There and Back Again

How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep…that have taken hold.

~Frodo, Return of the King

At the end of the timeless tale of the Lord of the Ring (the film), the four hobbits return home. Dressed in the finest and riding tall on horses, they return to the quiet shire-- to suspicious on lookers, and things which have remained the same as the day they left. The four find themselves in a tavern drinking ale. They have no words, but their expressions and their eyes tell the story... how can you go back?

I think every transition is much like this, and for me returning to the states after a month in Europe is no different. Frodo's words echo in my head this morning as I sit down to try to put words to my exploding thoughts. There are so many entries I would like to finish-- to complete my journey. Final days in Paris, unexpected blessings, final goodbyes... how to sum up my French cuisine class on making Ratatoulie and Crepes with Virginie, standing in the light at St. Chapelle, my flight being cancelled, and a perfect last night in the city with Sam, Andre and Summer. I want to write-- to commit these memories to blog, yet, my heart is so full and the words won't come.

I haven't written many entries on this trip that are so fresh, so raw-- in the moment. Rather, I have mulled over what I want to say and then attempted to poetically (or not so poetically) capture the memory. For now, Frodo's quote stands. Of course, it is always good to come home, to return to friends and family and familiar sights, but can you really go back? I know I have changed, that entering back into life on the northshore, trying to pick up the threads of an old life is impossible. How do I take this last month and move forward into what is ahead? Where do I go from here?

Continued steps and the Way of Trust seems to be the only answer. My last night in Paris, Andre asked me, "What are you looking forward to in your return?" The simple answer, "my family, my cat, my church..." And this is all true, but what am I really returning to?? Uncertainty? Questions? Continued waiting? Saying goodbye to Summer, she said to me, "I think their are many stories that have begun during this month that are not finished." I agree. For me, Europe was the next step--the next thing. Though I have yet to understand why-- I don't need to... The whole trip was a gift, an unexpected blessing with surprises around every corner. How do you go back? Is it really a tale of "There and Back Again?" Or does going back require some sort of moving forward? These are unanswered questions and for me, the journey, the Way of Trust continues... Ruthless trust.

Saying Goodbye... Again

Saying Goodbye is never easy, especially when you end up repeating those goodbyes. For our last day together, Summer and I enjoyed a leisurely lunch at a cafe in Clamart and prayed together for the things ahead. Over lunch, we spent time saying our goodbyes, recounting the last month, sharing our unique highs and lows, and of course, our LOTR scenes from our time together.

On our walk back to the house to collect my luggage and head to the airport, a woman called claiming to be Air France. We had joked about me not really returning and that wouldn't it be funny if my flight was cancelled, so when the French accent on the end of the line said, "Mademoiselle DeLuca, your flight has been cancelled for this evening, and you have been rebooked for tomorrow night," my response was, "Is this a joke?" Thankfully, the woman was gracious, convinced me it was not a joke, and I hung up the phone laughing hysterically. Well, I guess I was suppose to stay and say goodbye one more time.

di lucca

Little town, in a quiet village,
Every day like the one before.
Little town, full of little people,
Waking up to say, "Buongiorno!"

Even though the story is written in France, these few lines from Disney's Beauty and the Beast would dance through my head every morning as I would open the old, Italian windows and peer out into the street below. Old cobble streets, remnants of churches on every corner, sweet little cafes, and bicycles everywhere is what greeted us in the quaint walled city.

As any child does, I too wrote a paper on my heritage-- where my last name, "DeLuca," came from. Through conversations with Grandpa DeLuca, I discovered our last name came from a province in Italy called, "Lucca." In Italian, to say "of" is "di"-- so over the years the spelling was changed to its current state. Since this time, I have always wanted to travel to see this part of the country, and when I discovered Lucca is an old, walled city, I was even more excited. After checking with our "travel guide," Rick Steeves, spending hours on line and searching for a place to stay in Florence, we decided to instead stay in Lucca. So, despite our lack of Italian and our limited finances, we made reservations at Le Violette with dear sweet Anna who spoke limited English.

Lucca, originally, a Roman settlement, dated back before the 4th century, and in the center of the town stands the remnants of an old, Roman ampitheater-- now the busy, center plaza for restaurants, shops and tourists. The town at one time had almost 70 churches within its walls and a tower on every corner. So armed with our small Italian phrase book, and our "travel guide," we found our way to Lucca.

