the moon

he hung the moon
and made my stuffed animals come alive.

he was the first,
the last,
the only, 
who ever truly was my hero. 
girl-grown-up learned not to believe in such things,
but girl-young-with-starry-eyes
didn't need to be convinced
that he could do anything. 

he hung the moon
and magically transformed my pigtails into motorcycle handlebars.

i close my eyes and he's right there,
sitting next to me on the piano bench—
strumming the guitar in his hand
as my fingers dance across keys—
with laughter and mistakes
tying the notes together.

he hung the moon,
and had the same exact eyes as santa claus.

he was the first,
the last,
the only,
to see me as i am
and think me a princess,
and make me feel taller and stronger and braver
than i really am.

he hung the moon.
and then he turned out its light.

unseen shores

I've walked the streets of Palermo, Sicily twice now. With seven years in between.

Seven long years that demanded of me their pound(s) of flesh. Seven years that abducted me from a life I'd once dreamed of (and was somehow blessed to actually be living), and thrust me into one I never saw coming. Not in those seven years. Not in a million more.

This new life is good—it is. I promise you I'm not complaining. It's just that this new life was never on my horizon. I never imagined I'd exchange the South of Africa for the South in America (and most certainly not by myself). Never in my wildest dreams did I conjure up images even remotely close to what my life looks like now. I didn't dream up or ask for this new life, I just landed in it—tossed about in the rough seas of change, and the tsunami waves of loss, and the murky waters far, far above my head.

The tide did at last began subsiding, and my toes finally found the ocean floor. And now it feels less like I'm drowning and more like I'm sailing. This sailboat voyage is beautiful. Laborious. And completely out of my control. In so many ways, I'm simply along for the ride—with the wind and waves at the helm. 

Seven years.

In 2008, I traveled to un-touristy and rather quite unromantic Palermo on a pilgrimage of sorts.

My Gram had grown up on the streets of that town, albeit they looked drastically different before the landscape was shaped by The War. When she was just thirteen, she left those familiar cobblestone streets behind, on a weeks-long voyage to unseen shores in the new world.

To that young teen, New York was unknown and frightening territory. But by the time she became my Gram, it was home to her in every way. She lived and loved on the streets of her Long Island town much in the same way, I imagine, as she would have in Palermo. She knew by name her butcher and grocer and baker, and was as beloved by them as they were by her. From her old streets to her new ones, her values remained: unwavering faith, relationships, good food (and wine), and loud and lively conversation with those she loved.

So in 2008, my then-husband and I chose Palermo for our prized, pennies-scraped-together getaway. But between the purchase of our tickets from South Africa to Sicily and the day of our departure, my Gram left home yet again. She departed for another shore unseen, exchanging the earthly for the eternal, making my first visit to Palermo both more special and more heartsore all at once.

Adding to the bittersweetness was my rocky marriage. Just a few months after our trip, my husband's long-term affair came to light, and life as I knew it came to a screeching and heart-shattering hault.

Seven years.

I returned to Palermo last month with my mom and brothers—seven years and an entire lifetime later.

Laughter, food, and wine abounded, and years' worth of memories were made. Redemptive in so many ways and restorative in so many others, I would be remiss if I didn't also acknowledge the gaping hole.

My dad—whose heritage we were revisiting, whose mom we were honoring, whose family legacy we bear—was not with us. A year and a half ago, his long-term affair came also to light, and he left—choosing his new family over ours, the one he'd had for 40 years.

Two trips. Seven years apart.

The first, wasted on someone who didn't deserve to know my Gram's love or to follow her legacy back to her first home. The second, painfully marked by the absence of one who should have been there.

Oh, Palermo... Whatever will I do with you?

You and your breathtaking cathedrals, and your dirty streets, and your stunning city walls... You and your frightening drivers, and your unending wine, and your delicious, unpretentious street food... You and your history, which is altogether my history as well... Whatever will I do with you?

Maybe in another seven years you will call me home again. And maybe, just maybe, it will be a trip—and a year—of "jubilee", marked only by gain, not loss. Joy, rather than heartache.

In the meanwhile, Palermo, you somehow—in all your mysterious, haunting, wondrous ways—hold out hope for me.

Hope in the life and love that can only be found on unseen shores...

quiet courage

The word brave naturally conjures up certain images in my mind.

I envision Mel Gibson roaring "Freedom!" in Braveheart. I picture Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King, Jr. and Rosa Parks. I see Jim Elliot and Mother Teresa... our armed forces... persecuted Believers... single parents... 

I imagine my Grandma on the long sea voyage to America a lifetime ago, in pursuit of a better future against all odds. Images of heroic feats, courageous adventures, and Mount Everest conquerors flurry through my head.

