So close, so far away

This week marks the first time I've vacationed with my family in the Caymans since I began visiting the Caribbean for a different reason three years ago: to spend time in the little Haitian village on Carmichael Road. Since that time, I have made five trips and it has become a place as dear to me as these beloved islands I've been visiting my whole life. I've needed this time away for rest and respite and reflection after a daunting season of ministry and study. But I have been missing Carmichael especially this week.

When I first started going to Nassau, telling the kids, "We love you; see you in a year" seemed a little flat, but it was all I had and so in my quivering heart, I let it be enough. I shrank back from the overwhelming need because there wasn't space in my heart yet, space carved out by the years and the gut-wrenching stories and the deepening of friendships, for anything more. But as the trips and the years have gone by those words taste sickening coming out of my mouth. They are bile on a hot Bahamian day. I can no longer say them.

"See you next year...."

When I'll bring you a few measly snack crackers and teach you a Bible story.

When I'll come knock on your door to play for a few hours, carry you on my shoulders.

How insufficient in the face of death and rape and hunger and deportations that rip apart families.

How insufficient when my big brother, Jesus, left his perfect Home to drag me out of my brokenness. When he came to our impoverished neighborhood and paid the debt to give me a new inheritance.

How can I claim him and do nothing in the face of the brokenness I see in the little Haitian slum in Nassau?

No, these friends have become too dear only to say "See you next year."  Now I know their names, one by one. I have listened to their stories. I have been asked to take them home with me. I have seen their hell, and it demands a more valiant response. I may be small, but I have power and wealth beyond what they can dream. And I walk with a Big God.

My God says that He is near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18). That He rescues the oppressed (Psalm 103:6).

When I used to read these verses in Scripture, I don't think I understood. Not really, not in any way that mattered. I never lost sleep over whether my little friends had enough to eat, or wondering if the Bahamian government had made them orphans.

But as my heart has been enlarged little by little through their suffering, I think I am finally beginning to see. Jesus knows firsthand what it feels like to be broken, oppressed. He has absorbed the smack of cursing words spoken to a foreigner; he knows how it smarts to be rejected and despised.  He has borne for us the sting of death, has become an orphan on our behalf.

It's a profound mystery that they know Him in a way foreign to me--I with all my theology and books and lofty ideas. I am spiritually obese, feasting on the rich things of God with all too little action. He nourishes them day by day in a way they probably do not understand, but they expend every ounce, every droplet of His nearness for their survival in a harsh world. As they share their food with one another, take care of the little babies, dream of a better future, they display His nearness.

So how can I be near to Him without drawing near to these little ones He holds so dear?  These precious gems with whom he willingly identified? His Word is clear: to be made like him I must become like the least.

That directive seems hazy in a twenty-first century world, especially one in which I have such tremendous resources. How obscure that Jesus would invite me to make myself small! As I write this, I am enjoying the little luxuries of diving and rest and fish tacos and rum punch on an island not so very far from Nassau.  These are good gifts from God to rejuvenate a weary soul, not to be disdained or ashamed of. But when I let them cloud my vision and cheer my heart to the point there is no room for the suffering of the poor, I have taken giant steps away from Jesus.

Hello From Nassau, Bahamas!

Our Walnut Hill Youth team of 17 students and four adult leaders arrived here safely on Sunday morning. I know it sounds like we're really suffering for the Kingdom here in the Bahamas, but I promise--this is NOT an easy trip! In fact, out of our five WHY Summer Trips, this is the one we reserve for the most mature students because of the conditions and the emotional content.

The team has been amazing. The students are meshing so well, serving the kids at Carmichael Evangelical Church with big-hearted enthusiasm, and grabbing hold of some deep spiritual truth in the process. I'm so proud of our students and so humbled to be their leader!

Here are some pictures and a video from the week so far!

Over the next couple of days, please pray for:

-the team as we process our time here. We've had some amazing time together as a team worshiping, talking about Scripture, and asking tough questions about God's justice in the world. Please pray that each student would be open to what God wants to show him or her this week, and that each one would walk in greater boldness with the Lord.

-the safe return of Pastor Joseph, who has been in Haiti this week. We were hoping to make it to church at Carmichael for the Wednesday evening service tonight, and can only go if the pastor returns this morning on schedule!

-our students as they have the opportunity to go to All Saints Camp and visit with residents living with AIDS. It's looking like everyone from our team will have a chance to go! But visiting with the residents is heavy--so pray that our students will be able to process this well.

