Seeing Italy with New Eyes

As a son of Italian immigrants, my parents raised me to love and cherish Italy. I have lost count of how many times I have been blessed to visit, to see friends and relatives in Sicily and Genoa, and to enjoy the natural, artistic and historical beauty of everywhere in between.  At age 55, you would think that going to Italy would be old hat for me by now, but I can say without hesitation that my trip to Italy this year has been the most memorable by far.

Why?  Because it was the first time I got to share Italy with some dear American friends.  My wife Susan and I were joined by three other couples:  Gordon and Jean, Glenn and Donna, and Tommy and Jeanne.  We had been planning the trip for almost two years and everyone was excited, but no one as much as me, because I was looking forward to playing tour guide and showing off the land that I love.  Though I had seen many of the places before, I would vicariously be enjoying them for the first time as I saw Italy’s unmatched beauty through my friends’ eyes.

I was a little nervous at first, wanting more than anything for my friends to have the time of their lives.  The extended weather forecasts did not look promising, calling for unseasonably cool weather with the rainy season uncharacteristically lingering into late May and early June.  Wanting them to have a good impression from the start, I was also nervous about landing at Rome’s Fiumicino airport, which is not known to be traveler friendly.

Thankfully, when we landed, the sun was shining.  It was still May, and the chaos so characteristic of Fiumicino in July and August did not materialize.  Though we were exhausted from the trans-Atlantic journey and needing three or four more hours of sleep, it seemed to take very little time to make it through Controllo Passaporti [immigration], retrieve our baggage and rent a nine passenger van.  Before we knew it, we were on the Grande Raccordo Anulare (the Roman beltway) heading toward Highway A1- South.

After a good shot of espresso ristretto at the first Autogrill, I was all set to drive us to the Amalfi Coast while everyone else caught up on sleep.  Our destination was Praiano, a small town on the Gulf of Salerno side of the Sorrentine Peninsula, just past Positano.  The intention was to spend a couple of nights just to chill out and enjoy the scenery as we recovered from the jet lag.

Breathtaking views like this are all over the Amalfi Coast

By the time we took the exit at Castellamare di Stabia, everyone was awake and excited to get to our destination.  It was not long before the “ooh”s and “ah”s started as we hairpinned along the road that hugs the mountainside high above the Tyrrhenian Sea.  Of course we stopped at many of the scenic overlooks, taking way too many pictures of us smiling in front of the backdrop of the Bay of Naples and Mt. Vesuvius.

Driving the narrow, Sorrentine streets was not a new experience for me, but this was the first time I did so in a nine passenger van, so it took a little getting used to.  I eventually achieved a certain comfort level and was able to navigate without giving it much thought.  It was only later that I realized that my passengers were terrified.

“Did you realize that you only missed that wall by about two inches?” Tommy asked as he pulled in the passenger side view mirror to keep it from scraping.

“Well, I did miss it, did I not?”

The only other complication about the drive had to do with relying on a GPS for the first time.  It proved to be more trouble than it was worth, especially in mountainous areas like the Amalfi Coast, because it had trouble distinguishing the road we were on from the road 50 feet above us with almost identical coordinates.  At one point, we came to a dead end and the GPS squawked:  “Turn right onto pathway.”  Uh, no, I don’t think so, as that would send us careening down the mountainside.  With the help of a friendly resident guiding us through what seemed like a fifteen point turn, we somehow managed to turn the huge van around and get to our destination at the Hotel Holiday in Praiano.  We arrived exhausted, but we were jazzed by the new experience and the stunning views from our balconies.

