My Pilgrimage to Assisi
Before Ruth’s pilgrimage to Assisi,
Ruth and her companions visited Rome.
Friday - May 7, 1982
Farewell to Rome, en route to Assisi.
There is a bus strike on, but our bus takes off only one hour late.
Our route, I understood our guide, Maria, to say, is taking us along the Apennines, the Tiber River Valley bordering on Tuscany, into Umbria.
We have our morning devotions on the bus as we ride along.
We are driving through groves of olive trees. They are disappointing to me. I don't know what I expected. The trees are small and it is not the season for blossoming, and since they have to flower before they can bear fruit — no olives. The leaves are very small and are dull-gray in color and dusty looking. Maybe I'm like Jesus and his fig tree.
Scattered patches of fog hover across the landscape. They look like smoke rising up from the forests we are passing by.
Every now and then we pass a residence which looks very old.
We are passing some hills that have a blue tinge and it reminds me of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. We see what looks like a big castle high up on a hill, but Father says it is a walled town. The thought of Gubbio comes to me, that walled town where the people retreated to safety inside the walls to get away from fierce Brother Wolf.
Now we are going by mountains, or big hills. Umbria has a lot of spas, they say, which are good for kidney and gastric disturbances; scotch broom, with its yellow flowers are all about. They grow profusely in Scotland, hence the name; they last two months, May through June.
The roads are good, though narrow, and we ride through many tunnels.
The countryside is neat and clean and planted in precise rows with something that is nice and green but hasn't grown big enough yet to be identified. This neatness is in contrast to the littered Roman parks.
Italian is a melodic and expressive language, except when the people excitedly erupt into a barrage of machine-gun words, all talking at once.
The soil all through here looks very dark and rich.
Gubbio. Buon giorno, Brother Wolf.
We stand outside the house where the wolf lived for two years after St. Francis "converted" him, along with the inhabitants of the town.
There is a little church built over the site of this house. So many of these very small "churches", I would think, could be classified as chapels.
The wolf was buried nearby. His bones were exhumed in 1900 — his skull, jawbones and teeth.
The church is called San Francesco della Pace. It was built in 1505.
Assisi.
As we approach Assisi, we see it high up among mountains. We arrive in the late afternoon to the place where we are staying.
It has been cloudy and rainy. We are travel weary and are glad to settle down to dinner, which is: hot cheese soup with the ever present chopped pasta in it, but it was hot and good, and was followed by veal, fresh carrots and peas, and the Italian specialty, apples.
Saturday - May 8
The window here near the dining room, down a few steps and across a small hall looks out over Assisi. Charlotte Kennedy, my companion, and I have a small room located up high on the second floor.
The view is superb. It gives one the ethereal uplift of St. Francis standing here and gazing across God's beautiful hills with trees and sky and birds; old houses and churches and narrow, winding streets.
Here we look down into gardens quite far below us. The roofs of buildings are tiled, one-time brick-colored, but now faded by time into browns, tans, pinks, corals, colorful and appealing.
Far below in a square is an enclosed garden and within the garden there are smaller trees, one of them white with blossoms. Right below are several elderberry trees in bloom.
To the right below, in a thick clump of tall treetops can be seen the tiles of a little roof, but the building to which it belongs is lost somewhere in the thick trees.
Father Kenan, our guide and tour director, said Italy came to life in the celebration of the 700th anniversary of Francis' death in 1926.
Paul Sabatier, the great biographer of St. Francis, although not a Catholic, was, Father said, a member of the “Fourth Order” of St. Francis.
Pope John XXIII proclaimed Francis patron of Italy. Later, Catherine of Siena was made patroness of Italy.
There is a small chapel on the grounds of our Hotel Europa. It is very old, with old stone walls and arched ceiling. There are two long (8 feet or so) old paintings hanging on the wall on the left, one of St. Francis and one of St. Clare. In some of these ancient pictures, the artist has elongated the faces so that they look as though squeezed in until they lengthen and narrow.
St. Clare's bare feet attract my attention. Her first and second toes are a good inch longer than her big toe.
Some mornings we have devotions in this chapel, and sometimes Mass in the evenings. We wear all available sweaters, jackets, rain coats, shawls, layer on layer, because it is bone-chilling, cold and damp in there, but such a nice atmosphere of sanctity and peacefulness and freedom from the fret and worries of the world.
We visit the Church of St. Stephen which was built around the year 1000.
These very small churches are really chapels to pray in. The Blessed Sacrament is present here in St. Stephen's. On the right and left-hand wall is are old paintings of St. Francis, while in the middle is a painting of the Madonna and her small child. The child is looking up at Mary with an expression on his little face that says quite plainly, “I love you to pieces.”
There are quaint, narrow streets that rise and descend in this hilly country. They are scarcely as wide as our alleys at home. You walk along hugging the wall, while hearing a buzzing behind you and a car, or even a bus as they shoot by. Watch out! The drivers seem to have a sixth sense as to how close they can come to you without hitting you. Watch your step; too, because it is rough underfoot — old stone, "paved" streets with ups and downs to ensnare an unwary foot.
Plaza del Commune & the Temple of Minerva.
All that remains of the original building which dates from Roman times are the weather-beaten columns across the front. Down in the crypt inside is an old church dating from 200 BC. Down here it smells like a cellar, musty and damp, in some places workmen are shoring up the walls with big wooden beams. There are some antiquated sarcophaguses that are astonishingly well preserved. The figures sculptured on their sides tell stories of wars and chariot races and seemingly untouched by time.
The old columns out front, however, look somewhat corroded and weather-beaten. This structure belongs now to the Third Order Regular, who are the caretakers. This old church here is simply a place of historic interest.
Pigeons in great numbers swarm about the Plaza, being especially fond of the vicinity of the Temple of Minerva. The bell tower there was added 100 years after Francis' time.
The fountain in this Square has two lions back to back, each spitting out water endlessly. This fountain was built before the time of Francis for the convenience of travelers, who gathered there and stopped to rest, to cleanse themselves, and to drink, and a place for them to water their horses.
This afternoon we are going to the Bishop's house which is very interesting. There is a church, Santa Maria Maggiore, and the Square in front of it is where the Bishop held court and where Francis stripped himself of everything worldly, including his father, Peter Bernadone, and then took to himself God Almighty as his only Father, henceforth, at which he could have declared as did St. Paul, " I live, no longer I, but Christ lives in me”[1]
Back in our hotel, and looking down from this second story window, we see that it is still cloudy, rainy, and foggy, as it has been since we came to Assisi, so our view out across the town hasn't been very good.
But we do get enough of a glimpse, a hint of what Francis saw, and we get a feeling of what he must have felt when he himself gazed out across the landscape, a feeling of the vastness, the overpowering beauty, the comprehensiveness and oneness of all CREATION with its Creator.
The colors of the houses here run to oranges, browns, tans, pinks, even khaki, ochre, brick, and rust. They give a sense of solidity and strength.
