Advent at the Airport

December – Advent

The definition of Advent denotes the arrival of a “notable person, thing, or event.” What better place to ponder this than at the airport.

“Welcome back Lynn,” is the message splayed across my phone’s screen as I sign in once again to wi-fi at the Houston Hobby Airport. How many times have I crossed the country between Tucson, Arizona and Washington, D.C. over the past four and a half years of my husband’s “temporary” employment in our nation’s capital? Long enough, I think, to have an automatic login at several airports in between!

Today, I am perched on a stool at Gate 51 in the Southwest terminal. About two hours into a nearly five-hour layover, I have had time to linger over the “All American Breakfast” at the Hubcap Bar and Grill, page through magazines at the CNBC shop, and visit the ladies’ room twice. (I like those sinks that have soap, water, and air all in one place; however, the air doesn’t work most of the time and you still have to wave your wet hands under the automatic paper towel dispensers located by the exit doors.)

As tedious as this might sound, I don’t mind long layovers. People watching remains one of my favorite pastimes. In Houston, some of the men wear real cowboy hats and it’s fun to listen to the Texas accents of the natives wearing Cowboy jerseys. During my breakfast, I was able to observe everyone around me – all while flipping through email and scrolling through breaking news. I eavesdropped on a table of businessmen enjoying morning Bloody Mary’s with their cheese omelets and discussing their days in the Army, an elderly man (in a cowboy hat) drinking a pink smoothie and reading his newspaper, a young couple in their college sweatshirts sharing a burger, and women like me, traveling alone, checking our phones, and texting family to let them know when they will land wherever their final destination takes them.

Of course, I called my husband to let him know my position on this step of the journey. Tied to his work, he will follow in my exact footsteps next week when he makes this trip home across the country for Christmas.

I got up at 3:45 a.m. EST to make my 6:05 a.m. flight. It is now 10:34 CT in Houston (11:34 in D.C. and 9:34 in Tucson MST). The clock keeps ticking. I am reminded of when I taught junior high, and my students and I were studying H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine. I so enjoyed our banter about whether time travel could even be possible. My argument – frequent flyer that I am – is that we travel through time…all the time. My time machine just happens to be a 737 Max8!

If I had to get to a point in this stream of conscious blog post, it would be to acknowledge the way time seems to expand at the airport in the sense that I have time to fill in ways that differ from everything I usually do to fill it at home. There is no laundry to do at the airport, no Zoom meeting to attend, no shopping for dinner…nothing that pulls me in the many directions of my normal days.

Here, my exercise comes from walking through terminals, and my entertainment pours freely from a book I haven’t had a chance to read since I downloaded it from the library nearly two weeks ago. I can plug my earbuds in and listen to words of wisdom from the Hallow app or learn about creative methods to cast-on yarn in a knitting podcast…all without feeling like I should be “doing” something else.

Perhaps it is because I do have time that my thoughts have found their way to contemplating Advent at the airport. I am inspired to make the connection between Advent’s literal definition of arrivals and departures to the connoted coming and going and coming and eventual coming again of Jesus. I consider this as I continue to watch people seated around me at Gate 51. There are those like me tapping at their computers and others culling through social media. There is a woman in a wheelchair, assisted to the gate by one of the guardian angels who kindly shepherd our elderly through the airports.

There is also an infant, cradled now in his grandmother’s arms, attended to by his mother who tucks a fluffy blanket around him. There are also two sibling toddlers, overjoyed at being set free from the confines of their stroller, twirling, jumping, and falling over each other like puppies while they roam under the watchful eyes of their parents.

It is in the children’s dance that I am brought back to thoughts of Advent. Their joyful laughter fills me with excitement and reminds me of the coming of Christmas. I look forward to being welcomed home by our son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren who I anticipate will be waiting when I land. We truly experience a little bit of Advent every day in the comings and goings of the notable people we encounter…even at the airport.

I have about an hour left until we board – just enough time to grab a coffee, play a Scrabble word in the ongoing virtual game I endure with my sister, and settle in to read a few chapters of that book that is probably due back to the library next week.

“The Lord is coming, always coming. When you have ears to hear and eyes to see, you will recognize him at any moment of your life. Life is Advent; life is recognizing the coming of the Lord.”

– Henri Nouwen

Discovering America at the Strip Mall

November – Ordinary Time

Certainly not as picturesque as an old-fashioned town square, the low-slung buildings that define America’s strip malls dominate our communities. Constructed from non-combustible concrete, steel, and glass, they are sub-divided into several units fronted by asphalt parking lots and tend to rob our vocabulary of words like “quaint” and “historic.” This is the reality of our modern landscape.

These commercial centers line the roads of almost every town and city in the United States and look so much alike that sometimes I have to remind myself of where I am. Daily errands require cars with spacious trunks and shopping lists that lead us to several stores at the strip mall or perhaps a visit to one of the big box warehouses we rely on for everything from peanut butter to toilet paper.

Remaining red brick and burnished wood storefronts of yesteryear are often marked on maps as weekend destinations where hand-churned ice cream and stamped t-shirts beckon tourists rather than locals.

America’s Main Streets have been replaced by strip malls, and maybe that’s okay.

A strip mall, however, is not what I pictured when my husband shared that we had plans to meet his brother at an Italian restaurant on the outskirts of Philadelphia. Other than what I would wear, my first thoughts were of a stand-alone building, perhaps a refurbished turn of the century home, located off the street in a township tucked between urban and suburban.

No, he said, the restaurant is in a strip mall connected to one of the main arteries leading from the freeway into an area near where his brother lives. Wary of my surroundings, but trusting of my husband’s refined taste, I was more than pleasantly surprised by the ambiance once we crossed the parking lot of the Centennial Plaza, walked along the sidewalk adjacent to the stores, and swung open the metal-framed door to La Voglia.

Inside, the image of where we might end up faded away. Every table was filled, music punctuated the air, and the lights were dimmed just enough to flatter everyone. Waiters performed ballet-like movements as they sprinted around each other filling water and wine glasses and taking orders. They proudly placed in front of guests an array of appetizers to include burrata dressed with pistachio pesto, mussels in red sauce spiced with chili and mint, main courses of truffle infused pappardelle, branzino and fresh vegetables, and desserts ranging from fresh fruit to decadent pastry. We had discovered treasure at the strip mall!

