you've BEEN somewhere. Oh poor you. First-world problems, friend." But, honestly, spending almost 9 hours in the middle seat of the middle row of a giant airplane was awful. My brain refused to shut off enough to sleep, I couldn't concentrate enough to read, so all I did was eat, drink, and stare at the GPS illustration of where our little airbus was in the world. How I wished for a window seat! I did glimpse one shiny city vista out the window just as our dinner was being served; I wanted to think it was the south tip of New York City, but there was no way for me to determine that for sure (only because I hadn't figured out the GPS app yet!) I visited the airplane bathroom more than I expected (climbing over my sleeping sister to do so; how I envied her snores, because it meant she was sleeping when I wasn't!), wished I could do yoga in the aisles, and fell asleep exactly twice for maybe half an hour at a time. I am a terrible airplane traveler.

Finally, at my body's clock time of 1:00am but Rome's local time of 9:00, we arrived. I caught a glimpse of the grey Mediterranean, and rolling hills and umbrella pines heralded our way in to the airport.  Bleary-eyed, stiff-necked, and tired from traveling for 18 hours straight the real adventure was about to begin!

Gratitude 1: Home

I came to my blog tonight to start my task of writing about Italy. Oh how I am looking forward to writing about Italy - the time I spent there was magical. Amazing. So big that words don't suffice. Plus, as Frances Mayes says in Under the Tuscan Sun (which I just got from the library today - I tried to read it years ago and set it aside, but now I want to read it because I was in Tuscany!) that "A Chinese poet many centuries ago noticed that to re-create something in words is like being alive twice." I am wanting to relive those magical ten days. But not this day....

Amy's post reminded me that it's Gratitude month. I can usually be counted on to write a few gratitude posts in November if nothing else. (Oh poor neglected blog...I am so sorry! I do still love you so.)  Similar to Amy, I can't promise the whole month, but at least we have today, right? I am 100% for the month of November so far. Yay me.

With the exception of the 10 day science trip I went on in 7th grade, I had never been gone so long from home as when I went to Italy. And while I still don't feel like I had enough time to really soak all of the goodness Italy provided, it is still nice to be home. I'm not going to lie - coming home was kind of a shock: coming back to a place that has free bathrooms with a guaranteed toilet seat and the confidence that the person in front of you is 95% likely to speak English is kind of odd after a week away. Going to work for the first time felt a  lot like it did when I came back from maternity leave with my boys; I had to remind myself what I did at work. And jet lag was not kind to me - I'm still falling asleep on the couch at night when I finally sit down.

But it's nice to be home. I like sleeping in the same bed for more than 3 nights at a time. I like being back with my kids and hubby. I like that I like my life enough to be glad to be back inhabiting it again. It was a perfect time to go on vacation - right before the holidays, so that even though the super big trip that I looked forward to for almost 6 months is over, I still have Thanksgiving and Christmas to look forward to. I liked picking up my phone last Thursday night and hearing my Grandpa Bob's voice, asking me how my trip was and welcoming me home (it quite made me cry; how I will miss him when he passes away.) I liked buying olive oil and dipping my bread in it and remembering the taste of other bread and oil that I had eaten. I've loved these past few nights that I've spent reading a favorite book (The Forgotten Garden; Amy read it in Italy and I was a wee bit jealous so I picked it up after I finished my Italy book - The City of Women) instead of working like mad the way I was before my trip.

Gratitude month is one of my favorite blogging traditions. Happy November!