Every now and then I come up with a sudden thought. Such as: God be praised for Sister Moon, who spills her light across the earth. God be praised for the Moon's twin sister, St. Clare, whose light has preceded us down through the centuries to our present time. She is the “candlestick of holiness” burning before the altars of the Lord, irradiating our lives, our thoughts and our awareness of God.
Francis and Clare suffered here in Assisi, in this beautiful land where one is chilled to the bone by the tomb-like cold in these unheated structures, all of which is so alien to our pampered, taken-for-granted heated establishments. Thank God for an abundance of warm blankets on our comfortable beds here in Assisi.
Charlotte called to my attention that the Roman museum with the ancient sarcophaguses is located in what was the crypt of St. Nicholas Church where Francis went with Bernard of Quintavalle and opened the Mass book three times in quest of an answer to what they should do.
St. Nicholas Church was at the market place in the Piazza del Commune and it now is used as the Post Office. Behind this is the building said to be the house of the Bernadone’s where Francis lived and in which Charlotte, Ruby, another companion, and I had our Hermitage experience. I remember what Father Aden said, that Sunday morning when we were there, "If you put your hand on the wall at the left as you enter this place you will be touching the outside wall of St. Nicholas Church.
Sunday - May 9
There is a wicked wind this morning. It is dark and is raining. My thoughts are caught up in the howling wind. I hear waiting and moaning and weeping and it is unsettling because it makes me think of lost souls crying out in the eternity of despair.
Where, I wonder, was Francis in a storm like this?
Was he in a cave, all by himself?
Did he feel God in the wind?
Did he feel helpless before it, like Peter and the Apostles in the boat in the storm on the Sea of Galilee?
Did he cry out, “All praise be yours, my Lord, for Brothers Wind and Air, fair and stormy.”
The wind is wild — Lord I fly to you.
You are my Rock, my Fortress, my harbor too.
Though storms shriek all around me I do not fear;
At my feet, though fast asleep, my Lord is here;
For Nature's ways, dear God, my thanks to you;
For rain and sunshine, too;
When wind and sea are rough or calm
And earth should quake and invoke a psalm.
I know we can count on peace and constancy
Together with you, eternally.
Amen.
We walk in the cold and wild wind this dark day to the Church of St. Nicholas. This church was started in 1138, built right over a reservoir that was 1000 years old at that time.
We climb up the rough stone streets to the Cathedral of San Rufino. In this Cathedral is a baptismal fount where Francis and Clare were baptized.
The Cathedral stands at right angles to the home of St. Clare. Her home strikes me as out of place as the abode of Clare, a lady of high-born nobility. The building looks dingy, but that is understandable because it is so old. To me it looks bare and flat-walled of yellow bricks or stone, with a few windows to relieve the monotony.
I would think a lady of Clare's nobility would have a home with a more elegant air, But that's just my opinion. Its dignity lies in its oldness which in itself is worthy of reverential respect, because it is still sturdily standing there after all these centuries, just as St. Clare is spiritually alive after all these years.
As we walk back over the uneven, slippery stone streets, so very narrow and quaint, I am acutely aware of how rugged the walking is in Assisi, any way you look at it. I can imagine Francis laughing as he slipped and slid in the thickly falling snow, as he walked with Brother Leo and somewhat breathlessly teased Brother Leo about what was perfect joy, going on and on until Brother Leo cried out, “For God's sake, Father Francis, what is perfect joy?”
For us pilgrims, I might say, it was, after Mass and dinner this night, taking a HOT bath, and then tumbling in among our nice warm blankets. Ah, perfect joy. You'd better believe it!
Monday - May 10
We are going this morning to the house of Pietro Bernardone. There is a little church nestled in it, Chiesa Nuova. This building is reputed to be the home where Francis lived in his youth. Another building not far away is also said to be his home. We will talk more about that later.
We step gingerly down into the cellar where, in a little stone-walled and ceiling room we see where Pietro Bernardone and his son, Francis, are supposed to have sold the cloth to the wealthy and noble citizens of Assisi, and it is where Francis, one day, in a fit of impatience at being interrupted while he was animatedly doing a selling job on one of the customers, sent a beggar packing when he approached him for alms.
Thinking about that in this small room I had no trouble visualizing Francis, suddenly realizing what he had done so distressed him that he rushed forth, out the door and down the narrow winding street, his eyes searching, searching as he ran; grabbing an arm here and a coat sleeve there, peering into the faces, only to run on again, until finally he caught up with the right fellow. With a sheepish grin, he thrust a handful of coins into the grubby hands of the astonishment beggar. The begger sidled away and finally with a quick rush took off, looking furtively back over his shoulder, fearful that Francis might change his mind and take the money back.
In this little church, the Chiesa Nuova, Father Kenan said Mass for us (imagine having Mass right here in the Bernardone home). There is a stained glass window showing a young, slim Francis, wiry looking and eager, with bright eyes, and kneeling at his feet begging for alms is the above mentioned beggar. Also at Francis' feet, happily I spied a dog and a cat and two white doves; all praise be yours, my Lord, for brother dog and sister cat and doves!
In the Chiese Nuove, while we were at Miss, I kept looking at a large reproduction of the San Damiano Cross which hung behind the altar. It seemed to me the arms outstretched were real flesh and blood arms superimposed on the crucifix. It was an optical illusion, but a very happy one.
While we were walking down from the Bernardone home, laughing and singing (and very fittingly, I thought.) three young men came tripping down the narrow street, and I was struck by the thought of how young Francis did exactly this same thing with his companions in the middle of the night, maybe right here in this very street, so long ago.
Tuesday - May 11
It rained during the night. It has rained off and on every day we have been here in Assisi. Mornings are chilly, foggy, and there is a dampness indoors as well as outdoors. Perfect joy! Which means it does not daunt the determination of a group of Franciscan pilgrims.
Our destination this morning is the great basilica of Santa Chiara. This church is erected on the site of the old church of St. George, which was where Francis went to church and where he was instructed in the Catholic Religion when he was a boy.
In this church, the Basilica of St. Clare hangs the San Damiano Crucifix from which Jesus spoke to Francis, "Francis repair my church which you can see is falling into ruin."
The crucifix was moved here from San Damiano church when the Poor Clares, who had lived at the Monastery at San Damiano for centuries, in fact since Francis installed them there, moved to the newly constructed Monastery adjacent to Chiesa Chiara. This is where we are exploring today.
An interesting fact is connected with the plaza of this huge basilica, from the time of St. Francis.
It was in this square, then in front of St. George's church, that Bernard of Quintavalle, with Francis at his side, distributed his possessions to the poor. And, while they were doing this, among the crowd that had gathered with outstretched hands was the priest, Silvester who had, earlier, sold at very little cost to Francis some stones for rebuilding San Damiano. Silvester approached Francis and reminded him of that. Francis was taken aback but seeing the priest's hand outstretched, he thrust a handful of money into it. Francis was chagrined and hurt by this act of the priest, but had great satisfaction and reward later on when Silvester shamefaced and repentant came to him and asked to be allowed to join them. Francis' hurt turned to joy. Father Silvester was the first priest to join the Brothers and he became one of the very holy ones who often were rapt in deep contemplation with God.
