Pesky Doubts

There is always a point in the preparations where doubt creeps in.  Before heading to Peru, I worried that I had not packed what I needed, that I had nothing to teach, that I was naive.  Before flying to France, I nearly panicked at hearing the airplane announcements in french. Before traveling to Ireland, I was terrified at the thought of losing myself along the winding roads, Before running away to Spain for the first time, I was simply tired of being alone. Before heading to Thailand, I was afraid to never be alone again and before wandering back to Spain to find Santiago, I worried that I was not strong enough... In all cases, I was right.. and wrong. 

In Peru, thanks to a pick-pocket, I learned that I could survive for six weeks on $200. I also learned that the best way to pass time is to go on a chocolate eating binge with  giggling orphans. In France, I learned that it is always right to follow love because even if it doesn't work out, the lavender still smells lovely. In Ireland, I learned that getting lost is half the fun. In Spain I learned that there are friends to be found everywhere. In Thailand, I learned to embrace colors and chaos, and while walking across Spain to St. James I learned that one is never too weak to be lifted up or too strong to be humbled. 

I am in the doubting phase of my preparations right now. I am making endless lists and packing and packing again. I am studying maps and languages while trying to decide on daily stages. I am attempting to prepare for every possibility yet still feeling like a student headed to a final for which I haven't even begun to study. And all the while, I know that as soon as my feet hit the ground, my well laid plans will scatter on the wind.  With Hanuman around my neck, Saint James pushing at my back, Italy under my feet, the Mediterranean always to my right and Saint Peter as my lodestone, I will walk. 

Details.. Oh, the Details!!

My husband and I will be leaving in a week for Europe, where we will visit Genevieve (with whom I shared many adventures on the way to Santiago.) On June 29th, my husband will head back to our lovely Chicago and I will begin walking from Nice, through Monaco, into Italy and onward to Rome in an effort to discover Italy while raising money for Almost Home Kids.  

As I have mentioned before, Almost Home Kids is an organization close to my heart because as a young girl, I witnessed my little sister's fight to live and I watched my mother cope with losing a child. I saw first hand the effects of a family fracturing as a result of the chaos, strain and eventual hollow quiet of caring for a little one whose time was fragile and far too short. However, years later as I walked through the Chicago doors of “Almost Home Kids,” I saw another possibility for families such as mine. I saw refuge, love, laughter, hope, calm and normalcy. I saw an organization that provides education and support to families stretched to their limits. I saw a place that cares for medically fragile children by not just seeing to their physical needs, but also by feeding their need to simply be children. 

So, as I pack my tent, restring my ukulele and prepare to put one foot in front of the other (for a very long time..) I ask for your support for all of the young angels at Almost Home Kids! And for those of you who have already donated... You have made my step lighter. You have some serious good karma coming your way!! Thank you so much!!

To Donate...

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/1000milesorbust/hiketosaintpeter1000milesorbust

And for more info on this amazing organization...

http://almosthomekids.net 

How do I tell her that she can't come :(

And the next Pope is...

A couple thousand years ago, Jesus gathered his apostles together for a passover meal. Feeling the crushing inevitability of fate, he lifted the bread, broke it into pieces and passed it around. "Take this bread and eat for this is my body given up for you." I imagine his hand shook as he reached for the cup of wine, sweat beading on his brow as the weight of the world settled upon his very human shoulders. "Take this cup and drink for this is my blood which is poured out for you.  Do this in memory of me."  I wonder if his eyes watered with sadness as he watched Judas slip from the room or if his face was lined with weariness as he looked upon Peter. For that very night, Judas would betray Jesus, handing him over to the Romans and before the next morning Peter would deny he knew Jesus three times.  And as for Jesus.. "He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried; he descended into hell; on the third day he rose again from the dead; he ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of God the Father almighty.." (Apostles Creed)  In the physical absence of Jesus, Peter would become the head of a baby Christian church, our first pope.

For countless generations, stories, descriptions, and artistic renderings of the last supper have been handed down, the most famous being the da Vinci painting above. As the catholic church splintered into countless branches during the reformation, the ceremony of wine and bread took on different forms. My first encounter with "communion" took place in a tiny Baptist church one Sunday every month. Each person would take a broken bit of a cracker from a plate being passed down every pew. Then everyone would receive a dainty shotglass-like plastic cup halfway full of grape juice. Together everyone would chew and sip the body and blood of Christ.  A few years later in a Pentecostal church I watched as a loaf of bread was torn into small pieces while contemporary hymns were played on amped instruments and people loudly praised Jesus with raised hands. Shortly after this, I went to a catholic mass with my best friend's family, only to discover that the grape juice was actually wine (at this point, I should have known that I was destined for catholicism..) In college, I was a hired musician for a United Congregational Church of Christ. One Sunday, as I clumsily stood in front of a slightly horrified congregation with the crimson blood of Christ liberally soaked into my powder blue choir robe, I realized that perhaps I should acknowledge the clear sign from God to abstain from communion. 