What doesn't come to mind, is me. Even after a year in which I intentionally chose to be brave.

Clearly I'm still working on recalibrating my own definition and understanding of bravery. It's a process — and probably a lifelong one. 

As I look back on 2014, I don't see any grand achievements or monumental victories or dauntless acts. But I do see quiet courage and lionhearted grit in a myriad of small things. 

I made big financial decisions, Forrest Gumped my way through building myself this new website, swung for the fences with work projects, put my introverted self out there, chose to do things just for me sometimes. 

I leaned into healthy friendships and away from unhealthy ones; I set better boundaries for myself; I put myself first in areas I'd normally put myself last. I let others in.

I opened my heart to possibilities, let my guard down, and allowed myself to enjoy the present without knowing what the future holds. {Translation: I started dating. (!!!) That's a whole other blog post. That will never be written.} 

I used my words more: I wrote a blog post about depression and suicide, even though I was terrified. I raised my voice for what matters to me, despite my fear of making waves. I stayed in the ring of the controversial and uncomfortable when I wanted to run and hide.  

I lost someone dear to me — again — and I'm somehow still standing. 

I returned to church. {Enough said.} 

Bravery.

All of it. Bravery.

So I'm more than okay with the fact that my brave journey didn't lead me up Mount Kilimanjaro, or into the Peace Corps, or through any fearless acts of heroism.

I'll stick with my quiet courage and lionhearted grit, and remind myself that the process of becoming brave trumps the finish line of being brave.

(Originally shared on Velvet Ashes)

riscatto

Redemption looks different on different days. 

I've found it curled on the couch on a lazy Saturday morning, sipping coffee, watching the fire, and shaking my head in grateful amazement at this new life I'm living. 

I've seen it in simple text messages that remind me I'm known and loved and not forgotten.

I've heard it in the laughter of a friend I've known for decades and, at the same time, am getting to know anew all over again. 

I've discovered redemption in the doorways of my home, behind the steering wheel of my Rogue, in songs that move my soul, at communion served from a music venue bar... 

I've stumbled upon it in words, spoken and written and read.

And in recent weeks, redemption showed up in an unforgettable trip to Italy...

For reasons that are too many to count and too deeply personal to put words to, this time with my mom and brothers was beautiful redemption. 

Being together in a country I adore—which also holds our precious family roots—was a gift I will always hold dear.  

It was also my first international trip in two and a half years. 

Two and a half years.

That was my longest stretch in one country since I was 14 years old. After over 20 years of frequent cross-cultural travel, two and a half years felt like an eternity to this heart of mine. 

My wanderlust and passport were equally happy to find themselves overseas again... 

I didn't want to forget an ounce of the redemption, grace, beauty, and fun this trip held, so I captured moments six seconds at a time and strung them together in a series of short videos. 

Come along with us wild and crazy Ronzinos to Italia... 

I'd love to hear from you.

Have you been to Italy? What were some of your highlights?
and/or
Where have you seen redemption lately?

better days

As 2014 drew to a close, I was more than ready to be done with it. It was a hard year, a challenging year, and I wanted nothing more than to kick it to the curb.

But that thought was always quickly followed by this one:

January 1st doesn't bring with it a clean slate and a fresh start like we imagine it does.

I know, I know, I know... My cynicism is flaring up big time. But it's true, isn't it? When the ball drops at midnight on the 31st, the troubles and horrors and heartaches of the year don't miraculously vanish like the monster under the bed does when we turn on the bedroom light.

Nope. Waking up on the first morning of the first day of the first month of the new year is really no different than waking up on the last morning of the last day of the last month of the old year. Nothing really changes when we start the new calendar.

Sad. But true.

Yet we hold fast the idea that there is hope and promise in each January 1st. There's a symbol there that we refuse to let go of—a symbol of change and do-overs and redemption...

And maybe the mirage alone is enough.

Maybe the symbolism carries a sort of placebo effect. Maybe it's exactly what we need to keep putting one foot in front of the other. The hope of better days burns brightest at the start of the new year, and the warmth and light it provides is genuine...even when it comes packaged in a sugar pill.

The new dawn doesn't necessarily signal the end of our Dark Night, but it hits an internal reset button nonetheless. So I'm allowing myself to embrace that, and not letting my jaded heart disregard the sacred significance of the moment.

For all of us who were ready to scrap 2014, I'm shaking off my cynicism and raising my mimosa glass:

To new beginnings, necessary endings, unexpected joys, light breaking, dreams realized, hope restored, and unforeseen love.

But mostly... To better days.

Originally posted on A Deeper Story »