New Look

I climbed up toward my “favorite” spot the other evening. (At Trevor and Rhonda’s the other evening she had crackers and cheese out, and I said that was just about one of my favorite things. “Let’s see,” said Rhonda. “I know biscuits and gravy is too…” “I would have thought Nutella was your favorite,” said Penny. I decided I have lots of favorite things.) Pretty much anywhere I can see large amounts of sky and not a lot blocking it is a favorite spot, and this was on the hill overlooking the Roman Theater, so I could see the roofs of the city center across the noise of the river in the fading light.

The theater is having a Shakespeare festival going on, like every summer, and people were starting to arrive. I found a seat on a wall with some other people who had the same idea, where we could look down into the theater from behind. I watched the people hurrying in, some pulling off motorcycle helmets as walked to the entrance. There were bikes chained up to the railing along the river.

Once the show started I couldn’t really hear, so I decided I’d rather be at home reading, and walked out, down the street, past three Japanese boys singing in acapella harmony while the Japanese girls walked laughing behind, past a pizza delivery boy pushing his pizza delivery motorcycle down the piece of street that had been closed, past a dog that nuzzled me and the motorcycle cop enforcing the street being closed, or at least scolding the man still riding his motorcycle from the other direction and telling him not to next time.

A couple of evenings later I went to a “molologo,” not knowing what it was but knowing that it included someone playing the piano and was free. The entrance was through the “courtyard of Juliet,” closed to the public, which was pressing up against the gates asking the girl standing there when it would open again. She told them tomorrow morning, but opened the gate for me when I told her I wanted to go to the show. We happy few were shown into a building opposite, to a dimly lit area back or offstage—I could barely see into a richly-adorned theater through the screen we were watching. And there was a Steinway grand, on which an excellent pianist played Richard Strauss’s op. 38, interchanging with the long-ponytailed, deep-voiced, double-breasted suit man reading “Alfred Tennison’s” Enoch Arden—in Italian prose, which left not much to know that it was Tennyson. The plot was all that was left, and it was very Romantically tragic, but I was a little disappointed, because I don't think of plots when I think of Tennyson. For once I thought Italian lacking in melody. But I had always wondered a little about that style of musicandstory that pre-dated movies, so it was interesting to get a taste of it, and understand the feeling from the music.

Now Troy and Penny are here, and it’s been fun taking them around town and seeing things from a new perspective—especially the pointing-out of things to children who’ve always lived in Mound City, Kansas. “Look, Noah, it’s a Ferrari,” “Look at the lady giving bread to the pigeon,” “Look at the dog going for a ride on the motorcycle.” They’re noticing things too—Rowen sat in her stroller, struck with the sound of the bells striking nine. “Did you hear that?” she whispered to me.

Noah gave me a Fruit Loop from his plastic cup of bounty, and the colors seemed to shine back in the pattern of houses and flowers and that man’s argyle sweater in the jewel tones one notices on days of partly-cloudy clearness when the light breaking through picks out colors with flashes of reality.

The old people here smile at them wherever they go. One lady laughed aloud watching Noah trying to find a way around a piece of wet sidewalk. The woman at the post office who helped us with their permessi oohed over them. “They’re so blond!” So far, though, no one has succeeded in getting them to say “ciao.”

The lady at the post office started out a little huffy (we’d done some things wrong) but eventually became chatty, wanting to know about where in the U.S. we were from, and why Penny’s last name was the same as Troy’s (“So women just lose their name entirely when they get married?”). We talked about differences (us having middle names on documents, but not using them generally—sometimes they have second names, but never on documents, which means that if our middle names are on our passports we have to sign everything that way here, since that’s our name). Troy thanked her when we finished, and she said, “Welcome,” then asked me if that was right, “because you don’t have ‘prego,’ right?” “Yes, it’s ‘You’re welcome,” I said, but she couldn’t every quite get it.

Troy and Penny wanted to get an estimate on how much it will cost to paint their new apartment, so we went to a store that sells paint, and asked if they could give us a general idea of how much painters charge or paint costs. “How much does it cost to go to the moon?” the old man asked me. “How much does a dress cost? You can’t ask these questions! You must be foreigners! No Italian would ever ask such a thing!” I tried to be polite, and the politer I was the more he kept yelling, so I eventually just left, wondering if all customers get this service or only foreign ones, and if so, how he makes enough to keep going. But I’m not a businessman.

bookstores are nice

I was feeling a little stressed out—like butter scraped over too much bread—and heading home down a street in another part of town. I’d seen the little room fitted with bookshelves, hardly big enough to be called a bookstore, before, and kept walking. In a place that size it’s hard to “curiosare” anonymously. But this time one of the books on the little display table caught my eye—What’s Wrong With the World, by G.K. Chesterton. And next to it—Surprised by Joy, by C.S. Lewis. And there was another Lewis book. I hate to admit it, but I think it was actually seeing the Mark Twain book that toppled me over the edge. I had to go in and have a look.