-our last two days of VBS. Wednesday is typically the toughest day of this trip--will you pray that every team member would have an extra measure of energy and physical strength as kids tug on their hair and ride on their backs?

-our time as a team on Friday and Saturday. Please pray that it would be fruitful time spiritually and that we'd have fun together as a team!

-the church we're with whom we're serving. We value the partnership with a local church here in Nassau so much, and it was encouraging for me yesterday to speak with Madam Joseph at length about what God is doing here. Please pray that he would continue to raise up Haitian leaders and that He would give the church favor in meeting the needs of the community.

Grace and peace!

Chelsea

Let them give glory to the LORD and proclaim his praise in the islands.

Isaiah 42:12

The Ruth Chronicles

Oh, how I've loved spending some time in five Southern states (Alabama, Georgia, North and South Carolina, and Virgina) this past month!

I'm not sure I've ever been homesick a day in my life, at least not in the usual sense. But my travels made me as close to homesick as I've ever been. I just love Southern people and the Southern pace of things. I love the weather, the sweet tea, and the accents. There's something about being down south, that puts me at ease and makes me feel at home.

So you can imagine, as I traveled I found myself feeling a bit...well, conflicted! I love my life in Connecticut, and I continue to feel a sense of purpose and calling here. Mostly, I know that God is doing a work in me. But during my time in Richmond especially, I was feeling that old familiar pull. Richmond is just home to me in a foretaste-of-True-Home sort of way.

When I picked up my rental car at the airport in Richmond after a weekend away with my pledge sisters, Chris Tomlin's newish song came on the radio. The lyrics are borrowed from the Book of Ruth--"Where you go, I'll go; where you stay, I'll stay; when you move, I'll move. I will follow You. Whom you love, I'll love; how you serve, I'll serve. If this life I lose, I will follow You." I had been prepared to wrestle a bit with the "Why am I not in Richmond?" question during my day and a half there. And those Tomlin lyrics echo so poignantly my heart's desire to always be "where the Cloud settles." It was an interesting start to the visit.

Then, just before I returned to the airport the following evening, I made one final visit to my beautiful Alma mater. As I sat in one of my favorite spots, a little academic quad where the bulk of my English and journalism courses took place, I was expectant for God to speak to me, as He had done so many sweet times before on this campus.

As I sat in that lovely familiar spot, I was looking for God to speak a practical, human answer, as in "Stay in New England for the next five years," or "Move back to Richmond next month." Instead, He spoke to my heart in a much more profound way.

I opened my Bible to Ruth chapters 1 and 2, the One-Year Bible's Old Testament passage for the day. I immediately laughed, realizing that I was going to be reading the passage from the Chris Tomlin song that had been stuck in my head since the day before:

But Ruth replied, "Don't urge me to leave you or turn back from you. Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay.

Then, I read on and these words jumped off the page at me:

Boaz replied, "I've been told all about what you have done for your mother-in-law since the death of your husband, how you left your father and mother and your homeland and came to live with a people you did not know before. May the LORD repay you for what you have done. May you be richly rewarded by the LORD, the God of Israel, under whose wings you have come to take refuge."

I can't totally explain it, but I just felt the Father's pleasure in those words. It's not informed Bible study or careful exegesis, but sometimes He just speaks through His Word like that. Call me a mystic if you like. I think it would be taking too much liberty if I tried to apply that to a specific course of action. But I don't know--somehow Boaz's words flooded my heart with peace there on that stone bench in the middle of the Jepson quad. For the first time since the start of winter, the questions about whether to go or stay ceased for a moment and I basked in God's pleasure.

It's funny, because my friend B paraphrased that same verse for me earlier this year when I was so OVER the snowy Connecticut winter. I love it when God repeats things in our lives--usually means He's up to something.

I know I'm rambling. But I guess my point is just to say, here I am. Living right here in Connecticut, where the Cloud has settled. It's tempting to try to map out all of life, to want the particulars about the whens and whos and wheres. But I think, once again, God is just calling me to rest under this Cloud--to settle in enough to enjoy His presence, but not to get so comfy that I can't pick up and move when it's time to set out again.

Nassau Recap Part I: MMF Article

So I'm a little late posting update on the trip to Nassau. And by a little, I mean three months late!