By the time we left, night had fallen and the sign marking the entrance to the shopping center cast a neon glow over the still packed parking lot. As we headed toward our car, I peeked inside the other stores along the way – most with doors open to welcome early evening patrons. Although we had just filled our bellies with the best in Italian food, my senses piqued in response to the Mexican spiced aromas coming from Taco Suave and Puerto Jarocho – which also showed off its international grocery items stacked on filled shelves lining the walls. I laughed when I glanced inside Boot and Shoot; who would have thought of a Western store so far from where they are usually located like in my home state of Arizona. Next door, customers peered at us over their phones and magazines while technicians offered pedicures at Vee’s Artistic Nails.

This is America, I thought…land of strip malls and so much diversity! And that is why I believe that strip malls might be okay. They have become our marketplaces. Maybe they are not as charming as the bustling stalls I have explored in Jerusalem, Israel and Florence, Italy, but they do paint a lovely composite of the people who have added the color of their individual cultures into what is truly a representative mural of our country.

Among the many photos I cherish is one taken along the street where my mother’s family once owned a bakery in Utica, New York. Next to Nicotera’s Bakery in this photo is the Utica Households Furniture Store and next to that Chanatry’s Market – all founded by first generation families in that predominately Italian neighborhood. At our family’s reunion this past summer, we drove along the 21^st century version of Bleeker Street. Although the bakery closed years ago, some of the stores remain, including the market. Others have been replaced by locally owned businesses reflecting the blended diversity of today’s Utica population.

I believe we take our modern Main Streets for granted. If my whole vision of America was based on what I glean from daily news, I would not be able to find beauty in a strip mall. I am a former journalist who is sick of journalism – yet compelled to read, watch, and analyze almost every imminent blurb that flashes on my phone’s screen. Granted, we need to be informed…but we also need to step away and look at how people have managed to navigate the complications of life as they strive to thrive and survive. Events that have torn Israelis and Palestinians apart, immigration issues in our own country, protests around every corner, fear of terrorist attacks in the name of religion…these issues are real. My faith compels me to pray; a Biblical worldview is much more hopeful than the 24/7 barrage of “breaking news.” As we navigate the streets of our everyday, I fear that we have forgotten how to appreciate what we have and who we are.

After all, most of us still frequent grocery stores for the ingredients to prepare meals for our families. We enjoy going to restaurants, walking to the local coffee shop to meet friends, getting our nails polished, buying bread at the bakery. Despite tolerance and intolerance, our daily needs inspire us to seek what has been made possible by those called to share themselves in the goods and services we consume.

We cannot take this for granted – even as we struggle to find a parking spot at our local strip mall.

Family Reunion

August/September – Ordinary Time

The three of us were sniffling and sneezing through the newest wave of Covid that is trying to tarnish the final rays of this summer. Two of us had tested positive; one of us refused to test thinking that if she didn’t it wasn’t happening! On Day 3 of our isolation, while playing a board game and reaching into each other’s contagious spaces across the dining room table, my mother, my aunt, and I realized that despite this unexpected consequence of the previous weekend’s family reunion, we truly were experiencing a positive resulting from…well, positives.

Months ago, my mother had decided she was going to her family reunion. This would take place in a small town about a half hour from our native Utica, New York, at the camp the family has owned for more than 100 years. In attendance would be the eldest remaining cousins – offspring of the 13 children of my mother’s grandparents. Several months ago, I decided I would surprise my mom and simply appear at my aunt’s house in Utica the day before the reunion so I could be with her at what may be her last opportunity to attend these once in a decade gatherings.

I landed in Syracuse, secured a ride to Utica, and then nestled myself into a hanging chair on the porch of my aunt’s house. With a few quiet agreed upon instructions to my first cousin (who I had never met prior), my mom and aunt moved from the backyard where they had been sipping tea spiked with raspberry brandy to the cooler shade of the side porch. When my mom sat down, I turned my chair.

Everyone has read novels about families that have been separated over the years not only by distance but by the dramatic events that change the path of their lives forever. That is how I have always looked at the stories my mom has shared with my sisters and me. We grew up knowing that my mother’s mother (my grandmother) had died during the birth of her second child (my aunt). My mom was only six years old. This devastated my grandfather. Because he needed to care for my mother while also carrying on responsibilities in the family’s Italian bakery, the decision was made that the new baby would be raised by an aunt and uncle who the family agreed would be able to best provide for her. As a result, my mom and aunt saw each other often but knew each other more as cousins than sisters. All the while, their lives circled and intertwined with those of their many relatives. My sisters and I have seen pictures and heard tales of mom and her cousins at the camp – sleeping on cots in the big upstairs dormer, eating Aunt Josephine’s pies, playing Monopoly on the porch, and catching fireflies. Six of the eldest were at the reunion, and I will forever remember them sitting next to each other on the couch, my mom clutching the hands of her cousins. Although their bodies bear the marks of nearly 90 years, I am sure they saw themselves as kids, piling out of the family’s bakery truck and spilling into the yard of their summer camp.

A note about the reunion: There were more than 100 relatives in attendance. The camp has been lovingly restored and easily accommodated all of us in expanded inside and outside spaces. I cherish the exclamations from Mom and her cousins as they watched a video compilation of their summer escapades. And the food…Utica is known for its “chicken riggies” and spicy “greens.” I also filled my plate with sausage and peppers, a meatball, and of course, a huge slice of Italian bread!

When I was three years old, my parents moved from Utica to Maryland and began forging the adventures that would define our own little family. Over the years, we moved from Maryland to Delaware to Wisconsin and finally, to Arizona. During our summer vacations, my sisters and I would often spend time in Utica, but mostly with my father’s side of the family. I crave the taste of Italian bread soaked in olive oil and the juices of the fresh-from-the garden tomato and basil salads my grandmother made. I nurture pots of African violets in honor of those flowers that always bloomed on the windowsill of grandma’s kitchen. We grew to appreciate the Italian culture that marks the boundaries of East Utica. Occasionally, we would visit my mom’s family, but I never met her father and many of the cousins until much later in my adult life. And for sure, until this trip, I had never known my aunt’s four children – my first cousins.