After university, I took a leap of faith, left my little town and moved to Chicago. I rented a tiny garden apartment, moving to a neighborhood in which I knew nothing and no one. One Saturday, out of boredom and loneliness, I wandered around the corner for an evening mass at the local catholic church.... and I never left. I became a choir member, a cantor, director of the youth choir, and a wedding and funeral singer, but more importantly, I became part of a warm community, I became a friend, I became loved.  

Sister Barb, a nun out of habit, is a tiny old woman with a stubborn biting humor and a slight leaning towards irreverence. Sister Barb heads up St Gregory's social care ministry, taking gifts and meals to the area poor and sick. She runs the Friendship Club, a group of retirees who meet for friendship and camaraderie, She organizes an annual golf outing, helps with weekly bingo, offers quiet comfort at funerals and likely does a thousand other things of which I am unaware. She appreciates a good wine, enjoys card games and has a slight issue with foul language. (My husband and I had joked about hiding the reading she was to give at our wedding in order to prompt a quiet "Oh, Shit.." to cross her lips from the pulpit.) Upon receiving a gift, she feels the need to immediately reciprocate.  And she gives tiny unexpected gifts, telling exactly what they are as she hands them over.  She can't stand the hymn 'Amazing Grace,' and has frequently threatened to haunt us if we dare to sing it for her funeral and when I finally decided to convert after 8 years in the church, Sister Barb stood in as my sponsor.  On a weekday afternoon in a empty peaceful church with sunlight streaming through the stained glass, I was baptized, with Sister Barb next to me. Absentmindedly blowing out the candle representing my eternal soul, Sister Barb was horrified upon hearing Father Paul's dry "Well, so much for symbolism.."   

Months later, my husband and I stood in the parish center, making copies for the youth choir, when Sister Barb walked in preparing to visit a sick parishioner. "All I have to take with is frozen breadsticks and whiskey.. Do you think that is ok?" she asked.  My husband came back with a smile and a quick, "would you like to visit us?" Sister Barb takes communion to those in the community who, for any number of reasons, can't get to mass and it was with her that I received communion for the first time as a catholic and since my college, stained choir robe debacle. And each week as I am pulled in for a powder scented kiss on the cheek, I come to understand that thousands of years of faith rests not on the grandiose gestures of cardinals and popes, but on the quiet humble shoulders of Sister Barb and those like her who came before, those who see what needs to be done and simply get to work.  In her imperfect perfection lies divine grace.

Countless pilgrims have descending on Italy in recent days, including our very own St Gregory Choir, scheduled to sing at the Vatican on St Patty's Sunday. (Don't ask why I am not with them... I refuse to answer gracefully as it was my own foolish choice..) The eyes of the world are currently on Rome as our Pope Benedict steps aside and preparations begin for the next Pope. People pause in their daily lives to observe history in motion; tiny generous nuns, mothers and grandmothers, teachers and lovers, all with the hopes of two thousand years in their hearts.   The world waits as 115 cardinals gather behind closed doors to elect the next leader from among themselves... 

But wouldn't it be truly miraculous if the very breath of God engulfed all in its wake, whispering softly into closed off hearts and ears. Chaos would ensue within the conclave, shouts would be heard, fists would shake, men would rail against God's true design while others in shock would simply stare off incredulously. Days of bitter struggle would pass while those involved would fight desperately against the inevitability of the Beloved's desire. But eventually stubbornness would give way to bemusement and snow white smoke would billow free. Crowds would press near, drawn by Peter's wildly pealing bells and a charged silence would follow. 

"Our next Pope is...    

(the world collectively inhales..) 

 ..Sister Barb!!" 

Who are we to set parameters around the Divine?

Well.. next time, perhaps..

I have many miles to walk till I reach Peter and our new Pope Francis, but with each step I am able to take, I feel the blessing of a beautiful earth beneath my feet.

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/1000milesorbust/hiketosaintpeter1000milesorbust