Also in Santa Chiara rests the uncorrupted body of St. Clare, which can be seen in a glass case. Her face, the only part of her body not clothed in her habit, has become chocolate brown in color over the centuries.
This afternoon we undertake the long, steep walk down-down-down to San Damiano Church. Praise be for Brother Sun who put in an appearance to brighten the Assisi landscape. We had Mass so beautifully at 4 PM in the little crypt chapel under the church that Francis restored. After that we explore the surroundings.
We see the very simple, almost bare choir stall where Clare and her Sisters gathered for hymns and prayer. We see her small garden and are touched by its simplicity which is in keeping with the “Little Plant” of St. Francis. One can well imagine how he loved this little spiritual flower of God, this holy Clare — a perfect feminine complement to his masculine saintliness.
We go quietly (one almost feels like tiptoeing) into the refectory of the Poor Clares.
An interesting account of these and other features of San Damiano are covered, with beautiful pictures, in the book, "Assisi," which most of the pilgrims have.
We passed through the courtyard, gay with multi-colored flowers, all around us is a beautiful view.
Then back to earth and the terrific climb back up from San Damiano. A little more than half way up, our tongues hanging out and panting and almost wishing we could walk on all fours, we managed to flag down a bus, which took us the rest of the way.
That was our day; tiring, grueling, beautiful, inspiring — out of this world! Thanks be to God!
We had dinner in our hotel, and a hot bath then went to bed. Sigh, a happy, happy sigh.
Wednesday - May 12
Lovely day and a lovely view now. No fog. How glorious! “ALL PRAISE IS YOURS, ALL GLORY, ALL HONOUR AND ALL BLESSING. TO YOU, ALONE, MOST HIGH, DO THEY BELONG. NO MORTAL LIPS ARE WORTHY TO PRONOUNCE YOUR NAME.” So sang our Father Francis. And, so we pilgrims sing on this Wednesday morning. May 12, 1982.
Our group packed into taxis after breakfast and head up the mountain to the Carceri, the Hermitage.
We have Mass at 9 o'clock right in the cave where Francis used to pray. It is high up in the mountains, amid trees.
Here, as I participated in Mass, I could look out the window to the mountainside where somewhere in the thickets of trees is Brother Leo's cave. Father Kenan said it would be rugged for us unskilled pilgrims to climb up to that cave. Has any of our "walks" not been, in truth, a rugged climb?
But now, as I attend this Mass and glance out the window at the place where Brother Leo's cave is hidden, I have the strangest sense of his presence out there among those trees. Is he, I wonder raising his arms in benediction over us? It is a happy thought.
Coming up here to the Carceri, our taxi wound up and up and up the mountain. The view of Assisi is marvelous. We could see the Rocca Maggiore across the way.
Close to the entrance of the Carceri we came upon several snow white doves, absolutely beautiful, unafraid of us. How very appropriate! They are in the vicinity of the trees where Francis told the birds to be quiet so he could pray and they instantly obeyed him. Their descendents, if these doves are, are still obeying him. They were gentle, peaceful and quiet.
Hordes of school children are coming up on foot as we pilgrims ride in our taxis back down to Assisi.
The old, old buildings up and down the narrow streets are all of stone or brick, with windows on the sides, some of them prettily arched, and some doors, too. The streets themselves are stone cobbled. Motor vehicles roar endlessly by, polluting the air with noise and smell. What a shame, it is detraction from what should be a quiet, hallowed area.
The House of Bernard of Quintavalle is up a lot of steps on the high level of Assisi where the nobles resided. His house had the usual lesser door, as well as the main entrance.
St. Claire, when she eloped to join Francis, used just such a lesser door to leave her house.
We leave this day with a sense of deep pleasure. Our Carceri experience was so very heartwarming, so spiritually imbued.
Thursday - May 13
Another beautiful day — it was warm and delightfully sunny.
We had morning devotions in our little Hotel chapel at 9. They were all on Mary our Blessed Mother, because we will be going to the Portiuncula today.
It is a beautiful walk down and down and down.
Just before we get to St. Mary of the Angels, we stop for lunch at a nearby restaurant, and all of us settled for spaghetti and vino.
As we were walking down, about half way from Assisi to the Portiuncula, we paused across from a building that had a bronze plaque, showing St. Francis being carried on a litter from Assisi to the Portiuncula for the last time. At this spot, where the view of Assisi rises in magnificent panorama above the valley where we are, Francis had the Brothers stop, while he raised himself from his stretcher and blessed Assisi for the last time. He died shortly thereafter.
Charlotte took a picture of this building with its bronze plaque. The building is Casa Gualdi, built on the site of the hospital of S. Salvatore delle Pareti, which housed lepers whom St. Francis nursed with great tenderness.
The little church of St. Mary of the Angels is like a doll's chapel, set as it is far forward in this great Basilica, which is one of the largest in the world. It has a heartwarmingly endearing quality about it. Outside, as we walk towards the rose garden, we pass a niche in which is a statue of St. Francis holding on his folded arms a nest of white doves. The nest is decorated with pink and white flowers with green leaves, which gives it the appearance of a lovely pillow on which the white doves rest on St. Francis arms. Francis' eyes are raised heavenward and he has a far away expression on his face. I was hoping to find a replica of this statue but could not. There was also a statue of St. Francis with the ewe lamb and I did find a small copy of that. The rose bushes in the garden we mentioned are thornless.
We went down into the crypt church of this great Basilica (how many times have I mentioned a "great" basilica — there are so many of them) there is a remarkable polyptich (to the uniniatiated of which I am one, this is a work of art consisting of several panels) which is in glazed terracotta, the work of Andrea della Robbia done in the 15th century. The six scenes are; Francis receiving the Stigmata; the Coronation of the Blessed Virgin Mary; St. Jerome; the Annunciation; the Nativity, and the Adoration of the Magi. This is behind the altar. The color, deep blue, with white figures, is astonishingly not faded by the passage of the centuries.
On a side wall is a stained glass window which depicts Francis and Clare sitting down with a few companions to have a meal. Rather, should I say they were kneeling, for the table is spread on the ground, and Francis and Clare are face to face, rapt in spiritual intensity of being together.
We were privileged to have Mass in this chapel at 4 in the afternoon. We rode back to our hotel in a bus. I don't think I need to say that this day, too, has been a highlight of our pilgrimage.
Friday - May 14
A nice sunny day but the wind has an edge.
This is our day for the fabulous Basilica of St. Francis.
Our Mass in the Basilica is scheduled for 8 in the morning in the crypt church. As we enter this crypt church we see, happily, that as we await our turn at 8o’clock; we are having the privilege of joining in another Mass in which the Friars sang beautifully, with organ accompaniment.
Strangely, this is the only time we have heard organ music over here, in spite of the great pipe organs in the churches.
Now it comes time for our Mass.
We are happy to see it is concelebrated. There is another group of Secular Franciscans from New York, who join us, with their priest. Our group leads the singing of hymns.
This crypt chapel is in the lower church.