About 20 years ago, my aunt visited Mom in Arizona. They still talk about the mixed emotions that had and continue to have about discovering the tiny thread of sisterhood that has tenuously bound them together without them even knowing. Not only do they look alike, but they also share many of the same mannerisms and characteristics. The recent reunion was a chance to bridge that distance one more time.

We approached our first couple of days of Covid with resignation. We drank a lot of tea (some spiked with that raspberry brandy) and I read an entire book. In between, we prayed, we dozed, and we talked. Through the fog of my clogged ears and stuffed nose, I began to see the blessings. We had never spent this much time together. Ever.

Forty-eight hours later, we woke feeling exponentially better. Mom and I would be leaving the next day and we needed to “do” something. So, we “did” everything! This included entering my aunt’s art studio (she is a very accomplished painter) and getting creative! We had so much fun splattering acrylic paints on gelli plates, imbedding textural components and rolling our prints onto fabric. (A gelli printing tutorial from YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nAAc-5Yphu8).

While making art, one of my aunt’s grandchildren (my newly discovered second cousin) spent hours with us sharing his own amazing creative gift of videography. Seated in the sanctuary of my aunt’s magical gardens, he interviewed my aunt and my mom about their lives. I felt something begin to shift in me. I knew then that my decision to attend the reunion all boiled down to these last hours of my trip. By the time my cousin had completed his gentle questioning, we were all crying, including him. The impact those years had on my mom and her sister is profound. Their story is only one brush stroke on the ever-evolving painting of our family. The result is rich, messy, and as beautiful as the abstract art we created that afternoon. It is also steeped in our Italian culture, which in all its diverse manifestations, has etched itself deep in our souls from the moments my great-grandparents came to America in the late 1800s.

The tears we shed that afternoon not only reflect the heartaches that both my mom and aunt experienced in their separation, but also the joy of having re-discovered each other at this time in their lives. My cousin finally snapped the lens cap in place over his camera just as the sun’s waning light cast peaceful shadows over all of us. We looked at each other and decided that even though we felt better, we had no energy left to cook dinner. There is a great restaurant down the street. Did someone say “chicken riggies?”

An Urgent SOS

June – Ordinary Time

I was listening to Bishop Robert Barron’s “Summer with the Psalms” on Hallow when I sensed a tap from one of my muses: “I am like a growing olive tree in the house of God…” (from Psalm 52). Diverted by that ripple in my stream of consciousness, I then scrolled through my iPhone Notes to find a potential poem starter I had inscribed a couple of years ago and up until now had not revisited:

The olive tree
Deeply rooted in the desert of my backyard
Sends an urgent SOS
To its ancestors

What is it about olives that inspires me? In addition to my passion for eating them at almost every meal, I realize I am often drawn literally and metaphorically to the olive tree and the fruit it produces. I remember being a cub reporter on the local political beat in Tucson shortly after graduating from college. One of the stories I covered was when the county board of supervisors banned the future planting of olive trees because so many are allergic to the seasonal pollen. Judging by the thousands of trees still blooming in Tucson, the success of that decree may still be up for debate. The fortitude of the single olive tree in our backyard is also testament of this when each year it drops a bushel of olives from its branches despite its advertised “non-fruit bearing” status!

Prayers among the olive trees at St. Augustine Catholic High School

I delighted in the prolific olive trees at my former school. One year, during my tenure as principal at St. Augustine Catholic High School, I carried empty buckets into the courtyard to harvest a crop of black and green olives to share with my neighbors. We scoured the Internet for methods to cure the fruit of its unyielding bitterness. After a month of brining them in saltwater baths, we preserved them in olive oil, lemon peel, and fresh herbs. So good.

During my recent trip to Israel, fellow pilgrims remarked about my meal choices while observing me fill my plate at breakfast, lunch, and dinner with a handful of those salty jewels, which I graced with a drizzle of oil, a sprinkle of Za’atar, and a side of fresh feta. I had to increase my water intake substantially during those two weeks to counteract the salt-induced swelling in my fingers.

Photo my husband took in Crete: 3,000 year old “Monumental Olive Tree of Vuves”

It is not the simple joy of eating olives that has drawn me to the Bible and back to my poem (or not) starter. I am discovering new meaning in the Psalms, and not necessarily for reasons that could be defined as holy. I feel tuned into the way the authors – David, Solomon, Moses. Asaph, and others – don’t seem afraid to say it like it is. They recognize times and people in Israel’s diverse history that were both tragic and filled with hope. While some of their words are quite colorful, critical, and harsh about the actions of their fellow man, they also express a deeply-rooted longing for what is divine and true.

I limit myself in what I express out loud about the world, its leaders, its politics, and its problems. After all, everyone is entitled to their own opinions, and I try to be very respectful of that. Those who know me often accuse me of being “too nice.” Yet, I should not have to apologize for striving to be someone who always seeks the good in others and places high expectations on herself to model that good. That is not to say, however, that my resolve does not waiver at times. For example, these lines from Psalm 73 also recently caught my attention: “How good God is to the upright, to those who are pure of heart: But, as for me, my feet had almost stumbled; my step had nearly slipped because I was envious of the arrogant, when I saw the prosperity of the wicked. For they suffer no pain, their bodies are healthy and sleek, they are free of the burdens of life, they are not afflicted like others…They say, ‘Does God really know? Does the Most High have any knowledge?’ Such then, are the wicked, always carefree.” (Asaph).

The trunk of an olive tree at a winery & olive distillery I visited in Calabria, Italy

I cannot even remember the last time I felt carefree. When I read that psalm, I do not visualize Israel. Rather, I see and hear the news broadcast from every channel on my television. I witness the incessant “breaking” updates that flash across my phone’s screen. I cringe at the arrogance and skewed statistics barked from the mouths of those we elect to be our voices as they interrogate those who have chosen to serve their country. I cannot escape what I observe. My “feet almost stumble,” my “step nearly slips.”