Positano

The next morning, we wisely decided to leave the van parked at the hotel and took the bus to Positano.  Words cannot do justice to this lovely town of cobblestone streets, quaint shops with flowers everywhere, artisans showing off their handiwork, stone houses stairstepping up the mountainside, and the crystal clear waters of the Bay of Salerno.  We decided to have lunch at La Cambusa, relaxing at an outdoor table on a terrace overlooking the main beach.  I was skeptical at first, fearing it might be an overpriced tourist trap, but it turned out that the food was delicious and very reasonably priced.  We asked for their red house wine, and I was surprised when they brought out a couple of very good bottles of Aglianico. (I had only recently learned about Aglianico at the Italian Wine and Culture Seminars held at Casa Italiana in Washington, DC, that it was the prime grape of the Campania region and often called the “Barolo of the South.”  The wine lived up to its name, and we would enjoy many more bottles of Aglianico during our stay in Italy.)

Enjoying some appetizers and some Aglianico at La Cambusa. 

The following day, we were headed back north.  After spending a few hours touring the ruins of Pompei, we were on our way to Rome for three nights.   Not that we didn’t enjoy it, but the time in Rome was almost obligatory.  One does not come to Italy without seeing the Coliseum, the Forum and the rest of Ancient Rome, as well as St. Peter’s Basilica and the Vatican.  To bypass them would be--shall we say?--a sin.

In front of St. Peter's Basilica

After Rome, we were now ready for the main event.  We had reserved one week at a villa in the heart of Tuscany, where we intended to enjoy beautiful scenery, food and wine, rest and relaxation, peace and quiet, interrupted only by occasional day trips to Florence, Pisa, Lucca and the like.  But there was one more day before our reserved week, and I assured my friends that they absolutely must spend at least one day and night in Assisi.

A view of Assisi from the fortress of Rocca Maggiore

As we entered Umbria, it was raining, and my heart sank as I could barely make out the contours of Assisi shrouded in fog and rain.  This would not do.  But somehow, miraculously after we had checked into our hotel and had a light lunch, the rain abated and the sun started peeking through the clouds.  We dared to venture out on foot down the medieval cobblestone streets, and a few of us climbed the path to Rocca Maggiore, where we enjoyed a breathtaking bird’s-eye view of St. Francis’ home town and its beautiful churches, castles, and surrounding countryside.

The next morning, we were off to Villa Giardo, a spacious and elegant five bedroom villa nestled in the hills about halfway between the towns of Greve in Chianti and Figline Valdarno.  Here again the GPS  proved to be worthless, because Villa Giardo is so remote that the last mile is made up of unpaved “roads” that a GPS could only guess at.  The street address was “Via Case Sparse” (“scattered houses”), so you can imagine the setting.  The final mile ascending to the villa was somewhere between exhilarating and terrifying, but, having reached our destination, it was more than worth it.

The Villa is a restored stone building, parts of which date back to the year 1059.  The interior has every modern day comfort and convenience you could wish for, even while retaining an old world ambience.  It is surrounded by cultivated trees and gardens, vineyards and olive groves.  Many an evening was spent gazing at the stars and admiring the flora and fauna in this utterly peaceful setting while sipping on abundant wine, enjoying delicious food, and deepening friendships. 

Villa Giardo

All of us agreed it was the trip of a lifetime.  It was summed up most simply and eloquently when our friend Donna told me, “Leo, you have a beautiful country.”  I smiled with joy and satisfaction, so thrilled that our friends enjoyed Italy as much as I did.  Italy is indeed a beautiful country.

A Special Lady

I write this post in honor of a very special lady who would have been 110 years old today were she still alive.  On February 10, 1903, Antonia Longo was born in the small town of Torre Faro, just outside of Messina in Sicily.  I am not sure what life in southern Italy was like back then, but I am told that Messina used to be a thriving city, certainly well positioned as a major seaport on the strait that bears its name.  That was before 1908, when a major earthquake leveled the city which, though since rebuilt, is nothing like its former self.

The earthquake had to have a lasting impression on Antonia, as it left her trapped in the rubble for a few days before help arrived.  I wonder how formative that traumatic experience must have been to her, as it seemed to set the tone for the many things through which she would have to persevere later in life.