Right before us, as we participate in Mass, behind the altar, is the sarcophagus containing the remains of St. Francis, and at each corner (rounded corner, in niches dug out of the stone walls) behind iron-grating doors, are his beloved Brothers Leo, Rufino, Angelo, and Masseo. This is another high light of our pilgrimage.
After Mass we go on personal tours of the upper and lower churches. I wouldn't know which outclasses the other.
Charlotte and I go to the upper church and down one side of the great walls; we followed the life of St. Francis as portrayed in the paintings, mostly by Giotto.
It was very educational and spiritually enlightening as we followed the pictures and paused at each to read about them in the book "Assisi" that we have.
After that we went to the reliquary and I was touched deeply by the sight of the habit that had been worn by St. Francis. It really stabbed right into me and made me weepy. I suppose this is odd because it didn't affect anyone else that way. Yet, to me, it brought out so starkly the real spirit of St. Francis, his humility, his spirit of poverty, abnegation, his complete metanoia (his inter conversion).
I could “sense" his spirit really for the first time in my life and it shook me profoundly.
I thank God for this.
It made me, for once, see right down to the bare bones of Francis and why he came into the world.
That habit was so worn and ragged, of a thick material. so it looked to me. (It reminded me of an old horsehair blanket we had when I was a small girl). There was a big white patch glaring right at you, sewed on up near one shoulder. Humble little man.
Some other things that have touched me deeply are the monstrance, like our Benediction monstrance, with, behind the round glass, a true relic of our sainted Francis.
I have already mentioned how the Crucifix of San Damiano impressed me. In a Third Order building, a very old building that had been given over for the use of the Third Order, we came upon Father Aden. He showed us sketches from episodes in St. Francis’ life, beautifully done in brown on cream colored artist's paper by students. One was of the Christ of the San Damiano Crucifix. Its eyes were astonishingly real. They gave a sense of Jesus' presence, of his “aliveness.” It made the Crucifix still more meaningful and vibrant, so much so that I want to go into it much more deeply when I get home so I can come to KNOW all about it — the figures, the symbolism, the great FACT that Christ came alive on it and spoke to Francis.
To me, a very touching thing in the Basilica this morning, is this painting (Italian humor someone said), which depicts Mary holding the infant Jesus. They are facing left and St. Francis is standing to their right. Mary is talking to the little Jesus about St. Francis, apparently, and no doubt telling Him about how great a saint Francis is, because she is pointing a thumb towards Francis, while Francis, in astonishment it would seem from his expression is clapping his right hand to his breast in a "Who, me?" gesture.
Back at our hotel, on a more down-to-earth plane, I am sitting here in the lounge outside the dining room. How the halls of this Europa Hotel reverberate! The doors of the dining room are shut, but a crowd of people are dining in there and I can hear a muffled roar of voices. Suddenly the door bursts open and the muffled roar becomes a staccato bombardment of words, foreign to me, and I realize that in that crowd of people I am alone. They are Germans, and I don't speak their language.
Something like this happens periodically here in this lounge outside the dining room. Various groups come pouring forth with a loud babble of (unintelligible to me) sound, sometimes French, sometimes Italian. Heavens! I wonder if when our group pours forth, as we do each evening, our English, to other groups, is as noisily unintelligible.
The Hermitage – May 15, 16, and 17
Saturday - May 15
We have breakfast at 8:30.
Father Kenan said we need time to listen to the world as it reaches us through our experiences. Religion means to bind together. In our hermitage it is a time for contemplation. This is a period of a total gift of giving self to God. Silence is important — a time from trying to impress others. It is a time for receiving, deeply, intensely.
Who am I? What are my priorities?
Listen to the birds. Listen. What does it mean?
It is to become a total presence to one’s total self.
Silence is conducive to prayer.
A Martha and Mary concept — Martha to line up plans — Mary to take care of prayer.
Poverty.
Be open to others.
Compassion.
Bringing a new hope.
Be open to the world, yet closed to the world.
La Verna and the Carceri, the symbols of Franciscan solitude.
In order to give one's self, one must have a self to give.
Father will come to our "place" to say Mass at 11. After breakfast, Charlotte, Ruby and I set off from our hotel, walking in silence together, down the narrow old stone street to our place of Hermitage. It is sunny and a bird is singing. My thoughts take wing with Sister Bird.
O Brother Sun, O Sister Bird,
We walk along without a word;
God's peace! His holy Presence near!
The three of us together here.
Inside the Hermitage
We sit and chant our Office prayers,
The world forgot, its strife, its cares.
Office Psalm: "Swing back doors, reach high you gates ..."
(God bless us, please, me and my mates.)
The cross, with Christ, is hanging there
While reverently we kneel in prayer.
More words from reading our Office:
"For He whom the heavens could not contain rested in thy bosom."
My mind takes hold of that one.
O Mary!
O His Mother!
O Mother of my Brother!
I catch my breath at this overwhelming thought.
I suddenly want to be alone.
I just want to dwell on this for a little while.
Father comes promptly at 11.
What a sacred experience is our Mass!
Here we are, just the three of us, with Father Kenan officiating.
As Mary, I was privileged to prepare the altar for Mass — the water and wine, the chalice, the dish and towel for the Lavabo, and afterwards. Father said I am to swish the rest of the water around in the chalice then drink it. Ah! Need I say more?
Mass is over; We look around the walls of this tiny church. Here are sculptured plaques showing scenes from Francis' life — Greccio, the first manger scene; Francis and Bernard of Quintavalle opening the book in St. Nicholas church to get the message from the Gospels; and a scene of Francis being imprisoned in the cellar by his father, while his mother, Pica, fearfully and tearfully peers around the door, her eyes yearning towards her son. And up to the left behind the altar is a statue of Francis, a ewe lamb leaning against his legs. Francis' face is uplifted in ecstasy.
Our tiny chapel here has a stone altar, and behind it is the crucifix I mentioned before that I could see as we prayed. In a small enclosure like this one gets a sense of His presence. It is a shivery feeling inside. Is He not bending down from Heaven over us, protective, silent, loving? Oh, the joy of this now! I sit here and reflect.
Thoughts and reflections
Behold the Lamb of God, who Francis loved with passion.
Behold the ewe he loved with kindness and compassion.
O Lamb of God, O wounded Christ,
O Blood that flowed, so dearly priced.
O Living Bread upon that altar,
Help us never more to falter.
Imbue us through and through with grace,
We, who kneel here, face to face.
As Francis lifts his arms to you,
So do we now; our vows renew;
To start once more this very day,
To strive, dear God, to walk your way.
O God of Love. O God of Peace,
Let petty wrangling round us cease.
We know that for us here below,
It is our job to make it so;
To take the “me” out of our “way”
And leave our pride behind this day.
Conceive Him now within our soul
As we “take and eat,” and are made whole.
Jesus, for one brief moment, from the Cross of San Damiano the other day, I got the impression, first of all, that you put your arms around me; that you bent to me and hugged me. And your lips — those lips that opened and spoke to Francis — curved in a smile. And, I looked right into your eyes and your eyes "spoke" to me.