But then…olives.

Olives I could not resist in the Holy Land!

I reflect on the olive tree in my Arizona backyard. I see me – still green in so many ways – in this garden of God. I observe the sturdy trunk that has thickened over the years, the fragrant blossoms persistently hanging to the branches despite being battered by desert monsoons, the gnarled roots continuing their journey outward and downward. I whisper a prayer of my own design, sending words to play among wind-tossed leaves – “an SOS” to our ancestors. Like that olive tree referenced in Psalm 52, “I trust in God’s mercy forever and ever…. I will put my hope in your name – for it is good.” Thank you Asaph, David, Moses. Thank you dear ancestors.

Conversation with AI

May – Easter

I wanted to compare an article I had written myself with one generated through artificial intelligence, so I prompted ChatGPT to draft a blog for me on my recent trip to Israel. My parameters were simple: write from the perspective of a former Catholic school educator who went on a pilgrimage. Within seconds, this latest of all headline grabbers spun a well-written account of “my” trip in “my” voice about many of the sights and wonders I experienced in “my” two-week visit to the Holy Land. Thus began my conversation with Artificial Intelligence (AI).

Compare Chat’s first sentences with the original blog I previously posted on this site.

Me: Visiting the birthplace of Christianity proved to be as disconcerting as it was inspirational. I felt like I had jumped into the pages of a book I had been required to read my whole life but still didn’t fully comprehend. As a Roman Catholic, the sacraments of baptism, reconciliation, communion, confirmation, and marriage have put flesh on the bones of my very being.

AI: As a Catholic school educator from Arizona, I have dedicated my entire career to nurturing the hearts and minds of my students. While my passion for teaching is unwavering, I am always seeking new opportunities to learn and grow myself. That’s why, when I had the chance to embark on a trip to Israel, I seized it with open arms, excited to explore the rich history and cultural diversity of the Holy Land. In this blog post, I’ll share some of my most memorable experiences and takeaways from my journey.

Immediately, I felt defensive – quick to point out that the last sentence of Chat’s first paragraph should be deleted. Just tell the story…don’t tell me you are going to tell the story! One point for me, one less for AI!

Then, I asked Chat to turn the blog into an assignment I could use with middle school students. The bot proceeded to chop the blog into manageable chunks, turn it into third person, and generate a list of questions. While I might have edited the pronouns, I’ll give this point to AI…I used to spend hours scavenging for ideas to help me develop engaging assignments for my students.

AI assignment: A Catholic school teacher from Arizona recently visited Israel to learn more about the history, culture, and religious significance of the region. This trip allowed the teacher to visit important sites for Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, as well as experience the beauty of the Israeli desert and the Dead Sea.

During the trip, the teacher visited Jerusalem’s Old City, where they felt a deep connection to their faith while standing inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. They also visited the Western Wall, where they saw Jewish worshippers placing handwritten prayers into the ancient stones. In the desert, the teacher learned about the resilience of the human spirit at the ancient fortress of Masada. Finally, they experienced the serenity of the Dead Sea, floating effortlessly in its mineral-rich waters.

Throughout the journey, the teacher engaged in conversations with locals, fellow travelers, and tour guides to gain new insights and ideas. They plan to use these experiences to inspire their students to develop a global mindset and a lifelong love for learning.

Questions:

Name two religious sites the teacher visited during their trip and explain their significance.
What was the teacher’s experience at the Dead Sea, and why was it important?
Why do you think engaging in conversations with locals and fellow travelers was valuable for the teacher?

Optional Activity:

Imagine you have the opportunity to visit a foreign country with a rich history and diverse culture. Choose a country and write a short paragraph explaining why you would like to visit that country and what you hope to learn from the experience.

This entire conversation with and about AI evolved over lunch with one of my former students who now lives and works in Washington, D.C. While my husband and I chatted with him across the table over wood-fired pizza and a tossed salad, I reminded him about our first encounter about a decade ago at St. Augustine Catholic High School in Tucson, Arizona. It was my first year at the school. He was a junior. He came to my office inquiring about an online Latin class he might take in lieu of the on-site Spanish classes we offered. Less than 10 years ago, accredited online classes were just becoming viable options for students searching for curriculum beyond our course catalogs. I called him my “test pilot.” Little did any of us know how vital online learning would become over the next several years.

“And now,” I said to him, “we have artificial intelligence. Enlighten us.”

Apologizing to us for taking his phone out at lunch, he said it would be easier to show us some examples rather than trying to explain. And just like that, we had the blog post on Israel, the middle school assignment, and before we could get a refill on our iced teas, we also had a Shakespearian sonnet based on the blog:

Upon the Holy Land our teacher flew,
From desert sands of Arizona’s clime.
To learn of sacred truths and stories new,
In Israel, they ventured for a time.

In Jerusalem, where ancient echoes ring,
The teacher stood within the hallowed place,
Where once our Savior’s cross and tomb did cling,
And felt connection to His love and grace.

At Western Wall, the prayers of faithful rose,
And in the desert’s heart, at Masada’s peak,
Resilience of spirit our teacher knows,
And Dead Sea’s waters gentle solace seek.

So read this tale and ponder questions wise,
For in these words a world of knowledge lies

Okay, that is kind of amazing! Another point for AI!

How many more plays could Shakespeare have written if he didn’t have to concentrate so hard on the syntax!?

While I could easily feel intimidated – even existentially challenged – by this technology, my educator mind has kicked into high gear. It is true that students are probably “writing” everything from five-paragraph essays to AP compositions with ChatGPT, but this may finally be what we need to inspire a huge shift in how we teach and learn. Imagine using AI to assist students in their research and then assigning those students to act on what they have found through a performance-based assessment. Think about generating examples of thesis statements and asking students to debate the effectiveness of those samples. Instead of spending two weeks on “how to write a thesis statement,” we can now potentially re-direct that time into developing, supporting, and refining the thesis. And when it comes to iambic pentameter…the possibilities are endless! How many more plays could Shakespeare have written if he didn’t have to concentrate so hard on the syntax!?