She was around seventeen years old when she married Nicola Ruello who, born in 1886, was practically twice her age at the time.  Their marriage soon produced two children:  Joe was born in 1922 and Rose in 1927.   Nicola was not home much, as he often traveled to the United States in search of better opportunities, sending money home to his family.  This was not uncommon, and women like Antonia were often referred to as “American widows”. On one of his trips home in 1929, Nicola and Antonia conceived a third child, Angela.  They may not have known that Angela was on her way when Nicola departed again on a very ill timed trip to the United States.

Antonia's three children, circa 1931, left to right, Joe, Angela and Rose. 

The stock market had just crashed.  The U.S. and much of the world were entering into the Great Depression.  Between the prolonged economic downturn and the subsequent hostilities of World War II, it would be sixteen years before Nicola and Antonia would see each other again, and sixteen years before Angela would meet her father for the first time.  During that time, Antonia endured even greater trials without the support of a husband.  In 1933, Rose became very ill and, due to a misdiagnosis, ended up dying in her mother’s arms at the tender age of six.  Antonia also lost her mother and her mother-in-law within a short span of time.  A few years later, her son Joe—now a young man--managed to join his father in the United States, only to end up serving in the U.S. army.  To add to her many other woes, Antonia now had to worry about her oldest son being in harm’s way. 

Aided only by a support network of extended family, Antonia was left to raise Angela by herself.  Above and beyond the relative poverty of southern Italy, they had to endure the shortages and rationing caused by the war.  As the war heated up around the Strait of Messina, Antonia, Angela and the extended family had to flee their homes up into the mountainous countryside.  Once it was clear that the Allies were in control of the area and had routed the Germans, they returned home, only to find it bombed, the second time in Antonia’s life that her home was leveled.  With no other choice but to carry on, Antonia and Angela persevered past the end of the war until 1946, when they were finally able to join the rest of their family in America.

As if to crown and reward Antonia for her faith and perseverance, the reunion in America produced yet a fourth child.  Born to Nicola and Antonia in their later years, Lillian was all the more precious to them, and they lovingly referred to her  as "a figghiola" (the little girl), even after she became an adult.

Antonia Longo Ruello is one of my heroes.  She was also my grandmother (and Angela was my mom).  Her perseverance and faithfulness through adversity have always been an inspiration to me.  She was also a very godly woman, and I have no doubt that her faithfulness and perseverance were the fruit of a genuine faith in the Savior.

In the Apostles’ Creed there is a reference to believing in “the communion of saints”, the idea that there is a mystical union among all  the saints of the church, both living and dead.  While Protestants and Catholics may have different ideas as to exactly what that means, I am feeling a special closeness to my Nonna Antonia today.  This is partly because  I loved her dearly and continue to be inspired by her, but also because I had the privilege of sharing a birthday with her, and today she would be exactly twice my age.    

Celebrating a birthday with my nonna.

Buon compleanno, Nonna.  Ti voglio tanto bene.

Funeral for a Friend

His name was Giuseppe. We met over thirty years ago in graduate school while  both pursuing a relatively useless Masters Degree in Spanish Language and Literature.  Though he was almost 20 years my senior, we had much in common in addition to our course of studies:  Like me, his parents were from Sicily.  In fact, his home town was only a few miles from my parents’ birthplace of Torre Faro, Messina.  We hit it off well, and I invited him over to dinner often, as both of us enjoyed having someone to speak Italian with, as well as talk about Sicily.   

There was also much that we did not have in common.  I was a young Christian, married for a couple of years with an infant daughter, attending a local church and doing my best to stay on the straight and narrow as best as I knew how.  He on the other hand, was an older, confirmed bachelor, and very much a man of the world.  I had some opportunities to share the Gospel with him and was thrilled when he prayed a prayer of faith and repentance, only to be disappointed that his profession of faith apparently did not result in an immediate change in lifestyle.

After we both completed our studies, we saw much less of each other, though we kept in occasional contact.  He eventually retired and moved to Florida, still a confirmed bachelor, but not like he used to be.  He started living a relatively solitary and quiet life, and his social contacts seemed to be limited to friends in a small prayer group at the church he attended in Florida.  His conversations with me seemed to be limited to two topics:  (1) his politics, which—believe it or not—were even further to the right than mine; and (2) the church, and he was particularly fond of talking about his prayer group.

