97,338 Steps

As a disclaimer, I have no idea why my fonts are different in this post.  Chalk it up to trans-atlantic plane wifi, I guess.

I am on the plane returning from Rome, just having flown over the majestic (and cold!) mountains of Greenland.  Rome was in the 80's and humid most of the week.  Our rooms were not air conditioned so we were sweat hogs by 11 a.m, touring in the hot Roman sun.  So I'm sitting in my window seat, staring out at the snow and ice-encased mountains, freezing.  The plane is probably 60 degrees right now but I don't care.  I'm not  sweltering in my oven of a hotel room with a sunburn.  I'm also stretching my ankles because I want to prevent DVT's on this 11 hour flight.    

And because my legs are sore.  I walked 7 miles in high heeled wedge sandals yesterday.  The grand total number of steps for the week?  97,338 steps.  

That's something like 43.6 miles.  For once in my adult life, despite copious (okay, scandalous) amounts of homemade Italian pasta, veal, and wine, I am returning from a trip lighter than when I left.  That 43 miles probably has something to do with it.  

And the 47 stories of stairs we "climbed."  Some were actually climbed, around the monuments of ancient Rome and in the dome of St. Peter's, on the way up the cupola but others were logged because of the sharp ascents in Assisi.  

Thank you for tracking our trek, Fitbit.

We were "only" in Italy from Sunday morning to Saturday morning.  It's a pretty short trip when you consider that Italy is 6 hours ahead (from Eastern time) and by the time you start feeling like yourself again, it's time to board that plane and return home.  Urban legend says it takes one day to adjust for each hour of timezone you traverse.  For me, I feel very "normal" once I complete that first painstakingly long day (from Saturday morning in the States to Sunday night in Europe) and can usually get by on 5-6 hours of sleep.  

But on day 7 or so, it catches up with you.  I experienced a marked delay on the return flight to Chicago from Rome - 4 hours.  So I got up at 6 a.m. to pack and have breakfast, depart the Roman hotel at 8, arrive at the airport at 8:30, spend an hour in security and various passport checkpoints, to arrive at the gate at 9:45 a.m. Rome time.  We were boarding at 2:00 p.m.   Fabulous.  If there is one thing I hate more than waiting at the BMV, it's waiting at the airport.  When we boarded the plane, it was 7 a.m. in Chicago.  

My body thought it was 6 or 7 a.m. but that I had been up all night.  Actually, my body has no idea what day or time it is.  My body did think I had been up for at least 36 hours.  And I looked like it.  Have you ever looked in the mirror and thought "Wow.  I look like a hag from Haggsville and I'm subjecting humanity to this?"  I wish I could put a bag over my head because my next shower is 18 hours and 4,592 miles away.  

Vanity lives.

I guess it's not SO bad to have a long wait in Rome's main airport; there is excellent pizza, Tuscan wine, and espresso around every corner.  Being delayed in Rome is probably 1294% better than being delayed in the Congo.  Or maybe Burma.  

Nothing against the Burmese.  But they probably don't have a salad bar that includes fresh basil, buffalo mozzarella, and tomatoes that looked as though they were harvested this morning from the Roman sunshine.  

I digress. 

The trip was wonderful, of course.  This year, I spent a mere $100 or so on my portion, mainly to pitch in for beer and to settle my hotel mini bar bill (from which I took several waters....at 3.50 euros each).  I went to Rome for almost nothing and had yet another life-changing course of events.  

I keep thinking that my blessings HAVE to be running low by this point in my life.  How does someone end up with such a great life, an awesome marriage, and a job that beckons them to Rome on an annual basis for FREE?  To tour the holy sights and shepherd burgeoning leaders while feasting on fabulous Italian food and vino?  And yet, the blessings continue to flow.

If one opens their heart to God in Rome, God arrives.  Not unlike a bull in a china shop, God quickly and succinctly lets you know He is there, making lots of noise, trying to get your attention.  He seemed to slam through the door in my heart, sprinkling key words and kernels throughout the week...whether I was ready for them or even wanted them.  I feel a bit like I was pushed off a cliff with God looking at me lovingly but with a sly grin on His face saying, "You say you trust me...now prove it to me, Grasshopper."  I visited the tomb of St. Peter during this trip and it surprised me to find that it took my breath away  Sure, it's ornate and beautiful, in the crypt of St. Peter's Basilica, right under the main altar.  All I could think was, "This is the guy who stepped off the boat and sank?  This 2000 year-old faith has somehow survived, despite the meddling of humans creating wars and inquisitions, to become this worldwide source of peace?  And it was started by a guy who doubted Christ."

Maybe there is still hope for me yet.  

I tried to open my heart on the trip, cognizant that I am no longer a pilgrim but a leader of pilgrims.  It's daunting; you're not really sure if you should add conversation or reflections in group discussion or go galavanting around Rome with your colleagues as they seek a well-earned, ice cold Italian beer.  

I think I rode the middle line well.  I kept quiet, allowing the pilgrims to experience the trip on their own and come to their own conclusions.  I caught myself saying "on the trip last year" a bit too often and bit my tongue.  But I did go galavanting with the group on two evenings.  This year, sleep felt more important than nightly Lambrusco across town by taxi.  Running a pilgrimage is exhausting work.  Two Lambrusco experiences were enough for this "seasoned" Roman pilgrim.  

That is how the group perceived me - the pro.  Seriously?  People pulled me aside to ask "stupid" questions.  No question is stupid, of course, but the pilgrims wanted answers to questions...how does the papal blessing work?  Will the blessing accidentally hit my sunglasses and if so, how do I make sure only my rosaries are blessed?  What's the deal with indulgences?  Why does St. Francis preach a simple life of poverty and concern for the poor and yet Assisi is filled with glorious basilicas of priceless artwork and frescos?

I have no idea.  I'm sure St. Francis would be appalled at the grandiosity of Assisi's churches.  Peter would probably be appalled at the grandeur of the Vatican, too.  

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Several poignant memories stick in my mind from this week.  I saw Lino Rulli, an author whose books I've read.  I was about 10 feet from the pope and I *swear* he looked at me.  This isn't my ego talking here - we were right beside a railing at the papal audience and he stopped his papal "cart" RIGHT in front of us.  He kissed several babies, giving us a few perfect photo ops.  The picture I have of him looks like it's from a publication.  I have to print it just, well, because it's the pope and I took the pic without a zoom lens.  He is just that approachable.  You sort of wonder if you're going to run into him when you're galavanting with your colleagues on a fine Roman evening.  

I came away with another kernel to chew on with regard to vocation.  Last year, I felt my vocation placed squarely, heavily on my shoulders.  This year, the sense of vocation seems different.  Equally heavy but with a different sort of stress and trials.  It's something I need to tease out in the coming months (or years, decades).  I hope to be able to better discern whatever this new sense of vocation is when we return to Italy this fall.  

Despite the long, cramped flights, crappy airline food that both burns your tongue and gives you rapid-onset digestive woes, and ragamuffin appearance, it's all worth it.  

It's always worth it.