Of course, there are negatives and positives – certainly fodder for stories circulating by the dozens in news and social media. There are and should be debates on ethical use of AI and beyond-the-Jetsons (remember that television show?) implications of a society potentially manipulated by non-human forces. I have participated in the information revolution since joining the career force during the late 70s. AI is re-igniting my curiosity.

In my heart of hearts, however, I believe that AI will never destroy humanity’s greatest gift – the one that allows us to nurture and build relationships with one another. We do this by embracing our God-given talents that will always include hands on expressions through the arts and sciences. If isolation during the pandemic taught us anything, I hope it is that while we can physically survive without each other, we need human connections to bring dimension, meaning, and purpose to our lives.

To all my students, especially those who have reached out over the years since their graduations, I say thank you for allowing me to learn from you too. God created an amazing machine when he made us…there is nothing artificial about that!

Easter Bread

April – Easter

Shortening or butter? Whole milk? Dyed eggs? Mom’s recipe or one of the Italian bakers on YouTube? These are the conversations my sisters and I have each year as we – each in our own kitchens – carry on the Holy Week tradition of making Easter bread.

I made my bread the other day using Mom’s recipe that originated in the family’s bakery where she grew up in Utica, NY. Being me, I modified it slightly by incorporating softened butter instead of shortening and almond milk in place of cow’s milk. I am known in the wry circle of my sisters to intentionally start with a proven recipe and then to change it up – just a little. (Most often I do this because my pantry is missing an ingredient and I am too caught up in the moment to stop and go to the grocery store.)

What never changes, however, is the magic that happens when you melt a couple of teaspoons of yeast in warm water and add it to flour. When my hands are kneading dough, all is right in the world. I am momentarily connected by simple ingredients to what has nurtured humanity since the beginning of time – bread.

Tradition says our braided Easter wreaths represent the crown of thorns Jesus wore at his Crucifixion. Tradition also says the addition of an egg tucked in the nest of dough reminds us of the Resurrection, rebirth, new life. Some bakers braid their bread into the shape of a cross; others form it into loaves. Just like the recipe itself, our traditions bear the marks of individual bakers while uniting us with each other in the physical act of working the dough…and waiting for it to rise.

Following my trip to the Holy Land earlier this year, my perspective of the Lenten season has taken on a new dimension. I have walked the same streets Jesus walked on a journey that culminated in the transformation of his own body into the true bread of life. In quiet moments, I feel his presence as he kneads the dough of my life – loving, patient, often stretching me in different directions, and sometimes letting me rest as I continually seek to know him better. I am saddened by escalating violence in Israel. My heart aches as the television beams in images of worshipers attacked in their churches and of rocket fire streaking across man-made borders that continue to separate the rich cultures that define the Middle East. We have all become witnesses to another chapter in the complicated story of a land where perhaps some of the original “yeast” of our human history first began to bloom.

This year, my family will not be together for Easter. One sister is in Nevada. Another is in Italy where “Pane di Pasqua” is called “Cuzuppa” in the dialect of Calabria. Our mother and another sister are in Arizona, and I am in Virginia. Despite the distance between us, texts and Facebook videos keep the kitchen conversations going – along with our annual Easter bread stories. How did you keep it from burning on the bottom? Did you use sprinkles or colored sugar to decorate? Did it turn out fluffy or a little dense? Mom, did you really use oat milk this year? And…don’t you just love it toasted for breakfast!

Happy Easter.

Bambinelli

December – Advent

In 1969, a mere nine years after I was born, St. John Paul II instituted the Advent “Blessing of the Bambinelli” when children are invited to bring the baby Jesus from their nativity sets to the altar for a blessing. This sweet celebration provides a visual connection, especially for our little ones, between home and church as we all prepare ourselves for one of the holiest days of the year.

Last Sunday, at the conclusion of Mass at Holy Rosary Church in Washington, D.C., the priest motioned for parishioners to participate in this very celebration. I was so touched as I watched not only children, but also many of the elder members walk toward the altar, each clutching the precious centerpiece of their family’s nativity scene.

How is it even possible that I had never witnessed this blessing before? I continue to be astonished that after six decades of life I can still be surprised by what I don’t know – especially when it comes to Catholic traditions.

Holy Rosary has become our church away from home as we continue to travel between Arizona and Washington. According to its history, Holy Rosary was established in 1913 as an “Italian” church where immigrants would be welcome to a parish that nurtured their spirituality while also keeping their Italian culture alive. To this day, one Mass each weekend is said in Italian, and the parish is home to a robust school where children and adults learn and practice the language and culture. We felt welcomed the first day we walked up the steps and into the church artfully filled with murals and statues of the Blessed Mother and Holy Family. Sun pours through stained glassed windows and into the church, which is styled in the form of a medieval Roman basilica. After Mass, we usually walk next door to Casa Italiana, the church hall, to visit with friends (and sip espresso) before going our separate ways into Sunday and a new week (https://honoringmary.cua.edu/index.html%3Fp=7121.html).

I have been to churches in Indonesia, in Canada, in Mexico, and in Italy. No matter where I am, I find deep meaning in experiencing the Eucharist even when I don’t understand the words. I am fortunate to speak enough Italian to communicate, but I certainly do not grasp every word and nuance. This forces me to listen in a more focused manner to the readings, the Gospel, and the homily. The music at Holy Rosary is spectacular, and I now feel comfortable singing along, relishing the musical syntax of the Italian language as I try to manage a host of vowels tripping across my tongue!

The manger scene at Holy Rosary Church, Washington, DC

Years ago when we were stationed in Naples, Italy, I looked forward to holiday visits to churches throughout the city where “presepi” depicted the Christmas nativity. These elaborate scenes include townspeople, shepherds, animals, magi, musicians…and of course, the Holy Family. Presepi are not limited to churches; they can be found in store windows, piazzas, and in alcoves tucked along several of Naples’s narrow, meandering streets. One of my favorite places in the world is what we Americans call “Christmas Alley” located along Via San Gregorio Armeno in Old Naples. There, craftsmen and vendors make and sell pieces for the presepi. I have several in my own Nativity set at home.