I got to see him about once a year, inviting him over to the house when he periodically traveled back north, but otherwise our contact was limited to an occasional phone call and exchanges of Christmas greetings.  I was surprised this year when the Christmas letter I sent him was returned with no forwarding address.  I had not heard from him, and it would not be like him to not let me know that he had moved.  When I called his number and got a recording that the number was no longer in service, I assumed the worst--  “googling” his name and the word “obituary”--but the search did not yield any relevant results.  When I searched exclusively on the address and found some real estate records listing him as the owner, I clicked on his name and learned that he died sometime in 2012 at the age of 73.  There were no other details.

Given the lack of an obituary on the internet, I wonder if there was even a funeral.  As far as I knew, his only living relatives were a sister and some nieces and nephews in Sicily.  Though his absence will not have a major impact on my life, I am taken aback that a friend of mine is no longer here, and I am particularly saddened by the possibility that he may have died alone.  And yet, by God’s mercy, I have reason to hope that he did not die alone.  So long, paisano.  May you receive a rich welcome in God’s Kingdom, and I look forward to seeing you there.

Advent

Unless you have been a hermit living in a cave, you are aware that according to some ancient Mayan prophecy, the end of the world as we know it may occur on December 21, 2012. Just in case the Mayans were on to something, I figured I should try to post a Christmas related message a little earlier than usual this year.

Last year a well meaning but misguided evangelical Christian by the name of Harold Camping made his umpteenth prediction about the return of Christ and the end of the world, which according to his calculations was supposed to occur on May 21, 2011.  When that did not happen he said he miscalculated and it would actually occur on October 21.    The rest is history. 

Jesus Himself said that no one knew the day or the hour of His return.  The unfortunate obsession of people like Camping to predict the date was not only wrong-headed but justifiably mocked by the world.  I myself joined in the fun and had a few good laughs. But the sad part about such end-times and doomsday obsession is that it distracts from the main message of the Gospel

Having said all that, I have been thinking a lot about the supposed Mayan calculation of December 21, 2012.  The possibility does make me kind of pensive in a funny sort of way.  Wouldn’t it be just like God to not reveal such things to Christians, who would ostensibly be interested—even eager—to know the day of Christ’s return, but instead reveal it to those whom you would least expect?  Sometimes God in His grace gives supernatural wisdom even to pagans. After all, how did the three wise men (pagan astrologers at best) know to follow the star to Bethlehem?

At Christmas we celebrate when Jesus came the first time.  No one seemed to be expecting Him, save for the precious few to whom God had revealed it.  The world was in turmoil, and the descendants of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob were once again a captive people without much hope.  The Romans had taken over.  All of “God’s chosen people” were suffering under oppression, except for those who had sold themselves out or had been co-opted by the Romans; such as tax-collectors, corrupted religious leaders and, last but not least,  “King” Herod.  Needless to say, the latter was not thrilled when the wise men inquired:  "Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage."  Everyone desperately needed for such a Savior to be born, but not everyone knew it, nor did they have a full appreciation of what they needed to be saved from.

Two thousand-plus years later, the more things change, the more they remain the same.  The world is in turmoil.  The regions surrounding the birthplace of Jesus look frighteningly like a powder keg ready to explode.  The great democracies of the western world, which for the most part have been a force for good, seem ready to collapse under the weight of their own excesses.  We sense that there is something fundamentally wrong, but we may not have a full appreciation or understanding of exactly what ails us.

Against this backdrop, we live our daily lives.  I personally am truly blessed and have much to be grateful for.  Life is good. I have been married to the same lovely lady for more than 33 years, taking great delight in her and being amazed that she apparently delights in me. We have been blessed with three children, the oldest of which is married to a godly man, and they have given us two beautiful grandchildren.  Our other two children have special needs and we continue to pray for them, but they are otherwise healthy, content and provided for, and we love them dearly.  We also take joy in our extended family and a circle of friends, particularly those with whom we fellowship at Solid Rock Church, where we have attended for more than 33 years.