I think Lucca may be my favorite place in the world. While there is no ocean (my true love), it's beautiful ramparts, and small Italian streets truly began to feel like home after four days. Anna, our host at Le Violette, was a sweet woman serving us breakfast every morning with a smile on her face, and a hearty, "Buongiorno!" During our visit we took in a Pucchini concert at an old church, sat at cafes, and took a full course Italian meal on the Piazza San Giavanni. What a sweet place... I am even more proud of my "Luccan" heritage. Maybe someday soon, I will return with some other DeLucas-- what do you think family? :)

Italia! Without Reservations

Today is a day of recovery. Although, I am not sure "recovery" is necessarily the right word. One recovers from surgery or from a broken bone... thankfully, my recovery simply requires laundry and trying to figure out how to express in words our week in Italy. I wish I could write a sonnet or paint a canvas or even sculpt clay to express the memories, emotions and snapshots of this past week. After years of dreaming about visiting this country, it is hard to believe that I have already come and gone and now I have to try to sum up a very full, one week visit to Italy.

Italia has captured me completely--heart, body, and soul. The language, the people, the land. I love it! Briefly, our trip was from Paris to Lucca, where we stayed for four nights in a bed and breakfast, taking day trips to Florence, Pisa, and Viareggio. Following our tourist days, we headed north to Milan to stay with CrossWorld missionaries and enjoyed hearing and seeing what God is doing in Italy and learning about the desperate need for workers in Milan and this northern part of the country.

Hopefully, the next few blogs will offer snapshots of the week. Summer asked me, "What was the highlight of the week?" I replied, "There are far too many." Somewhere within staying in Lucca, where my family's named from, climbing Giotto's Tower in Florence, seeing the Bell Tower of Pisa (though actually all four buildings lean), walking on the sand along the beautiful coast of the Ligurian Sea in Viareggio, Staring up into the eyes of Michaelangelo's David in the Accademia, crossing over the Arno River on the Ponte Vechio bridge, Attending a Pucchini and Mozart concert in San Giovanni in Lucca, Getting lost in the Fresco of Florence's Duomo, worshipping and praying with an Italian church in Milan, and eating gelato and good Italian home cooking is suppose to be one highlight?!!


As I have reflected on the gift of this past week, I have returned to my original theme for this blog... without reservations. However, I have found it to somehow have been reversed. I wrote of traveling and loving people "without reservations," but our week in Italy has been God's abundant blessings and grace poured out upon US without reservations.

Monet, Girl's Day Out, and Real French Cuisine

Flipping through my Italy pictures on my Nikon today on our way back from Florence, I returned to Giverny, the home of the Impressionist artist, Monet. I realized that I had not written about this amazing day with two incredible women-- girls day out; nor my first encounter with real French cuisine the evening prior to our Saturday venture.

(August 31)
After a full day of Paris, I met up with Summer and new friends from France, Claire, Sam, and Cyril for dinner and an evening stroll through the city. Here I tasted my first escargot (snail) and canard (duck). Both I thoroughly enjoyed although I think Summer may have enjoyed watching me eat them even more. Claire, the sophisticated, beautiful, French woman (not to mention amazing :) demonstrated the eating of this French delicacy and I followed her every move drinking the last bit of garlic and butter from the shell of the creature I had just injested.

Following dinner, we took a wonderful evening walk around the city. At some point, late in the evening, we wandered into an art book shop and found ourselves admiring the work of Claude Monet. It was suggested by Claire that the following day we visit his home and gardens a few hours north of Paris. After saying goodnight, we agreed to meet the next day to take our drive out to Giverny.

(September 1)

We drove through beautiful, French countryside and arrived at the house mid-afternoon. The gardens were splendid, full of bright colors and fragrant smells. It is hard to put into words the beauty in so many varieties of plants and flowers, and standing on the Japanese bridge, it was easy to see how easily Monet was inspired. We finished the tour, snapping a few more pictures of the attendant closing up the house for the day, enjoyed tasty gelato and headed home (though not before hopping the fence and stealing a few quiet moments on the grass in the sun in another garden nearby).