I am a believer in sacred moments. While I am a little embarrassed that I had not heard about this nativity blessing before, I think this must be the year I was meant to learn about the Bambinelli. We are spending Christmas on the east coast instead of our desert southwest. We will not be watching our grandbabies opening their gifts from Santa, and I won’t be making pounds of pasta and dozens of cookies for the family dinner (although I did make a scaled down batch of Italian butter cookies for friends here). On the other hand, my husband and I will be together and able to spend quality time with our Philadelphia family and friends. I have placed a small manger scene on a table in our Virginia apartment. On the kitchen counter, I have a rosemary plant shaped like a tree that I bought at Trader Joes! There are even a few ornaments hanging from the scented branches. I thought I would be sad, yet, with each passing day, I find myself experiencing the Advent journey toward Christmas from a fresh perspective and with a quiet joy I did not anticipate.

When we got home from church last week, I went to my computer to discover a bit more about the tradition of the Bambinelli blessing. I found Pope Francis’s blessing for this year:

“And now I will bless the ‘Bambinelli,’ the little statuettes of the Infant Jesus that you, dear boys and girls, have brought here and then, returning home, will place in the Nativity scene. I invite you to pray, before the creche, that the Nativity of the Lord will bring a ray of peace to children all over the world especially to those forced to live through the terrible days and darknesses of war, this terrible war in Ukraine that is destroying so many lives, and so many children. I wish you all a blessed Sunday and a good journey towards the Nativity of the Lord.”

Buon Natale.

Evolution of a Tree

December – Advent

Rooted securely in my mind since childhood is the maple I planted and nurtured from seed to sapling to tree in our front yard in Easton, Maryland. Up until we moved from the Eastern Shore when I was in sixth grade, that tree served as the background for what would become many of my formative memories – a favorite nesting place to read, a live scene on the set of our neighborhood skits, a second base in kickball games, a place to gather with friends to have serious pre-teen talks about growing up. No matter how many times I have moved to new states and countries, knowing that tree was there has been the foundation of my definition of “home.”

My tree is gone.

We recently had the opportunity to spend a weekend in St. Michael’s, a picture-perfect bayside town located less than a half an hour from Easton. As we drove along Route 50, my husband responded warily when I asked him to turn left at an upcoming intersection. He has this way of raising an eyebrow when I ignore the GPS and assume I know where I am going. (I call it exploring; he calls it getting lost.)

We turned onto Dutchman’s Lane, made a right at the next street, and pulled into the driveway of one of our neighbors who I knew still lived next door to our former house. While it seemed much smaller than what I remembered, our two-story Cape Cod looked beautiful. Current owners had added shutters and a rich coat of blue paint. Trimmed shrubs and summer’s faded marigolds filled the front garden – vestiges of our original landscaping. I remember the lingering smell of those pungent blossoms that our father assigned us to pluck from their stems once they had lost their golden vigor. That non-allowanced yard duty was at least a little better than picking mushrooms from the backyard that would sprout overnight after a humid rain.

When the tree (at the right of the photo) was just a few years old! Check out all those marigolds…and the station wagon in the driveway!

I looked up into the two dormer windows on the second floor and pictured shadows of my sisters and I playing in our shared rooms. How many days did I spend at my built-in desk, writing and drawing and sometimes doing homework as I daydreamed while peering out of those very same windows? I remembered my turtle, Mr. Sassafras, who lived for a while in a terrarium I kept on my desk along with various creeping charlie ivies, spider plants and other “stuff” I collected back then. I imagined the breeze that would flutter the sheer curtains bringing a welcome breath of cool air into our room as we talked and tried to settle ourselves to sleep after heated summer evenings of playing marbles and catching fireflies.

My sisters and my parents occasionally have had the opportunity to visit friends in the old neighborhood. Through photos, I saw my tree grow from its (and my adolescence) into maturity, branches reaching higher than our house, its trunk thickening almost humanlike over the years. But now, my tree is gone, a bald round patch in the grass the only sign it ever existed in the first place.

My husband stayed in the car as I walked up to our neighbor’s house and knocked on the front door, something I had done probably hundreds of times in years past when I would ask if my best friend could come out and play. I had already planned to meet her and her daughter for lunch, but I thought it would be fun to surprise her and offer a ride instead. Nearly 50 years older than we were back then, our hug transcended time. The lines between past and future dissolved. We are moms and daughters, neighbors and friends.

“What happened to my tree?”

“I think it got sick. They had to cut it down this past year. You can see how big that spot in the grass is. ”

“I am so sad.”

All I could think of as we got into the car to go to lunch was that maybe the grass would not ever cover the spot where my tree lived. Could there still exist a tiny seed of life that might push itself up through the ground again? Probably not, but that’s where my defiant thoughts went anyway.

Just a few days after we got home from our weekend trip, I chanced upon this Bible verse from 2 Corinthians Ch. 4:16, 18. Honestly, it startled me out of the contemplative funk I had been fighting about the passage of time, life, death…and trees. “So we do not lose heart. Though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed every day…for the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” Maybe a little girl lives in our old house now. Maybe she will find a whirlybird helicopter pod one day and ask her dad if she can plant it. She will point to a perfect spot in the front yard, bury the seed, and water it every day knowing intuitively that if she believes, it will grow.

Heavenly Highlights

December – Advent

I was just about to click “purchase” when I saw the bold face message above my order advising that I had already bought this book eight years earlier in August 2014. Perplexed, I reached for my Kindle and searched my library. 2014? I had to call my mother.

“Mom,” I spluttered into the phone, “that book, the one we are supposed to read before we go on our trip to the Holy Land… I already own it. Apparently, I have also read it. I have absolutely no recollection of ever buying it, yet alone reading it. I was the Principal at St. Augustine then. Were we doing a book study? I honestly can’t remember.”

“It’s a long book,” she laughed. “You might want to get started now – again.”

My mother and I are going to Israel at the end of January. In anticipation, our Bishop, who is leading the pilgrimage from the Diocese of Tucson, suggested we read Jesus: A Pilgrimage, by Father James Martin.