That is the way I always get my messages from you, my Lord from your eyes, from the expressions on your face — never in words.
And now, I have gotten the message from you that you want me to bring you ALIVE to my fraternity, perhaps by means of the San Damiano Crucifix. Wait a minute — are you telling me that I need not be frugal by not buying the larger Crucifix because I now have a need for it — to use it to bring you to people through it?
I will need it right there so I can gaze at it as I work with the words that will bring your message to them.
So now, Jesus, I leave it to you to make it possible for me to get the Crucifix. If you think it is fitting. You take care of it for me. I await your decision, later this day:
Thank you for your decision, Jesus. Charlotte is the instrument you have used to bring it about that I have the larger Crucifix. You do move in mysterious ways your wonders to perform.
Sunday - May 16
Mass in our "Hermitage" at 9:30 this Sunday morning was a beautiful experience.
We were joined by seven Franciscan sisters from England. They wore brown habits and brown sweaters (it is very chilly here in our Hermitage), and their emblem was Mary and the infant Jesus on one side and on the other there were our own crossed hands, one with the sleeve and one bare.
The sisters joined us in the singing, and we had a friendly conversation with them after Mass.
Father Aden was with them and told all of us that the terracotta figures that I mentioned yesterday were what I said they were. One I didn’t mention was the scene where Francis gives his cloak to the beggar.
This little "place" is said by Fortini to be the true place where Francis lived. Fortini was the mayor of Assisi until his death in recent times, and he has written a big book on Assisi.
He gives convincing evidence that this is indeed the Pietro Bernardone home, rather than the place where the little church, Chiesa Nuova now is. The thought comes to me of the theory put forth by Johannes Jorgensen in his biography of St. Francis to the effect that the Chiesa Nuova site was the original Bernardone house where the family lived for a time but later moved out while Francis was a small child. If this is true, both could be where Francis lived prior to his conversion. Some say the Chiesa Nuova site that is the house which belonged to Francis' brother.
To get back to our Hermitage place here now, this one is on the Plaza de la Commune. The entrance is off a street, down some stone steps of a narrow passageway. As you come through the entrance door, the wall on the left is the wall of St. Nicholas Church where Francis opened the Book three times.
It is an enormous privilege to be able to have three more days in this holy place.
The cell-like room that is the chapel has walls of great stones, mortared together with a mortar that has withstood the impact of the centuries. It makes me think of the mortar used in our modern day structures that crumbles in a few years, or sometimes gives way before the structure is finished, carrying unfortunate workmen to their death.
Now it is afternoon. I am sitting out here on our little stone balcony. The sun is very warm and I can hear many happy voices outside, and there is a great clatter and roar of motors, and to recall Father's words yesterday morning. He said we need time to listen.
I am listening now to the world outside which I can't see. But it doesn't bother me. We, Ruby, Charlotte and I seem to have a sufficiency in our togetherness that shuts out noise. However, the thought comes to me of Assisi in 1982 as compared to 1282. 1982 is a far cry from Francis' time. Now there are modern intrusions, pollution, smell of exhaust, roars of motors and too little quiet, serenity and peace. Would our young Francis, transported to 1982, be out there in that street bouncing along on an ear-splitting motorcycle? Or Jesus, can you imagine Jesus in this atmosphere?
Well, you’d better imagine it.
Because He is!
Even behind the noise and pollution, He is at home in the U.S.A. and here in Assisi, He is looking under the dusty gray curtain of pollution.
You'll see Him, peeping out at you.
You’ll see Him wink an eye and smile wryly at you.
And you’ll hear Him say, “Oh, you haven't lost me. See I am here. Seek me and you will find me, anywhere and everywhere!”
At which point you can smile right back at Him and say fervently, "Amen!”
I have to shift my chair to some shade. The sun is really hot now.
I look up at the blue sky, we can see only a small patch straight up above the roofs of this cluster of buildings each one wedged against the next and I can see birds wheeling about, singly. They do not fly in the beautiful patterns and formations of our pelicans and great masses of small birds in migration. These seem to claim this as home and each one flies about happily on their own. Here they are so PRESENT, God's little mere ounces of flesh and bones, feathers and wings and beaks and bright little eyes, and around and around they go trebling their praises and thanksgiving and adoration of Almighty God who made them.
"All praise be yours, my Lord, for our sisters the birds!”
Siesta
Here we are back on our balcony, in a spot of shade. Here in the sun, it is hard to imagine how I could have been shivering with cold this morning.
This pops into my head:
The sun is so hot. It is burning my head.
A short while ago I was napping in bed.
Our lunch, a la Francis, was quite well received,
Though simple and frugal, and artfully conceived.
I am thinking of the moon I saw one night through a crack in our hotel window shutters, as I lay awake in bed.
After we had had three days of rain, clouds, and fog, Sister Moon was a welcome sight,
I snuggled happily in my blankets and sighed, and as I lay there I thought, “If I was a cat, I would purrrrr!”
I wonder why I thought of that just now here in our hermitage where this morning it was so cold. Maybe it's because of, this afternoon, the warm blanket of the sun, which wraps us around while we sit and meditate here on our little stone out-of-doors "place."
Charlotte wanted me to write a poem about our hermitage experience, so here is one especially for her:
In Godly silence and peace —
This old chapel our base—
We live these three days together
Here in our "hermitage place."
It was cold here this morning.
My feet were like ice.
But I pulled on a sweater
Which made it quite nice.
There's a small concrete porch,
Firmly anchored in place
Like the nest of a bird,
Here in this hallowed "place,"
Against ancient walls,
The sky far above,
I feel close to God,
While the power of His love
Pours down on my soul
Like hot Brother Sun,
Whose rays and HIS light
Can be reckoned as one.
Happy voices of people,
The swift passing hours,
Make this hermitage hit.
An experience of ours
To remember, to cherish,
To share, and to give
To our Franciscan Family
For as long as we live.
Dear God, you are great I
You are here. You are there,
In these stones, in the sky,
In the wind, everywhere
'In that bird, in that bug,
Of all men you are part,
In my mind, in my will,
In my soul, in my heart.
We gathered together
To share in a meal
A short while before
We heard the Angelus peal.
We 'broke bread together,
Just crackers and cheese;
Hot coffee and apples,
What a blessing were these.
O great God of Love
Look down on us here;
So safely at peace,
Free of worry and fear.
Content have we been
In our hermitage “cell,”
What more can I say?
Jesus LIVES and all is well.
Just a final thought before I leave our balcony for today:
The old and the new — these old, old stone walls of the buildings... and the many TV aerials spotted all about their roofs.
Monday - May 17
This is the last day of our hermitage experience.
Father Keenan pops in on us this forenoon. We share our lunch with him.
We have a Franciscan "banquet", ham and cheese slices; an assortment of rolls, crackers, a couple of little round slices of rye bread, sweet rolls, coke, prunes and raisins, butter and jelly, more coke and an accumulation of leftovers. It was happily satisfying. Now Father has gone and we are sitting in the sun again for the last time on our little balcony and it makes me feel sad, but I have so much to take with me for the rest of my life.