We ended the day by watching Ratatouile in French-- Claire on my left and Summer on my right graciously translating so that I would understand the general plot. It seemed only appropriate to watch it in French and in Paris (though I do look forward to seeing it in English for the Pixar humor). After a full, wonderful day laughing, snapping thousand of pictures, we returned home to prepare for our trip to Italia. Maybe I will buy a rat and name it Ratatouile in honor of this day :)

The Eyes of David

Can fear and trust be present at the same time? Can trust exist in the presence of fear? I think this is a question I have been asking for the past year, and today (September 4th), the Lord answered the question in His own unique way-- through the eyes of David.

After walking around the Florentine Duomo, ascending the 270 foot bell tower, and admiring Ghibertti's Baptistry doors, we made our way to the Accademia where Michaelangelo's David stands. Rick Steeves, our "traveling companion," in his travel guide to Florence and Tuscany suggested that we make reservations for entrance into the museum. Thankfully, though, we found only a small line and were able to enter without a problem.

I had read about Michaelangelo's David, had seen small replicas and photos, but nothing had captured the magnitude of this piece of art. As a music major, I did not have to take the required Arts in Concert course that offered a brief overview of music and visual arts so I was not aquainted with the story of the artist. (I have since picked up Irving Stone's the Agony and the Ecstasy, and am devouring it). However, even with my lack of knowledge about the subject, the Lord chose this medium to speak to me.



Upon viewing this enormous statue and briefly reading Rick's words about the disgarded marble which was used, I found myself captivated by his eyes. I could not stop looking at his eyes. To me, his eyes captured the confidence in his God as he stands and faces Goliath. Though the caption on the block, suggested the sculpture portrayed the shepherd boy after slaying Goliath, many art historians believe it to be the moment facing the giant. I agree with this interpretation-- the look in his eyes suggests trust in the presence of great fear. I pulled my journal out and began scribbling, "His eyes. I can't stop looking at his eyes."

The artist also sculpted him naked. Understanding now that Michaelangelo preferred sculpting the human body nude rather than with the distractions of drapery and clothing, I recognize his preference. But I also view his choice to be one of a posture of humility and vulnerability. Nakedness is a kind of complete vulnerability, yet David stands with such confidence. Two contradictions exist: Trust and fear, vulnerability and confidence.

As I stood staring at his eyes, tears began streaming down my face. Isn't this what God has been trying to say? The same confidence facing the unknown, that same strength and beauty, and naked vulnerability... the trust in his eyes; not in self, but in his God; not in his slingshot or his own strength, but in the power given to him from above.. Isn't this what ruthless trust is all about? Sculpted from a rejected, imperfect piece of marble that no one wanted, with only a vision in his mind, Michaelangelo sculpted fourteen feet of beautiful marble into the representation of trust in the presence of fear. Not the weapon in his hand, nothing that he could do could bring down that giant. He ruthlessly trusted in God alone. My prayer is that as I return to complete uncertainty and an unknown path before me, my eyes will demonstrate and reflect the same trust in my God in the presence of fear like those captured in the eyes of David.

Ice Cream Grandpa

My little sister once wrote a paper on Avery DeLuca, our "ice cream grandpa." Today (3 September), as our train came to a stop in Italy, I was overwhelmed with emotion and found myself missing him. All around me, I could hear families chattering in Italian, and a sweet, old, Italian couple arguing playfully. I watched the Italian man and something struck me, bringing tears to my eyes as I thought about so many memories with Grandpa DeLuca.

Ever since I was young, I have dreamed of coming to Italy-- to see the heritage of this incredible man. Grandpa D, as we affectionately called him had a love for people. He would go for a walk and return with stories of mothers, children, young people he had met. He never hesitated to strike up a conversation with anyone, and he loved... oh how he loved! When we would visit, getting ice cream was always the next thing on the schedule after dinner. And though, we lived several thousand miles away in Colorado, he always sent "ice cream" money for mom and dad to take us out.

I'd like to think I am a lot like him, or have taken on many of his Italian characteristiscs... maybe... his artistic/Italian temperament, his love for people, his sense of adventure... maybe... I definitely have taken on his love for ice cream. Maybe that is what has brought me back to Italy so many years later and why unexpectedly, I have found myself emotional as we cross the border. Maybe I want to discover this part of my heritage-- Afterall, I am proud to be Italian (like my grandfather) even if it is only a small percentage preserved in my last name.