Finding God in Italy

I attended mass at our local church, yesterday. Since I didn’t understand most of the words, I was left to absorb the experience. The tone of the voices, the architecture of the building, the hard, angled straightness of the pews, the faces and actions of the people.

It was a special day. Two babies were baptized. I knew this even before the service started because large family groups entered the church together, most of the women in these groups dressed up, and they tried several different pews before choosing seats closest to the baptismal font. Just like in my home church.

Elements of the baptismal ritual were interspersed throughout the service, but the part that was most touching was the actual baptisms. When the parents took the babies to the font, children piled out of the pews and down the aisle to get close enough to see for themselves. Even more interesting was that many of the adult men followed the kids. Everyone crowded close up to see two more children of God anointed into the family.

The voices of a very small choir filled this large space, carried up and magnified by the curved walls and arches.

When a father and daughter left toward the end of the service, the little girl who was maybe 10 years old, stopped and lit a candle at a small altar. Her father was already out the door, but she stood there for several moments.

Much has been written about the decline of organized religion in Europe. Maybe so. This church was far from full, and its numbers yesterday were bolstered by the baptisms. A noon mass on another day attracted only three women.

But evidence of individual and group faith is everywhere in Italy. The women who gather at the chapel on Monday nights. The small shrines on houses adorned with fresh flowers. The men and children pushing forward to see the baptism. A little girl who lights a candle.

Ciao!

Having faith, sowing hope

Four years ago, some friends began to restore several acres of prairie near their country home. This summer, as we walked the paths they'd cut through their prairie, Big Bluestem waved above our heads, the alien-looking seedpods of Rattlesnake Master peeked out closer to the ground, Yellow and Purple Coneflowers, and Wild Bergamot added bright color to the landscape. My friends urged me to come back this fall and gather seeds to spread in my own prairie. At the time, they didn't know that they would be leaving their prairie behind.

But by the time I went to gather seeds, they were packing their house for a move into town. As I walked through their prairie this time, capturing the seed heads of Sideoats Grama, Compass Plants, and a number of plants I liked but could not identify, I was overtaken, stopped in my tracks, by what I can only describe as homesickness.

My friends leaving their beautiful prairie. The coming winter. The inevitable march of time. I wanted to grab hold and keep it all in place. Hold on to what I know instead of facing the uncertainty of the future. I couldn't, of course, and I walked on, gathering seeds until my hands could hold no more.

This week, I took the seeds from my friends' established prairie and scattered them throughout my beginning prairie. Even with only a few months of prairie restoration experience to my credit, I have faith that some of those seeds will take hold - maybe next year, maybe the year after - and fight their way through the crabgrass to sunlight. My friends' prairie gives me hope for what mine may look like years down the road.

In sowing those seeds, I did what humans have done since the beginning of time, having faith that some action taken now will bear fruit in the future. I am satisfied knowing that a little piece of my friends' prairie will live on in mine.