Out of our experiences here on this entire Pilgrimage, it has been brought home to me how far a field we are so often from practicing our metanoia (inner conversion).
We talk ad infinitum about Franciscan "musts," about forming ourselves in this Franciscan Way; but we are so very slow making them a part of our daily living.
It isn't easy. Of course it isn't. Nothing worth while comes without effort. We need to work at it. We need so much to practice self-discipline in our relations with other people; to try to understand their ways, and if we cannot then to try to learn to live with them.
This is what it means to be an “instrument of peace.”
We need to bear and forebear.
We need to be gentle, kind, and tolerant.
We need to subjugate our feelings; to be “leaven.”
Let our metanoia permeate the self-centeredness of other people too, in such a way that the leaven is slipped into them quietly and unobtrusively. It can start to cause the good in them to rise, perhaps unknown to themselves, and maybe they will be on their way to put into action what they pray with their lips.
God grant all of us this grace — to LIVE our prayers, not just mouth them.
God give me the grace to know that all this begins with me.
Our hermitage ends at Casa Papa Giovanni. This is another in the long list of little chapels we have been in. This one is dedicated to Pope John XXIII.
Our closing devotions start at 4.
We have Mass and renewal of our Franciscan Commitment.
Father Kenan's homily is all about the Tau Cross. And at the end he surprises us by investing each one in the Pilgrim Tau Cross. As he hangs mine over my head and around my neck, I am thrilled and utter a silent, "Thank you God," to my dear Lord. This is such a fitting climax to our three-day hermitage.
Now, quiet and subdued, we go back to our Hotel — to our usual hearty dinner — then a hot bath, and bed — and a good "good night" to you, dear, dear Almighty God for these never-to-be-forgotten three days with you in the Hermitage.
Tuesday - May l8
Today is Helen Santana's birthday.
We have morning devotions in our little Hotel Chapel.
After breakfast we go down town to shop.
Then, at 11 we set out for Rocca Maggiore — a steep climb, but not too long and well worth the effort!
What a marvelous view all the way up!
And at the top! A wide sweeping panoramic view of Assisi!
Down below us we recognize (at least Father Kenan did who pointed it out to us), the Basilica of San Francesco; the Portiuncula; Chiesa Santa Chiara, as well as the solid old houses, the winding narrow streets, and it’s all so unbelievable that here we are. It is real! It is true; we are here, pilgrims from Florida experiencing this spiritual high point in our lives! We have dreamed of it. Now it is no longer a dream. We are here! This unbelievable privilege and blessing of God is ours!
But we are earthlings, not celestial beings, so we find no trouble at all in turning from the sublime to the worldly business of having a picnic lunch, behind the Castle.
Our repast is lacking in a few extras we would have at home. Nevertheless, it was one of the outstanding ones of my life. We contented ourselves with ham and cheese on rolls; water, or coke, or wine; cookies; and the ubiquitous apples which have followed us all through Italy.
We seat ourselves on a grassy embankment, with our heels dug in, because it slopes down to a dirt pathway and just beyond that is a sheer drop!
The view, as we munch on our sandwiches, is like the Garden of Eden, stretching far and wide across the Umbrian Valley.
Kay Norman, our back-packer pilgrim, put the finishing touch on this experience when she raised her lovely voice in song. Across the mountains and valley the lovely tones of "Eidelweiss," and, the "The Hills are Alive with the sound of Music," mingled with the occasional song of one of the many birds who were wheeling endlessly about. Thus God's beautiful creations, birds, hills and valleys, blue sky and white clouds and green trees and grass, and Kay's voice blended in a symphony of perfection. So many times, I feel I should pause and say, "Thank you, God." This picnic lunch of ours has brought to mind St. Clare and St. Francis and their companions getting together for a meal at the Portiuncula. They sat on the ground, too. But they were so holy they were enraptured by each other's presence to such an extent they forgot to eat. We didn't.
Just to show how earthly we are, on our way back we stopped at out-doors tables in the Piazza del Commune for ice cream. Not spiritual, but very satisfying — and perhaps spiritual, too, if we remind ourselves that the boy Jesus was human and would, I am sure, have enjoyed a double-dip ice cream cone.
Wednesday - May 19
This Wednesday morning we take our reluctant leave of Assisi, by a clean, roomy bus. We each have a seat to ourselves.
Our first stop is at the Convent of St. Bartholomew. We are fortunate because it is a place where very few people have been. A Father Bruno shows us around. There is a reproduction of the sepulcher of our Lord, and in the niche is a life-size figure of Christ, with bloody knees. It reminds me of the crucifix hanging behind the altar in the little church of St. Mary of Poland, at Korona, in Florida. That one, too, has bloody knees, and when I see them I think of Christ falling heavily to His knees under the weight of the cross.
In the Convent also are relics — little pebbles from the Holy Land enclosed by tiny windows with small square iron grills.
We climb back into the bus and are on our way again, our final destination today is Riet. There is a gasoline strike on today. The day we started for Assisi there was a bus strike. Neither seems to affect us.
Our bus driver's name is Lorenzo. He is a whiz of a driver. A tiny car darts right smack in front of our bus — whoosh, and away. There is a universal gasp from every person in the bus, except Lorenzo. He cut loose with a barrage of Italian. And from the way he shakes his fist after the unperturbed driver of the tiny car, and the unmistakable tone of his voice, I feel sure it is well that we don't understand a word he is saying.
Our tour guide, who sits up front near Lorenzo, is Beatrice. She is a tall string-bean gal who speaks pretty good English. We all like Beatrice and Lorenzo.
At the Cathedral of Foligno we can see through glass cases the bodies of two Sisters, Blessed Angela, TO and Blessed Angelina, PC one a Poor Clare, and the other Third Order. They are centuries old. Angela died in 1309.
We stop for lunch at Fonte del Clitinno. The lunch is not worthy of mention. But afterwards we go for a stroll around a beautiful little lake. It is so very clear and in some places very deep. As we walk along a pathway, we hear little rivulets right under our feet that come down from the mountainside and go into the lake. They keep it fresh and clear. There are green plants down in the water and at one spot where there is a deep drop in the lake bed we can see the tops of what look to be good sized trees down there in the water.
Now we are riding towards Spoleto. There are old, old houses but in some places new construction, all in a most square, box-like shape.
We go whizzing around many hairpin curves. The road is narrow and a remark is made here and there about this — unsettling to some.
Father Kenan remarks, “If you're worried about Lorenzo's driving, just remember an ancient prayer, 'O my God I am heartily sorry ...’”
Touché, Father Kenan!
Beatrice reassures us. “Lorenzo is a good driver,” she says.
He'd better be!
We are riding through a lot of farmland; fruit and olive trees; many, many vineyards; neatly cultivated fields, all very clean and picturesque. Here and there is a building, mostly old, but now and then one that looks like a business establishment.
Every now and then we see a cemetery, surrounded by tall cypresses. They have little houses instead of the grass covered graves with headstones we have at home.