These are little slices of heaven on earth.  And yet there is a longing in my heart for something more.  Part of it is because of the pain and disappointments that stand in contrast to the blessings:  mourning over lost loved ones, disappointment in myself over sins and shortcomings I have not yet been able to overcome, and the aches and pains of life, both figurative and literal.  And a quick glimpse at the newspaper on any given day feeds my fears that the world is going to hell in a handbasket.  But even if life were presently a bed of roses, I know it is all fleeting.  We all eventually grow old and die, and everything we worked so hard for and everything that seems so important eventually comes to nothing, except…

… except it does not come to nothing.  I said earlier that the sad part about doomsday obsessions is that they distract us from the main message of the Gospel, The Gospel in a nutshell is this:  Jesus, the Son of God, took on flesh and lived the perfect sinless life that we could never live, died the death that we deserve, and rose again to offer us forgiveness and eternal life. One day--and we don't know when--He will indeed return.   

May it be soon.  Come, Lord Jesus.  

My Sexagenarian Brother

I am the youngest of three baby-boomer brothers.    When we were growing up, the Smothers Brothers were popular, and we would occasionally joke about one of their routines in which the younger Tommy Smothers would lament to the older Dick, “Mom always liked you best!”   In our case, the mantle of “favored-one” fell not to my oldest brother Pete, but to the next in line, Nick.

In stark contrast to Tommy Smothers, we say this about Nick  with not even a hint of bitterness or jealousy.  It was simply a fact.  After all, what’s not to like?  Nick was always the best behaved and the most compliant.  He cleaned up after himself, did his chores, never left things half-done, and was always ready to serve his parents.  He was most likely the one who started the practice of serving our mother coffee and toast in bed on weekend mornings, which kind of obligated the rest of us the follow suit.  

Old Friends: Musings on Living and Dying Well

Can you imagine us years from today

Sharing a park bench quietly?

How terribly strange to be seventy!

For someone younger than thirty, Paul Simon waxed quite philosophical when he penned these words more than forty years ago. He now gets to experience firsthand the answer to his rhetorical question as he turns seventy this year. Oddly enough, seventy doesn’t seem that old anymore, perhaps due to increased life expectancy. They say that the fifties of today are like the thirties of yesteryear, so perhaps seventy is equivalent to fifty. It is all a matter of perspective, particularly as the baby boomer generation is getting on in years.

Has it really been 39 years?

Certain dates tend to stay etched in my mind. Not to sound morbid, but this is often the case with anniversaries of deaths. Not that they are constantly on my mind. Rather, like a macro lying dormant on a hard disk, they self execute with the arrival of the date.

March 20 is one of those days. Though I look forward to it as the first day of spring, it also marks the day my grandfather, Nonno Pietro, passed away. It was my first experience at losing a loved one. It has been 39 years and I was only a child at the time, but I can still remember the day clear as a bell. My dad was at nonno's bedside in Italy when he died. (On and off over an 18 month period, one or both of my parents spent weeks and months at a time in Italy, having dropped everything to show undying devotion to their parents during their final days--something else I will never forget.)

Farewell

I sit alone as a flood of memories parades through my head.


I am remembering the black and white photos from when we were kids. I can picture the one of you standing beside your father smirking as he is holding up a Topo Gigio doll with its head turned backwards, so it ‘s erect tail looks like something else.


We were both the youngest sons of our parents, only a few months apart in age. On the one hand, this produced an unspoken rivalry. On the other hand, we were friends and playmates. Though you were one grade ahead of me, we went through much of life together: catechism classes, first communion, etc. Our families were always together, whether at work in the mushroom houses or spending leisurely evenings socializing at home.

I vividly remember when your family would come over. Instead of knocking, your father would call out “Permesso!” in a loud voice as he walked through our front door without a moment’s hesitation. At other times he would simply yell out my dad’s name in the Genovese dialect, “Menegu!”, and my dad would yell back “Avanti!” Our parents would gather around the table for coffee or dessert, together with Uncle Joe and Aunt Josephine and others, having a grand old time talking about who-knows-what while we played together. Though sometimes we fought, we were best of buddies.