I am not sure whether I feel awe or intense anxiety when something resurfaces that I have buried in a file folder deep in the back of my mind. Have I finally reached an age when I forget more than I remember? Or is this yet another reminder of my humble place in a universe that was created way out of my existential control?

So, I begin reading (re-reading). Within pages, I am startled by various highlights and notes I must have made during my first experience with this book. I tend to be compulsive about annotating text. This helps me interact with what I read, and often inspires me to deeper learning. Even in digital works, I continue to annotate while also believing I will probably never go back and see my notes. Normally I do not. Until now.

One of the first highlights I bump into comes in the second chapter in which Father Martin writes about Mary and her “yes” to a future she cannot begin to comprehend. He says, “God begins a conversation with Mary, as God does with us, breaking into our lives in unexpected ways…. And we think, why am I feeling these feelings…? This is God beginning a conversation.” I like that thought. (I highlight it again.) Maybe God is picking up the threads of a conversation He began with me eight years ago when I downloaded this book for the first time.

Mary embraced God’s request without understanding why she was chosen to do so. I had also highlighted the next sentence or so in the same chapter that mentioned teaching: “We accept a position as a teacher and our lives are changed by our students. More simply, we say yes to God and are completely transformed.” Okay, that makes sense; I had most certainly been reading the book from the perspective of an educator. And I have undoubtedly been transformed by my students in so many ways.

As I continue to read, I latch on to not only Father Martin’s spiritual and theological reflections, but also his observations as a tourist to the places he visited that are also on the agenda for our upcoming pilgrimage. I enjoy his very human response to the congested traffic, the hotels and convents where he stayed, the crowded buses, and lack of signage along the roads. I have a need to know this as I contemplate which shoes to pack, the winter weather in Jerusalem, and how many dollars to convert to shekels.

Next, I encounter this: “God meets us where we are…. In other words, God comes to us in ways that we can understand and appreciate, even if only partially or incompletely.” I wonder what compelled me to underline this before. Today, I read this phrase through the lens of eight years of hindsight. I never would have thought then that I would be where I am today as I travel back and forth between home in Tucson and my husband’s workplace in Washington, D.C. I am mostly retired. I am a grandmother. I knit hats. In addition, I recognize my tiny position in a vast global world that God sees in its entirety – a place where we have all been so weathered and affected by the pandemic, tumultuous politics, and moral issues that test our faith in so many complicated (perhaps Biblical) ways.

According to my Kindle, I am 20% into my current journey through this book. I downloaded a hard copy of my previous notes just in case I am inspired to jot down a few other thoughts along the way. While I don’t re-read books very often (there are too many others to read first), I am blessed with time to prepare for this pilgrimage, especially during Advent when all of us are called to look anew at what we have experienced before and to look ahead at what is to come through the transcendent life of Jesus.

This leads me to one more quotation from Father Martin’s book: “There is one person in a variety of times, the past informing the present. God is at work at all times.” I think about this while swiping my finger across the bottom of my Kindle to turn the page. I sense the Holy Spirit reading alongside me, nudging me to discover and welcome more “heavenly highlights” along the way.

Note: Quotes highlighted are from Jesus: A Pilgrimage by Father James Martin (Kindle edition, published March 2014)

The Road to Oracle

November – Ordinary Time

Less than an hour from our home in Tucson, Arizona where we have lived for more than twenty years, we took a right turn. I glanced over at my son who was driving. It was 6 a.m., and we were on our way to the Town of Oracle where he was set to time the Oracle Run, a 5/10K race that was marking its 40^th year on this “sky island” perched at about 4,500 feet at the base of the Catalina Mountains. I am not a runner, but after years of being a track mom, I continue to volunteer to assist when needed. I was also looking forward to seeing our daughter-in-law and grandbabies when they would meet us an hour or so later.

“Why have I never been on this road?”

My sister, also in the car and preparing to run the 10K, sipped her Starbucks coffee and noted that I should prepare myself to step back in time and simply enjoy the morning. She first ran here a couple of years ago and came from Phoenix the night before to participate in this iconic race in this equally iconic town.

I have lived in nine states and two countries and have traveled through several more on various adventures. But just then, as has happened a few times in my life, I was physically steered away from a road I have driven many times and onto another that significantly jostled my perception of where I have always lived, worked, shopped, and eaten. How could I be so oblivious to potential experiences hidden “just around the corner” from my established routines?

“Walk around and explore Mom,” my son advised while he was setting up his timing equipment. “Everything begins and ends in the museum over there,” he said, pointing to the weathered ranch-style building with a huge wrap-around porch adjacent from where we parked. I knew he meant that the race’s base camp had been set up at the entrance of the museum, but as I discovered, there were lots of beginnings and endings to explore up the wooden steps and through the front door.

The museum is operated by the Oracle Historical Society and is housed in what used to be the Acadia Ranch, built in 1882 by Edwin and Lillian Dodge. It not only served as a boarding house and guest ranch, but also as a tuberculosis sanatorium. According to information posted on the museum’s website: “It was at the turn of the last century that Oracle gained international fame as an ideal cure for those suffering from ‘consumption,’ the name given to tuberculosis and other lung afflictions at a time before penicillin. After an article was published in the leading medical journal, many came to Oracle in the belief the fresh air would restore them to good health.” (There is a wealth of information about the museum, history, and culture of Oracle to be found on the museum’s website: https://www.oraclehistoricalsociety.org).

Each room of the inn opened my eyes to not just time gone by, but time eternal. The first room was dedicated to a mixed display honoring the tradition of Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). Photos of family members were interspersed on tables laden with colorful representations of papier maché food, painted skulls, sheet draped ghosts, and lanky skeletons. Perched against a wall was an unrelated sign outlining Mine Rules dating back to the early 1900s from the nearby San Manuel copper mine.

The adjoining rooms led to a kitchen, dining hall, sitting area, and guest quarters, complete with a metal framed bed and assorted medical instruments for those in treatment for their lung ailments. I couldn’t resist lifting the heavy kettle from the kitchen stove and trying to put myself in place of those who came before me. The best part of this museum is the ability to touch and feel the history – hardly anything is locked under glass, including shards of pottery that date even further back to when the Hohokam and Apache settled in the area a thousand or so years before the inn was even conceived.

