We arrived in Rome early on a warm summer day trying to get a spot on the street close enough to the barricades with the goal of shaking hands with the Pope as he rode through the streets. I remember a lot of people being so excited - not the least of these was my mom, Anna Maria, who was very excited that we got there early enough to be right there in front of the barricade just waiting for the Pope to come by.
Waiting. It’s in the waiting that memories are made and when the Lord speaks. As a child, your faith is influenced by your parents, your peers, your mentors - traditions and devotions pass from generation to generation as father tells son and mother tells daughter. Thinking back on it now, it’s the memories and experiences that have built my faith to where it is today.
You see, I grew up as a first-generation born American. Both of my parents immigrated from Italy before I was born. My dad’s family all immigrated to America in their late teens and early twenties, while my mom’s family stayed in Italy. Because of this, and my parents’ strong ties to their motherland, I had one foot in American culture and one foot in Italian culture.
Every other summer we would visit my mom’s hometown and I can remember taking a deep, relaxing breath as we approached my grandparent’s farm. Family was plentiful. There were my grandparents (nonni), aunts and uncles (zii), and cousins (cugini).
It was a time of freedom, running around barefoot, playing with my cousins, bottle feeding the calves, driving tractors, going to the beach, breathing in the fresh air, and being enveloped in a culture that felt like “home.”
In my mom’s hometown, as in much of Italy, the shared culture extended to the spiritual; a shared sense of faith. Walks to church or into town would always include a stop at the roadside shrine to Our Lady. It was a humble home for the town’s beautiful Madonna - set off the ground and perched inside a wooden shrine was a statue of Our Lady, watching over the main road.
“Throughout the week I would see my nonna grab a bike with a basket full of flowers and she would tell me that she was visiting the Madonna and bringing her flowers”
Roadside shrines - or wayward shrines as they are also called - are a common site in Italy and other European countries with heavy Catholic influence. The shrine near my nonno’s farm was a beautiful example of shared spirituality.
People in the community - my nonna’s friends, neighbors, strangers - would all take care of the humble shrine. For my nonna’s part, no walk to town would be complete without a stop at the Madonna to straighten the fresh flowers, pick out the dead ones, or say a quick prayer.
Faith was a way of life. Throughout the week I would see my nonna grab a bike with a basket full of flowers and she would tell me that she was visiting the Madonna and bringing her flowers.
I can remember early Sunday morning getting a ride to the very small church down the street, Sant’Andrea, which probably sat a total of 50 people, if even that. Sitting in church with mom and my nonna listening to the Mass in Italian was a big part of Sundays.
But, for childhood me - I was anticipating our next stop. After church we would go across the street to the gas-station-convenience-store which had the only telephone in town at the time. We’d sit down and I’d get a bag of potato chips that always had a small animal figure prize inside.
As I sat contemplating who I should trade my newly acquired animal with, my mom and nonna would talk about what happened at church. From there we would walk the distance back to my grandparents’ farm - with a stop at the Madonna of course.
Throughout the summer, we’d take short pilgrimages (the proximity to so many holy places made this easy). We would visit Assisi, and my uncle would tell me everything about St Francis and the significance of the statue of St Francis with the birds. We visited Subiaco, near Rome, where I listened to stories of St Benedict and saw where he lived in the cave.
Some days would be a trip to Nettuno where St. Maria Goretti lived. She was my mom’s patron saint; Her special friend. I would hear stories of how she sacrificed her life or how my mom donated her wedding dress to St Maria Goretti’s shrine so that it could given to someone who needed it.
We visited many other churches and shrines too. I remember walking in and looking at the walls that were filled with thank you letters from people who received a miracle and letters from people asking for miracles. As a child, I enjoyed visiting these places, and a solid foundation of faith was being laid - even though at the time, I might have enjoyed playing with the friendly stray cats or feeding the local pigeons that were outside some of these places more than the stories.
These foundations made me who I am today - and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. This solid foundation helped me weather storms and made the joys feel just a bit brighter. It taught me the joys and values of family.
This solid foundation helped me weather storms and made the joys feel just a bit brighter. It taught me the joys and values of family.
But patience. Waiting. Those are hard ones.
When we visited the Vatican City in the hopes of touching the hands of Pope John Paul II - “uncle” as people affectionately called him - we waited with excitement. And then, nothing happened.
Around the corner came the Pope…and…he cut the corner. Something he never did but, of course, that was our corner. The corner where we waited to try to touch his hands.
To say my mom was disappointed would be an understatement - she continued to tell this story for decades later because we were so close, yet so far.
And life can be like that. If we aren’t grounded in our faith, it’s easy to let disappointment define you. My mom had an incredible faith foundation, and we did see the Pope - We just didn’t touch him. So we enjoyed the rest of the day in Rome and then went home - likely visiting the Madonna one more time for good measure!
Each new site and location I visited was filled with stories of the faith. Stories of how the saints served God, how they sacrificed their lives. I also saw many relics - of course, as a kid who was more concerned about if I had a well sought-after plastic animal that could be traded with my cousins, they were kind of strange to me and I didn’t fully understand.
And yet, through all those experiences, my foundation grew stronger. Things that would be stored in my mind but not fully processed or appreciated as they are now as an adult.
As I aged, throughout my twenties and thirties, my mom would occasionally return to visit family but it would be over twenty years before I would go back for no reason other than life got in the way.
Eight years ago, my grown kids and I would go back with mom, who had cancer. I would relive, through memory, my carefree summer days. The small little church is still here and our Madonna down the street is still a beautiful reminder that even the smallest of faith can move mountains. She now has a shelter built around her so she is no longer in the elements.
And the bigger churches and shrines are still here - of course - along with all the beauty I experienced as a kid that I didn’t even realize were there when I was young.
No matter where life takes us, as long as our foundations are rooted in Him, God is there.
Without me realizing it, my foundation is what has inspired my spiritual life today. The faith of my community at some point became my faith. My nonna’s love for Our Lady became my love. And my mom’s patience with Pope John Paul II has become…well, she wasn’t a patient person and maybe I’m not either! But with a faith so on fire for our lord, we can weather whatever problems are thrown our way - even if we are still a little annoyed that the Pope’s driver took a wrong turn.
Or maybe it was the right turn. Because no matter where life takes us, as
long as our foundations are rooted in Him, God is there. ■