We spiral dizzyingly to the top of a mountain (on our way to Spoleto) up and up and around and around; then before you know it we are plunging down, down, down; then up again — spiral up, spiral down, over and over.
There are mountains and mountains in all directions, as though tossed there helter-skelter and allowed to drop in an assortment of heights, sizes, and shapes; dome shapes, pyramids, rounds, all covered with trees, trees, trees — O holy God, what a magnificent sight.
Now we see the ruins of an old Roman bridge which used to be across the Nere River.
This ride is a series not only of ups and downs but of many sharp-p-p-ppp curves. I have never been on so many torturous, snaky roads in my life.
There are a lot of locust trees in bloom, (I think they are Locusts). We go up and down; up and down; around and around like a broken record.
Fortunately, on this very narrow road, no one has come along to pass us.
I see up there a very small, very old house and my imagination drifts off to the ethereal spectrum where I imagine Francis, weary from a long day's walk, coming upon the house. Did he, perhaps, stop there for food and shelter?
I drag my thoughts back to the present.
There doesn’t seem to be any lawns and yards like ours at home — not anywhere in Italy. People hang their wash out a second or third story window on strings. I still haven't seen a single grassy lawn.
Here we go, climbing again.
This was worse than poor Brother Masseo's twirling around and around at Francis' orders, when at the crossroads to Siena, Arezzo, and Florence, Masseo, who was in the lead, stopped and asked, "Which way should we go? Father Francis." "The way God wants us to go," Francis promptly replied, and, with a twinkle in his eye, I am sure, ordered Brother Masseo to twirl about as a child does until he was so dizzy he reeled.
"Stop," ordered Francis.
Brother Masseo stopped.
"Which direction are you facing?" asked Francis.
"Towards Siena," Masseo replied groggily.
"That's the way God wants us to go," Francis said with satisfaction.
And off to Siena they went. But that's another story.
We stop at the Hermitage of Urbana. Francis turned water into wine there.
Lo Spec di Narni.
This is a lovely place.
We reach it by walking up old stone steps — up and up on our two feet this time and see the grotto where Francis prayed. There is an old church which, at that time, was the house where Francis stayed. He liked this place very much, which isn't hard to believe. But Francis was sick here, so his brothers built him a small “place.” in a small church, which there is a bed and a wooden pillow where he laid his head.
There are six novices, Sisters of the Desert, staying here. They show us an old well from which Francis and his companions drew water; and an old bucket. The walking is very rough.
We go through their refectory. There is a smell of garlic and bread and we see a fresh loaf of bread on a table, and some apples.
We go outside. The view is heavenly out here.
Well, hello! I walk towards a gray striped cat. "Good morning," I say, but she just gives me a haughty stare. She shakes her head in a gesture which says plainly, "These Americans! What makes them think I speak their language? Buon giorno,"
“This is a holy place,” I remarked.
“I know,” she said, “I live here,” In English; and with a twinkle in her eye, and a flick of her long bushy tail, she pussy-footed away.
“Ariverderci,” I called after her, but she didn't look back.
All praise to you, my Lord for Sister Cat; fat and sleek, and soft of fur is she, and full of purrs and mice (with tongue in cheek). I like cats.
Poggio Bustone.
The scenery here struck me as triply impressive because, behind this building, there are, set in a triptych, three mountains that I call my Mountains of the Holy Trinity. I wanted so much to take a picture of them but I didn't have a camera. However, the Holy Trinity itself must have stepped in to supply my yearning because I suddenly remembered a tourist folder, our guide that Beatrice gave me, and here right on the front page, much bigger and more colorful than a camera shot would be, are my Mountains of the Holy Trinity.
The chapel here is very old — well, that is obvious since it was here in Francis' time. There is a crucifix like the one at San Damiano that spoke to Francis — shaped like it, but this one is with the dead Christ with Mary and John and angels at His side.
The Shrine is high on a hill.
There are statues of the five Brothers who returned here from Rome in 1209 after having received approval of the first Rule. This sanctuary also commemorates Francis sending his friars out two by two to preach, as Christ did the twelve Apostles.
There is a picture commemorating the townspeople coming to Francis out of curiosity, to see what he like.
A stained glass window shows Francis saying, "Buon giorno, buone gente."
Some old paintings that were very faded by time show Francis when he was fighting his temptations — one, when he was naked and being tempted by a woman; another, when he was naked, throwing himself into a thorn bush in his desperate effort to conquer temptation. This happened at the Portiuncula. The legend says the briars thorns pierced Francis' flesh and when the blood touched them they turned into a rose bush — without thorns! The rose bushes in the rose garden at the Portuncula have no thorns.
In another stained glass window he is beating his breast while a beautiful blond young woman kneels before him.
High up here where this sanctuary is located, the scenery is overpowering.
I think, “How close to God can I get!"
He is there above me; I am sure, with His great arms outstretched, blessing the whole of Creation!
It is blissfully peaceful up here, one of the most restful places — no motor vehicles to pollute with noise and smell.
How wonderful is God, our Almighty Father, in His works of creation, in the trees thickly carpeting the mountainsides, in the flowers, in His holy Sanctuary, which brings to mind another Psalm, "How lovely your dwelling, O Lord of Hosts,”[2]
The other Psalm I was thinking of had to do with my Mountains of the Holy Trinity,"… the city of our God; The holy mountain, fairest of heights, the joy of all the earth.”[3]
Buon giorno, buone gente," — Good morning, good people. Pace e bene — or pax et bonum, peace and good.
Here in Poggio Bostone, on October 4 each year, a man goes through the village and stops at each house and knocks at the door. When the door opens, the man greets the household with those cheery words, "buon giorno, buone gente," and the people in the house reply, "buon giorno, buone gente;" a gracious, neighborly practice.
The little cemeteries we have come across have a lot of tall cypresses around them, which are like candlesticks pointing up to heaven, and this calls to mind St. Clare, who is called by some “the Candlestick of Holiness,” also, “Clare, the burning candle before the Blessed Sacrament.” And, “Clare, a brilliant light in the world.” And, "Clare, a reflection of the infant Christ when the Blessed Virgin presented Him in the Temple.” The beautiful countryside seems sculpture by an artist's hand with trees and cultivated fields, with a few picturesque houses dotted about, and so it was — the Master Artist.
This Umbrian Valley we look down upon is said to be the green heart of Italy. Fruitful.
Greccio
It is getting late in the afternoon, 6:20, when we head for Greccio. I was really tired now and wishing we'd save Greccio for tomorrow morning. It would be nice to go back to Greccio some time when I was not so tired. St. Francis and his holy Brothers reached the heights of rapture in the most uncomfortable positions.
Not so this Secular Franciscan. Tiredness and discomfort detract from my spirituality. I opt for solid comfort. Then, if ever, can I lose myself in things of the spirit. Worldly me.
As we walked up the road to the sanctuary, we looked over the rail down into the sheer drop, and I was disconcerted and a prey to righteous wrath at the litter down the mountainside, scattered all through the beautiful trees — paper plates, cups, napkins, cups, cans. How irreverent can you get?