There are loads of pictures and stories I want to share, but for now, an article I wrote about one of the residents at the AIDS clinic some students and I visited will have to suffice.

The AIDS issue of myMISSIONfulfilled was scheduled to come out in August, the deadline falling just after my return from the Bahamas. My assignment was to write about the missionaries who run the camp, but summer schedules and some tension with the camp owners prevented them from speaking into the story. As I thought about my time at the camp, another missionary stood out to me as the perfect subject, even though I hadn't actually interviewed her.

Read it here.

You've gotta love this girl! Her exuberant pose mimics one I used to strike with two other bold girls I love. The first summer I lived in Nashville, Emily and her mom and I would make this pose in their kitchen whenever one of us had something difficult to do. Emily's mom had the Willowtree Angel of Courage in her closet to remind her that she could do anything--and Em and I loved it! (They purchased the courage angle for me that summer and it has a prominent spot on a shelf in my bedroom.) So here's to three amazing women of courage!

Lessons from a French Monk

As I write this, my first post in months, I'm just beginning to grieve the passing of my Grandpa Russell. It seems surreal: we only lost Grandma a few months ago, and now the tears, the funerals in Champaign, IL and Evansville, IN, the whirlwind of emotions, will all be repeated. As I was leaving the office today, dressed in black but basking for a moment in the perfect Connecticut summer sun, my mind drifted to a plane ride from Chicago to Zurich about this time four years ago.

I was headed to Perugia, Italy via Switzerland and then Rome when I met a man who shamed me in my understanding of death and dying.

He was dressed in a grey burlap robe that touched the floor, and his navy baseball cap looked out of place perched atop his shaven head. At first he struck me as Middle Eastern. It took me a moment to notice the rosary beads and cross draped around his waste in a belt-like fashion. As he slung his bag into the storage compartment, he smiled and made a joke about the small seats, indicating that he would need to get past the aisle seat I was struggling to settle into. I returned the smile as I let him pass and asked where he was from. “I’m French,” he replied, not answering my question directly, but claiming his nationality. I learned that he was a Catholic monk and had moved to Peoria, Illinois, about an hour from my hometown, to live in a monastery there. He was traveling home to France to attend the funeral of his monastery’s founder.

When I offered my condolences, he quickly replied, "For us it's not a sad thing. It's the best thing that could happen." Holding my John Piper book and my Bible, I felt suddenly ashamed. Of course! Shouldn't I, the protestant girl with all the good theology, know about hoping for Heaven?

To my dismay, he fell asleep almost immediately and our social interaction was cut short. But I shall never forget the wise monk who understood the secret of "looking for the city that is to come" (Hebrews 13:14).

I praised God for that Frenchman today as I walked to my car. There are many tears to come this weekend as I grieve the loss of my dear Grandpa in this life. But I am trying desperately to hold on to those words from the Swiss Air flight four years ago: "It's the best thing that could happen."

As Christians, we hold these two things in tension: the bitterness of losing a brother of sister in this life and the joy in knowing that the gospel has achieved its fullness in them in the next life.

The Caedmon's Call lyrics that cheered me in my grandma's death this fall put it well:

there's a Land
where our shackles turn to diamonds
and we trade in our rags
for a royal crown
on that Day
our oppressors hold no power
and the doors of the King are thrown wide

Thank you, Jesus, that you conquered death and the grave. Thank you that you are the resurrection and the life (John 11:25).

Rwanda On My Mind

My sweet friend Sarah is on mission trip to Rwanda this week and next, so I've been praying for her a lot these past few days (and of course the Pat Green/Texas On My Mind reference is in her honor!). I even made an "Africa" playlist on my Pod to listen to while she's away! I'm especially excited about her time in Rwanda because that's where my Food for the Hungry sponsored child, Nishimwe, lives! (You can find out more about Nishimwe and FH's ministry here.) Look for more of Sarah's stories from the road when she returns...

As if my heart weren't a little bit in Rwanda this week anyway (because of Sarah and Nishimwe), my roommate told me last night about the coolest story I've heard in a long time. A Furman grad she knows from college has made a documentary called As We Forgive that's playing tonight in Nashville and this weekend in Franklin about the aftermath of the Rwanda racial genocide. Apparently, the government has released roughly 50,000 Hutu war criminals because of insufficient funds to continue paying for their incarceration. But where are these men--who are responsible for the brutal rape and murder of hundreds of thousands of Tutsi citizens-- supposed to live? Among the family members of their victims, in the villages where they lived before the genocide. It is a horrific thing, but in the midst of such terrible circumstances, Tutsis are choosing to forgive. It's an End of the Spear kind of story, except instead of four families, it's many families. Reconcilliation is healing Rwanda. You can learn more about the film and its makers (and the accompanying book by the same title) here.