It was just a tiny room, but with ceiling-high wooden bookshelves out of my reach, classical music playing and a man and woman sitting behind the desk. She hurried forward politely in a navy-and white retro-styled dress, and offered help, but I just wanted to look. There was a shelf full of Chesterton’s works, including ones I’ve never heard of in English, and right under him was the shelf with Tolkien and Lewis. Clearly this was the Right Sort of bookstore—not like the San Paolo one that has chick flicks in the window and glaring yellow light.

The man finished his phone call and asked if I’d been introduced to the order, and quickly made the proper presentations. I expressed my approbation of the authors on the shelves, and asked if they didn’t possibly have any in English? Alas, no. But he sent me a link to a site with all of Chesterton’s works online.

The store was Catholic, and so were they, and they asked if I was, but were still very nice when it was discovered that I wasn’t, and seemed glad to hear that our group was here to teach Scripture. “If you have any good books on the Scriptures, let me know and maybe we can keep them here,” he offered. “As long as they’re good—we’re very selective.” And just to be sure I knew they weren’t prejudiced, he showed me the Bible story book that they have used to teach their own children, put out by an evangelical publishing house.

Before I left they gave me a book as a gift, on—wouldn’t you know it—suffering. I laughed, and then had to explain why. The wife was also extending a calendar toward me, but her husband said, “You know, I don’t think the evangelicals are very much in agreement with the saints,” and she pulled it back apologetically as if it would bite me, laughing a little embarrassedly.

I left feeling like I had friends.

Happenings and happiness

Yesterday I took three contradictions in energy and questions and sinfulness and made-in-the-image-of-Godness to McDonald’s. One of the cheeseburgers came back with mustard, despite our special instructions for only meat, cheese and ketchup, just to prove that some things are the same worldwide. And we talked about what if Adam and Eve hadn’t sinned and could God make himself a woman and also about how at American McDonald’s you don’t have to buy ketchup for your fries separately, and you can get free refills on drinks (the free refills, along with fried chicken, were the marvels of America that my friend Isobel from Peru mentioned when I sat across from her on the train the other day).

I took them back to the language school where their parents were studying, and waited there until said parents should arrive. “Excuse me, are you American?” one of the teachers asked. I affirmed. “Would you mind looking at this translation, just to see if it makes sense?” Which of course I didn’t. “This sentence…isn’t a whole sentence in English.” He sighed. “Well, the original was kind of strange in Italian too.” I noted that “remind” in English has to be transitive (although I couldn’t remember the term), and suggested “remind one of,” or “call to mind.” He wasn’t pleased. Evoke? “Ah, yes, that’s nice,” he said, and wrote e-v-o-c-e. I objected, so he added an h after the c before just letting me write it.

This morning I had to accompany the mother of the contradictions to the doctor. When we walked in at our turn the doctor said, “But I don’t know you.” Evidently here it is customary to be signed up with a particular doctor before being sick. The doctor gave a prescription, and added that my friend should be careful about air conditioning. “We don’t have it,” she said, and the doctor was satisfied.

The waiting room included a flyer for a medical clinic especially for immigrants, and evidently catering to illegal ones, since the tagline (in all the languages I could read, which were not many) was more or less “Here we heal you, not turn you in.” At least that’s what it was supposed to be—the English version said, “Here we do not denunce.” (Speaking of funny English, the store across the street from me is now selling “LEGGINS” for a mere 3.90.)

I went to the pharmacy to fill the prescription, which included “Brufen” (Ibuprofen), and asked the old deaf pharmacist if it was necessary to have a prescription to buy that drug. “It’s better to,” he said. It turned out to be powdered.

Walking home I glanced at the marble sidewalks (everything seems to be marble here in Verona. Even the pavement of my poor apartment is red and pink marble tile—and yes, there have been times when I was tired enough to sleep on it) when I saw a little flower of the type whose name I can’t remember. Alright, a type whose name I can’t remember. Small and colorful and spread easily, even though they’re usually planted on purpose. So I reached over to pick it and the roots came up too—I put it in with my basil bush (I’m basilsitting too, and it hasn’t died after a whole week with me!) so we’ll see how long it lasts.

Some days it’s so easy to remember grace.