The stone on which that first crib was placed was not what one would expect. I could not in the world see how it could stay there all through the Mass without falling off.
Everyone was tired now, and Charlotte if anything more so, because, whether she was yawning or suffering from hunger, she sucked in a bug and went into a coughing spell that was quite distressing, but eventually, with a glass of water from a young Brother who stayed there, and a cough drop from me, she finally regained her composure. She and I both were not with it at Greccio. Too tired!
Thursday - May 20, Ascension Thursday
La Foresta, formerly known as San Fabiano.
Church o£ Santa Maria della Foresta — quite small and contains little of historical value. The miracle of the increase of the wine took place on the spot of the cistern.
Fonte Colombo
We had Mass here in the Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene. What a nice small chapel this is. There are no benches, no pews and is very bare. It dates from 100 years before Francis time. Francis came here with Brother (Father) Leo, who said Mass for him here. It is here that Francis learned that some of the Brothers were trying to make changes in his Order. The Lord answered him in this way: “Whose Order? It is not your Order; it is My Order.”
And now, Father Kenan said Mass for us pilgrims here nearly 800 years later. What a great privilege!
There is a mural on one wall of the Scripture story of Mary Magdalene in the home of Simon, washing the feet of Jesus with perfume and drying them with her hair. She is shown standing there with her abundant blond tresses cascading down over her shoulders, down the length of her body and covering her all the way to her feet. It is lovely.
Across is a painting of St. Clare with the ciborium holding the Sacred Host that some say she held as she went out to meet the invading Saracens.
Actually she was carried by her Sisters, she being at the time confined to bed, and it was a pyx she carried with the Sacred Host.
There is a Tau cross painted in red by Francis on the wall, up left front.
I suddenly had a vision of Our Lady throwing up her hands in horror as she sees her boy, Francis, drawing pictures on the walls, but then, when she sees what it is he is drawing, she shrugs and smiles indulgently.
There is an oblong stained glass window in that small area where he drew the Tau cross, which shows a thick grape vine (thick like a lot of them we saw in field after field as we rode by them yesterday). This vine in the stained glass window snakes down the length of the window and has big green leaves and large clusters of purple grapes.
This area was blocked off for centuries and wasn't discovered and opened up until the 1920's when the window and the Tau cross came to light.
I was interested in another cross that stood on the altar. In this one, Christ's body was of some kind of metal that had become completely black with age. It was about 8 inches in length. Someone had mounted it on a cross that was rough-hewn from a tree, bark and all.
In another area there are relics of Francis — in a ciborium there are a few clipped brush bristly strands of his hair, which looked coarse, like clipped off bristles. They looked more like some chopped off stubble from his face rather than hair from his head.
There was a worn habit, too, though not his. It was from the 14th century, I think. The cloth was very much like that in the habit of St. Francis in the Basilica of St. Francis in Assisi that I commented on earlier.
There were fragments of a pair of slippers, same color as the habit — I don't know whose. It's hard to keep track of all the details.
It was at Fonte Colombo that Francis’ eyes were cauterized. His doctor was Theodore Tancredi of Rieti. We had the pleasure of being shown through the doctor's home in Rieti by some very nice little nuns who live there and take care of it.
At Fonto Colombo there is a fireplace where the cauterizing iron was heated. Francis called upon Brother Fire to be kind to him. "Be courteous to me in this hour," he said. "Temper your heat that I may be able to endure it."
Afterwards he said, "I felt no pain whatsoever." To which the doctor, noting that in truth Francis had not even given a twitch, declared it was a miracle. The cauterization stretched from his ear to his eyebrow. There is a painting depicting this event. It shows a flame rising up and Francis beseeching Brother Fire to be kind to him.
How many paintings we saw I couldn't count, and how many more we didn't see simply because it was a physical impossibility to see them all.
There is so much at Fonte Colombo — so much.
Holy and beautiful has been our pilgrimage.
This Ascension Thursday has been a memorable one.
Friday - May 21
We left the Four Seasons Hotel in Rieti before 9 O'clock this morning. Before boarding our bus, however, we walked to a couple of churches nearby.
The first we went to was the Basilica of St. Francis, which is close by our hotel, where the rest of the pilgrims went down some stairs into a dark crypt church, but I chickened out because the only light they had were a couple of candles and I wasn't about to go home with a sprained ankle or a broken leg. As it turned out I didn't miss much. I sat waiting for them in a pew right in front of the Blessed Virgin and she and I had a nice chat, which led me to believe I had, like that other Mary, chosen the better part.
From there we walked to another church of St. Francis. Part of this one was being restored. They had been excavating and had come upon a very old section which had been there at the time of Francis. The floor was 10 feet or more below the floor of the present church. This I liked. It had a "feeling" about it, an aura of holiness out of the distant past.
Leaving there, we went to the home of Dr. Theodore Tancredi of which I spoke of already.
At last we piled into our bus, said "arrivederci" to Rieti and returned to Rome, where we arrived about noontime.
Now, indeed, our bus driver, Lorenzo, and our nice slim guide, Beatrice, and our bus, were put to the test because we were shunted from pillar to post; first the Hermitage Hotel, where we had our reservations but, as had happened on our first arrival in Rome, they turned us away. Next we went to The Beverly Hotel. The same thing happened, the third hotel rejected us. But finally — joy, joy! Success — the Albania-Roma, a first class, modern love of a hotel! The bus, with our two guardian angels, Lorenzo and Beatrice, stayed with us all the way. Thank God for Lorenzo and Beatrice, and Brother Bus.
We had an unsatisfactory lunch at a semi-cafeteria. The others seemed to enjoy a dessert called canolle, an Italian rolled up pastry with assorted fillings, but I didn’t think it too wonderful.
Note: On July 10 we had a get-together of some of our pilgrims at Lovece's Restaurant here in Ormond, and again everyone enjoyed the canolle — except me.
We rested most of the afternoon.
After an excellent dinner at a restaurant across the street from the hotel, some of us went for a final stroll along the streets of Rome.
We found a Gelateria open and promptly went in for a last cappuccino.
Saturday - May 22
Our last breakfast in Rome.
So soon, it seemed.
And now we are saying good-bye to Kay Norman. We left her in tears at the hotel door as we boarded our bus for the airport.
ARRIVEDERCI — once more, sadly to say — to Rome — to Assisi — to Lorenzo and Beatrice — so very sad.
And now aboard the monstrous bird ALITALIA, homeward bound.
They served an enormous, excellent dinner.
Perhaps I have talked too much about food, but what is more important to an earthling's "cell" (St. Francis once referred to his body as his "cell") than this gift of God — one of life's greatest pleasures most conducive to jollity and camaraderie — than food.
The thought just occurred to me that, strangely enough, in spite of the grove on grove of olive trees we saw in Italy, we never saw olives on their tables. Their olives are not the good eating ones but are used in their making of olive oil. The eating ones come from Spain.
Kennedy Airport, U.S.A. "My country 'tis of thee" Airborne aboard Pan-Am for Orlando.
Arrivederci and Pax et Bonum