Immediately after I read the Furman alumni magazine's article on As We Forgive last night, I received an e-mail from my second cousin, Karen. She and her husband are in the process of adopting a precious little girl from China, and she informed me that they are considering a second adoption through a program in Rwanda! This is exciting news because I've never heard of anyone adoptiong from the war ravaged country...I think it has probably been pretty difficult in the past, so I'm encouraged to learn that perhaps God is making a way--and that my family members will be part of the process of Rwandan healing! You can read Karen's blog here.

And here's another cool tidbit: DailyCandy, an e-mail service that alerts subscribers to great deals and fun things to do in various large cities, sent a plug for Blue Marble ice cream. The NY based ice creamery is planning to open a philanthropic shop in Rwanda, of all places! Read more and donate here. (You may have to register your e-mail before you can view the link, but the e-mails are amazing, so it's worth it!)

The way God brings things to our attention is so profound to me. I'm praying for Rwanda, for His Spirit to be made known there more and more, and for eyes to see how I'm called to be a part of what He's doing.

Savoring the Riviera: Another Tidbit from Italy

Some days, I'm ready to buy furniture, get a dog, and finally be settled. Then there are days when I especially miss the thrill of living and traveling overseas. On those days, I read through my old essays and journal entries from Italy, and I realize that I'm not quite ready for a puppy. The essay that put that spirit of adventure back in my heart today is about my first full weekend abroad:
We arrived in the quaint beach town of Levanto, just north of Cinque Terre today, and I’m enchanted. I had heard the Riviera was beautiful, but somehow my preconceptions of the haunting Mediterranean prevented me from believing it could really be the “beach lover’s paradise” my guidebook described.

There’s something about all beaches that is universal, and I sensed it here even stepping off the train: the salty smell to the air, brightly colored buildings that glisten in the sun like little jewels, and—once you catch a glimpse of the water—the waves crashing upon distant crags of rock, becoming more evident as the tide comes in. A strange feeling of being at home sweeps over me, an odd phenomenon, considering I’m from the middle of the Illinois prairie.

But then, there is also something so European about this place: focaccia stands on every corner, little girls running topless into the surf, Tuscan style buildings dotting the shore behind me, rocks stabbing my feet as I wade into the water. And then I remember. This is not just a weekend escape to the beach, or one of my endless excuses to spend time baking in the sun. I’m in Italy—a whole semester to explore and to try to find myself at home here.

This past year, my writing has been more anthropological than anything. I’ve been digging through rubble in hopes of uncovering my memories. But this semester, I am writing to preserve memories, for I have learned that they slip away too easily, a ship quietly pulling away from port until it is only a white-tipped spot in the distance. This semester, a perky young teacher from Minnesota warned me when we met on the train, will slip past in the same way. “Cherish every moment;” she smiled wistfully as she gave the command.

But how to explore the all the material—the people, the emotions, the places, and the scenery—how to really capture it all on film, much less on paper? I know that I cannot keep it, anymore than the harbor can keep the ship. And yet I wish I could bottle it up to drink deeply of on days to come when life doesn’t seem so golden or the future so deliciously ripe with the unknown.
Photos (from top to bottom): an Italian girl sunbathing below the hiking trails, a Vernazza fisherman bringing in the day's catch, brightly colored beach umbrellas in Monterosso, getting ready to set out on our [very long] hike from Levanto with a weekend's worth of stuff on my back.

As the Romans Do

This may sound a little cliche--and I just hate to sound cliche--but Rome is my favorite city in Europe (Paris is a close second...oh I am cliche aren't I?!). But truly, there is something so breathtaking about walking through a modern city--with cars whizzing by and people rushing off to work--and then suddenly seeing the Colosseum or Palentine Hill. I just love the juxtaposition of the ancient and the modern.

When I lived in Italy, Rome was my hub for travel every
weekend, since it was just two hours south of my quaint little Perugia by train. Of course I adored Papa Mio, the darling Italian man whose ristorante I frequented when passing through town, and the sights: the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish steps (where great writers like Keats and Shelley sat and wrote when they came to escape the cold of London), the Vatican, and the Colosseo. But it was a trip with my history of early Christianity class--and my professor, Alessandro, who looked like a Greek god and lived in a studio on the river with his gorgeous wife--that caused me to fall in love with the tension between old and new.