Sunday Sundry

I am thankful for: Oreos! They have lost their exclusive expensive only-at-Blockbuster status and are now available in the snack machine at the train station. Yay! Although I do think it’s funny that they are described on the package as “Cocoa-flavored sandwich biscuits.” Ha!

I am thankful for libraries with air conditioning and free wifi.

I am thankful for a great big cone of gelato with whipped cream and Nutella on top at my favorite gelateria in Italy, la Slurp (“Zlooorp”) and catching-up with old friends.

I am thankful that someone turned in my purse to the front desk at the library when I went off and left it (I don’t have a problem with “Oh God, help!” kinds of prayers. They are some of our most sincere.)

I am glad for my foster cat, Pop, who even though he wakes me up earlier than I would like and has tried chewing or clawing my couch, my good dress, my necklace and earrings, my HAIR, and my teddy bear, is nevertheless a good listener and quite comfortable when he stops his clawing tread and curls up.

I am grateful for cooler weather.

I love standing at the open window of a train while it is moving. It is the best way to be involved in the countryside one is flying through.

I am grateful for the village name “Roverbella,” and the row of rainbow-sherbet-painted houses at Mozzecane (even if I don’t like that name).

Train conductors are so funnily official in their uniforms, with their hats pushed back and glasses pushed down. But they’re lacking suspenders. Maybe I should propose them to Trenitalia.

I saw a camp-out in a backyard we flew past—two tents, and a real table surrounded by children eating pizzas with real plates and silverware. Oh Italians, you are so funny and I love you.

I am thankful for storm clouds even higher than the mountains.

De-stressed

I had cookies for breakfast this morning—not even “good-for-you” cookies, just normal breakfast cookies. This is an Italian’s idea of a proper breakfast—coffee or tea and some cookies or fruit. They just about have a heart attack on my behalf when I tell them I eat eggs for breakfast.

These are some of the few cookies I will deign to dunk, since they have the right consistency for it and actually taste better with some other flavors in the undertone.

I’m not a cookie, but I’ve felt a little lately like I’m soaking in tension from all around me (maybe I need to work on my analogies). Not that I’m under particular stress, mind you, it’s just that I keep seeing stressful relationships: on other teams, in churches, between friends; and I feel like I’m soaking this all in and making it my own, and am ready to crumble. Not to mention the dread I feel when I think of the tension almost guaranteed my team in the future.

The library here has pithy sayings written up on the walls over the door. One of them is, “Vivere e’ combattere,” “To live is to fight.” I don’t know if that’s supposed to instill courage. But I’ve been feeling lately that that’s all life is: fight and fight and fight, and then we die (alone). I said this to a friend yesterday, feeling cynical and grown-up.

I should know to beware whenever I feel grown-up. There’s a reason Jesus said we have to be like little children. All of my cynicism is rooted in thinking that I’m in control; I have to carry the weights of the world alone. In acting like I think I’m God.

Most of my problems with stress, like suffering, happen when it’s not even really mine. God gives grace for the real, but not for the weights created by my imagination. He is still in control. He is enough for other people’s problems, and enough for the problems which will come in the future. He has already overcome the world. Each problem that arises is an opportunity to demonstrate His victory.

Yesterday one of the elders in my old church (yes, the one suffering many tensions) read part of Romans 8: “In all these things, we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation [in Italian it says, “any other creature”—all of these things have been created], will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

In all of my worry about fighting, I had forgotten what God told Moses: “The Lord will fight for you; you have only to be still.”

Suffer the Little Children

“Where does the sun set again?”

“Well, it doesn’t actually set…” I tried to explain, and did it poorly. He didn’t answer, but I wondered if the six-year-old brain was cogitating that grandest of all wonders: that the truth is bigger than we understand.

I remember the slow-dawning realization that our world is not the center of the universe, that we are actually spinning around in space. I remember lying in the yard, looking up at the clouds in the deep blue center, dizzy with the thought of hanging in space. I dug my fingers into the grass, in case gravity wasn’t enough to keep me here. Wonder intertwined with fear.

Fear keeps slithering into my heart. I read from so many sources about God’s goodness in suffering, and I wonder what He knows is ahead, why I must be ready to embrace suffering. I brace myself, wondering if I will be strong enough, and wish he would just give it to me and get it over with, because this dread of suffering hurts too much. “Whatever you do, do quickly,” I tell God, with the self-centered inversion of sin.

I lose myself in “what-if,” forgetting what is. Or who is.