I wandered the grounds surrounding the main building and discovered the ranch’s tack room and icehouse. In the time before the starting gun fired, I found a quiet spot on the porch to sit and enjoy my own cup of coffee. I have always loved those gliders that go back and forth on rusty springs. I filled my lungs with the cool morning air and completely understood the healing energy to be found in this mixed climate of desert and mountain currents. I marveled at a landscape that not only nurtured cacti, but also pine trees.

I didn’t run the race, and I honestly didn’t help my son with any of his timing duties, but I did rack up nearly 5K worth of steps running a “race” with my three-year-old grandson and guiding our one-year-old granddaughter over the bumps in the road she toddled over. I felt totally justified in buying the t-shirt!

Proud of my sister for winning her age group in the 10K and just as proud of my son for timing with no glitches, I thanked them both for inviting me along. “Glad I could help,” I said, acknowledging their eye rolls with a smile.

I felt revitalized not only by Oracle’s healing breezes, but also by the gift of being nudged, via a right turn, toward a new road on my own personal odyssey. There are so many treasures to discover just “around the corner.”

Note: So what is a sky island? A sky island is defined as an isolated mountain range separated from other mountains and surrounding lowlands of a different environment – such as a forest surrounded by desert. There are several examples of these sky islands in southern Arizona and northern Mexico. (Find more information at https://skyislandalliance.org).

I Wait for Rain

October – Ordinary Time

“Each night before we go to sleep, we read a book or two, say prayers, and reluctantly close our eyes to the day. Thank God, the sun comes up in the morning and we can begin again.”

-Welcome to the World Journal, September 1993

Our son had just turned four when I wrote those words at the tail end of my journal entry. How can it be that the sun has traced its pattern across the horizon more than 10,000 times since then? My four-year-old now has a wife and two precious babies. Each night, they nestle themselves on the bed with an assortment of books, say their prayers, and set a clock that shuts it eyes when the lights go off and signals a new day when it is time to “wake up” (at an appropriate hour)!

Thirty years after I tucked my baby into bed, I still say my evening prayers, always beginning the way my parents taught me when they tucked me in: “God bless mommy and daddy, grandma and grandpa and everyone else.” Sometimes, I add, “P.S. Please let it rain.”

I am a woman of the desert. My days usually begin with light creeping under the window shades that I leave partially raised so I don’t miss the dawn. I bask in the dusty pink-orange rays of promising light, whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for a new day, and make my way to the kitchen and espresso pot. I stubbornly admit there are mornings when I gather the covers around me and secretly harbor tempestuous thoughts, ones that defy the predictability of the golden star’s eternal creep through my windows and into my half-closed eyes. Perhaps this is my imperfect attempt to slow down the passage of time, a desire to settle into a soft comfort of cloudy gray – one that blankets me like an old fleece and allows me the freedom of deeper thoughts and memories.

I wait for rain.

I should have been a meteorologist. In addition to being a fan of the Weather Channel, I spend too many minutes scrolling through the MyRadar phone app searching for colorful masses that predict an elusive weather pattern. I watch for a blip on the screen that could potentially snake its way up the Baja Peninsula, across the international border, and over the craggy Sierra Nevadas as highs and lows collide, gathering energy into a cloudy fist whose only outlet will be to burst open and replenish the cells of the dehydrated saguaro and my thirsty soul.

Our family lived in Yuma, Arizona for a few years during our son’s elementary days. Yuma is cradled into the southwestern corner of Arizona and often records some of the hottest temperatures in the nation. We would escape to San Diego when we craved a more moderate climate and a sandy beach adjacent to the Pacific Ocean. When we could not leave, there were afternoons we would drive through the carwash and pretend it was raining for a few minutes as the water pelted the roof of our automobile! Our subsequent move to Tucson included a pool in the backyard where, come rain or shine, the water is always there for us and for the families of mourning doves who stop by for random sips of refreshment in “their” pond.

As I write this, I am in Virginia, miles from my desert home. I spent the morning paging through old journals for a project I am compiling. (That’s where I discovered the letter to my son and the idea for this reflection!) Needing a break from my laptop, I put on my oversized University of Arizona sweatshirt to go for a walk. I glanced out toward the patio of our apartment (our home away from home during this stage of life). It was raining, the remnants of horrible hurricane Ian whipping its tailwinds up the Atlantic seaboard on its way out to sea.

So much for lofty thoughts filled with too many adjectives. I had known it might rain; I just thought it was coming later. God always answers my prayers further prompting me to take advantage of this particular weather pattern! I tied my shoes, grabbed the umbrella, and pointed myself in the direction of the Potomac River. It might be nice to see how the geese were holding up on this unusually cool and wet day.

There weren’t too many people on the trail; however, the ones who were smiled as I passed, secretly sharing their own needs to experience a day without sunshine. Only half-trying to avoid puddles, I simply put one foot in front of the other, not really thinking of anything. That, in and of itself, proved therapeutic.

All morning, I had been pondering the passage of time (and several of the old journal entries I had decided to toss in the trashcan.) Walking, I slowly let those thoughts go. I subconsciously began to focus on my immediate landscape – leaves succumbing to autumn, fat acorns that crunched as I stepped on them, dots of vibrant color in the defiant blooms of summer’s final flowers, a turtle perched on the one rock not submerged by a rising tide. And the ducks and geese – quite impervious as they glided along the shoreline.

I silently conversed with God as I continued, experiencing peace punctuated by a darker thought as I selfishly drank in the aftermath of this hurricane, knowing how others continue to suffer the eye of that storm. I allowed myself to be a conduit of both the light and the dark.

The breeze shifted and the temperature dropped a degree or two as I turned up one of Old Town Alexandria’s cobbled streets and headed home. It was still drizzling and there was not even a tiny sliver of an opening in the dense clouds.

I wait for sunshine.

Home again and at my keyboard, I reconcile myself with the grace of this day – one that I know I will have to reluctantly close my eyes to later this evening. “Thank God, the sun comes up each morning and we can begin again.”