We traipsed around the city with Alessandro for hours as he pointed out all of the landmarks, showed us the sites of current archaeological excavation (it is amazing how much is still being uncovered all over the city!), and told us about the architectural significance of several centuries-old basilicas. Finally, we approached the Colosseum and saw where archaeologists are digging up the gladiators' barracks. And then, from a tiny side street tucked behind the Colosseum, we entered a little twelfth century basilica called San Clemente (St. Clement's in English). The preservation of the basilica is exquisite, but what's even more amazing are the treasures that lie beneath it.

First, you make your way down a long stone staircase that leads to a house church where early believers worshiped. The Collegio San Clemente has deemed it a fourth century place of worship, but because it is connected to a large house that is still under excavation, Alessandro told us that it could date back to before the time of Constantine, when Christians worshiped in the houses of wealthier church members. I get chills thinking of early believers fearlessly worshiping the one God just steps away from the Colosseum, where they would be executed if they were discovered!

Below the middle level lies a first century house and the hall of a mysteric cult devoted to the worship of Mithra, the Roman sun god. Worship of Mithra was widespread in ancient Rome, but the mysteric cults associated with Mithra were just that--mysterious. There are few writings about practice, as the religious rites were passed to only a few initiated members. As we walked down the tiny staircase, Alessandro pointed out the cave-like room where cultists would have been baptized into the following by the blood of a bull, which was sacrificed in the room above.

All of that sounds pretty gross, but once we were back out in the crisp October air and lounging by the Tiber, Alessandro explained the significance of San Clemente's three tiers. Apparently, the ancient city is subject to reverse erosion. Instead of the earth being washed away little by little, as is the case in some cities, the sediment from the Tiber has built up over time so that the city gets a little higher each year. To preserve the city, its patrons must rebuild their homes, businesses, and places of worship every few centuries. (You can watch a brief tour of the basilica's three levels here. It takes a few minutes to load, so be patient.)

But what's truly compelling about this story is that early Christians were intent on replacing the old, pagan places with new, Christian places. They understood that at the center of the Gospel is God's constant working to make all things new. They understood that the Kingdom being ushered in was meant to replace the old earthly kingdom (2 Peter 3:13). The Roman believers represented this principle very visibly as they transformed the old into new in their city, even as they themselves were being made new by the covenant blood of Jesus.

As we prepare to celebrate our Lord's birth, some are disturbed by the many pagan roots of the holiday we call Christmas. Indeed, December 25 was chosen for the observance not because of its historical accuracy, but because that date coincides with the Roman festival to Mithra, the very same god whose worship site lies buried beneath San Clemente.

The connection is disturbing, as it shows how easily we Christians fall prey to the trappings of this world. I would argue, however, that this connection can also be a source of joy for us as we dwell on the lesson of the Roman Christians, who were eager to portray God's work in the world by physically exchanging the old for the new. To be sure, there are still many secular manifestations of the Christmas holiday. But just as it is our Jesus (and not Mithra) who is worshiped in a little basilica down the street from the Colloseum, so is He the One whose coming we celebrate at Christmas.

Let us rejoice that He is gloriously at work in the world, securing for us a "city that is to come" (Hebrews 13:13-15)!

He who was seated on the throne said, "See, I am making everything new!"
Revelation 21:5

La Pausa: Reflections on my semester in Italy

[Beautiful Piazza Italia, where I often went to write, take in the view, and think about sheep]

This week marks the second anniversary of the beginning of my time in Italy. That may sound a bit dramatic (okay, I guess it is a little dramatic), but I continue to be influenced by the things I did and saw and learned while living abroad for four months. Especially now that I am starting my first "big girl" job, going back to school for my masters, and working part-time retail, I need to remember those lessons learned in the quiet of train rides and chilly nights in my apartment. I wrote this essay in November of 2006, around the time I started to prepare myself mentally to leave my little hilltop hamlet of Perugia.