I know suffering can be used for God’s glory. I know we must participate in the suffering of Christ if we hope to attain to the resurrection from the dead. But do I really want Him to say, “Well done good and faithful servant?” Or would I settle for a “Well, you’re done; pretty good most of the time.” Getting through life without too much glory, but without too much pain. A tame God.

He’s not tame, though. He’s good.

But Love has pitched her mansion in

The place of excrement;

For nothing can be sole or whole

That has not been rent.

(Yeats)

And here I am grateful for God’s humanity. I am grateful that even Jesus, even knowing, asked for the cup to be removed. I am grateful that he prayed, Nevertheless, in any case, whatever you decide, not my will, but Yours. What shall I pray? Father, glorify your name. And a voice from heaven answered, “I have glorified it, and I will glorify it.”

Rend the veil and make me whole.

Happy Independence Day

This morning I woke up not feeling very loudly 4^th-of-Julyish—I have my last language class tonight, so I’m skipping a barbecue with other families, and I’m afraid it’s seemed a lot like a normal day. And I am content with that, since I love my country sometimes loudly, but some days quietly too, keeping it in my heart as a part of me that doesn’t have to set off firecrackers to be there.

I admit, I did shed a tear when my homework for the day included writing a composition on the topic, “What do you miss when you are away from your country?” but it was an indulgence I could not encourage.

I don’t worship my country, as some accuse Americans of doing, but I think it is right to love it, because it is mine. I am thankful for it, as a good gift of God’s. And loving it doesn’t mean not seeing imperfections—sometimes we see more in those we love. But we love anyway, because love is a one-sided affair. It doesn’t have anything to do with the worthiness of the beloved.

Some of my generation eschew patriotism, thinking themselves to be more broad-minded and cosmopolitan. But I’ve found that loving my own place gives me the strength to love others.

C.S. Lewis learned to love more than one place. He writes of a couple of them:

County Down in the holidays and Surrey in the term—it was an excellent contrast. Perhaps, since their beauties were such that not even a fool could force them into competition, this cured me once and for all of the pernicious tendency to compare and to prefer—an operation that does little good even when we are dealing with works of art and endless harm when we are dealing with nature. Total surrender is the first step towards the fruition of either. Shut your mouth; open your eyes and ears. Take in what is there and give no thought to what might have been there or what is somewhere else. That can come later, if it must come at all. (And notice here how the true training for anything whatever that is good always prefigures and, if submitted to, will always help us in, the true training for the Christian life.)

So this afternoon I took his advice, and opened my eyes and ears. I climbed to my favorite spot, a little park on a hill overlooking Verona, still within sound of the river. The river has been brown after all the rain, but today it was green. I sat and listened to the cicadas and the birds I could almost see. I looked at the sunshine on the towers, on the river, on an orange gelato spoon someone had abandoned. And straight across the chasm of baked-earth roofs and cypresses pricking the sky I saw a cross atop the globe. When I am in the right relationship with it, the other follows. I wonder if God had that built and placed in that spot hundreds of years ago because He knew I would need the help now?

I don’t know. But he did place another cross on the earth thousands of years ago because He knew I needed it. Love isn’t about the starting-value of the beloved.

In Which Salad Changes Forms

Or, Why is it so hard to be good on Saturdays?

I woke up Saturday morning with a list of Things to Be Accomplished. They didn’t get done. That’s all. Which means:

On Friday I had been grocery shopping and bought lots of fruits and vegetables, even though I will be going out of town on Tuesday, because they looked so good, and I thought I would have the whole weekend to eat them. But I had forgotten that weekends are allergic to fruits and vegetables. Which means:

It was, oddly enough, a perfect morning for baking, and I had a hankerin’. So I tried what I now call Salad Dressing Muffins and entirely approve. I may as well enjoy having Italian ingredients cheaply available while I do. For anyone interested, I used this recipe, with a few excep-shuns:

1. I reduced the amount of sugar from 1 cup to about ¾ of a cup (and actually used agave syrup for the about ¼ cup, since someone had given me some).

2. I added a small sprinkling of cinnamon, nutmeg, and rosemary (no thyme. I never have thyme)—not sure how much. Just the right amount.

3. I replaced about half the lemon juice with Balsamic Vinegar.

4. I didn’t frost them (since they’re becoming muffins instead of cupcakes, after all), but sprinkled them with rosemary and stuck an almond in the top.

5. Yum! I recommend the frozen batter too.

And then instead of doing any of my reading or writing about Important Things, I finished re-reading Once On a Time, the only imperfection of which is that it ends (but it was complete, so I guess that can’t be an imperfection either). It was satisfying, and so I was sad with the wanting of the satisfaction that won’t end.

The End