When I first arrived in Italy, the Italian culture presented a great many difficulties. For instance: how Italian women could so effortlessly climb the steep hills of Perugia in stilettos while I stumbled along in flats, or the fact that my washing machine took three hours to complete a cycle—and why, for that matter, the appliance was located in my kitchen. I gawked at Italian lovers who passionately kissed in the Piazza, shivered at the thought of a cold winter in my centuries-old apartment with only six alloted hours of heat per day, and struggled to understand how the Italian word for “flower” could be a masculine noun. After nearly a whole semester here in this foreign land of romance, cappuccino, and fine leather, these difficulties have become a part of my cultural understanding, part of the brilliant beauty of Italy, part of my college experience. But the greatest of these mysteries, the one that continues to challenge me, and the one that I still struggle to comprehend, is la pausa.

At precisely one o’clock--the only time Italians are ever on time, mind you--I stop picking up wireless from the business across the street, it’s next to impossible to find a panino for lunch, and the bright orange APM buses are overcrowded with teenagers coming home from school. Everyone hurries home from work to eat pranza, traditionally the largest meal of the day in Italy, with their families and to take a nap before heading back to work. It is as if life stands still until three or four o’clock when everyone resumes their positions, albeit the schoolchildren, who stay at home unless they’re involved in sports or music. Italians refuse to be conquered by their work, or to let it completely define them.

If there’s one thing the Italians know, it’s how to live well. They savor every bite and every flavor of a meal and rest on the Sabbath, even extending it to Monday in some cases. They’re not stingy with affection—they kiss friends, family, even new acquaintances (and not the silly air kisses; they literally kiss each cheek!), know when to spend extravagantly and when to save, treat themselves to gelato not because they’ve lost a boyfriend or need a pick-me-up, but just because, and take their time strolling down the corso or mingling in the piazza.

And so I found myself feeling, quite frankly, displaced. Not because of the language barrier, or my ancient apartment, but because I, the activity junkie, had been transplanted to the land of Cone Lickers. Yes, Cone Lickers. That’s the term Donald Miller used in Through Painted Deserts to describe the vacationers at a ranch where he worked one summer. And even though I’m technically the “vacationer” here, I have found myself surrounded by them.

I arrived in Italy expecting mile-a-minute fun and constant activity. I was determined to suck every ounce of excitement and experience I could out of these three and a half months in Europe. Despite the warning of my much wiser sorority sister, Sarah, that my study abroad experience would likely be slow at times, I insisted that I was going to learn Italian, travel the entire European continent, and get involved in ministry all over Italy. In spite of my weekend travels to far-off places, the weeks here are slow, allowing me a chance to catch my breath.

In fact, the Italian way of catching one’s breath was a cultural nuance I learned something about even before arriving in Italy. While working as a youth director in a rural area outside of Richmond this summer, I had the opportunity to attend a forum on youth ministry with seven visiting Italian Baptist pastors. On the last morning of the conference, I rushed up to Sergio, one of the pastors, to ask for his contact information. Forgetting that he hadn’t spoken English in twenty years, I excitedly blabbed about something to him. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he said in his thick Napoli accent “Chelsea, you are wonderful. But take a breath!”

I’ve been learning a lot about sheep here. Not just because they dot the Umbrian countryside that surrounds this little hill I’ve come to call a temporary home, but because I’ve been reading a book about the twenty-third Psalm. You know, “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want”? Apparently sheep are really stupid. In order to rest, every obstacle must be cleared for them: danger, hunger, thirst. They literally need a shepherd, or they cannot sleep. That’s a little how I’ve felt here: like my Shepherd had to clear every obstacle—friendships, activities, work—and bring me to the green pastures of Perugia. He has had to make me lie down in them, for I am so utterly unable to be still on my own. It’s a constant struggle even here. Sometimes I just feel unable to rest while everyone around me goes on licking their gelato cones. I’ve wanted so much to soak up the Italian culture, and yet, in stubbornness, I’ve rejected the most central part of it again and again by persisting in my quest for constant activity. But slowly, I am learning the value of slowing down and the necessity of rest. Little by little, I am learning the rhythm of pause.

No matter where life takes me from here, I shall always remember the green hills that surround this cozy little Medieval city, for they will always remind me of the way life is meant to be lived. Whenever I think of them, I’ll remember to be careful with myself, to take time to linger over a meal, to enjoy beauty and ponder truth. I’ll recall the wise lesson learned from my Italian friends: that a life lived well isn’t so much characterized by busyness or productivity, but by the intentional savoring of each day. I’ll always be thankful for this time in Italy, my very own la pausa.