In Memory of my Mom

My dear mother Angelina was born in 1930 in Torre Faro, Messina. She was the third of three siblings born in Italy, after Uncle Joe and Aunt Rosie. The family situation at the time was not uncommon for southern Italy. My grandmother, "Nonna Antonia", was what was commonly referred to as a vedova Americana: an “American widow”. That is, my grandfather, “Nonno Nicola”, like many breadwinners in that era, spent months and years at a time in the United States, where jobs and opportunities were more plentiful, so he could send money home to his wife and children and perhaps one day bring them to the USA. Unfortunately, one of his trips abroad occurred at the end of 1929, just after my mother was conceived, and at the beginning of the Great Depression. The economic downturn and the subsequent World War--with Italy and the USA on opposite sides—prolonged the separation until after the war.

The Weather and People's Health

-- Mrs. Eynsford-Hill: I do hope we won’t have any unseasonable cold spells; they bring on so much influenza. And the whole of our family is susceptible to it.

-- Eliza Doolittle: My Aunt died of influenza, or so they said. But it’s my belief they done the old woman in.

After thoroughly training Eliza Doolittle in culture, refinement and speech, Henry Higgins was ready to test her ability to maneuver in high society without betraying her humble upbringing and Cockney accent. As a safeguard, he had one proviso: “She's to keep to two subjects: the weather and everybody's health.” These memorable lines from My Fair Lady have perhaps contributed to the almost proverbial notion that “the weather and people’s health” are the last polite and safe topics for conversation, as opposed to, for instance, religion and politics.

Alas, as Eliza discovered, I am not sure either topic is safe anymore. This day and age, even an innocent comment about a delightfully mild winter might provoke a diatribe about global warming, caused by the evils of corporations and the American way of life, which are responsible for excess emissions of carbon dioxide--that newest of pollutants that also happens to be what we exhale.

And speaking of exhaling, people’s health is no longer a safe topic either, as it has the potential to devolve into a debate about doctors, health insurance and national health care. I have known this for a while, but it was brought home to me recently on Facebook. It all started last week when my niece posted the following:

No one should die because they cannot afford health care, and no one should go broke because they get sick. If you agree, please post this as your status for the rest of the day.

The Musings of a Happily Married Man

Thirty years ago today Susan and I exchanged vows at Ebenezer United Methodist Church, just outside of Rising Sun Maryland. It was a sweltering hot day with 200+ people packed in a small country church with no air conditioning. There was no sacristy or side room for the groom to hide in, so there I was standing in front of the whole congregation, for some reason trying not to make eye contact with anyone as I awaited the bride. As Susan walked up the aisle, she was obviously more nervous than I was. Her hands were shaking so badly that I thought the petals on her bouquet were going to start dropping.

We had somewhat of an ecumenical service, officiated by the Rev. Lloyd Foard, a family friend and former minister of Susan’s home church, and Father Douglas Dempster, a Roman Catholic priest and personal friend. Between the two of them, we probably had received a total of one hour of pre-marital counseling. I don’t fault either of them for it, because it’s not like we exactly sought their advice. Looking back now, I think if we had approached the pastors of our current church, Solid Rock Church, and said we wanted to get married, they would have lovingly and wisely asked us to reconsider. We were both much too selfish and immature and had no clue what we were getting into. Scratch that sentence. I was too selfish and immature and had no clue what I was getting into.

The Cosmological Argument

I fully expected my cousin Mat to respond to my last post [Apologia] with some thought provoking observations and questions, and I was not disappointed. To a duplicate post on Facebook, he responded:

Dawkins has gone above and beyond the call of duty in his writing. As the burden of proof lies on the claimant, the religious community is responsible to offer proof of God. It is not the secular community's job to disprove him/her/it. Even if Dawkins lacked any of the evidence cited in The Blind Watchmaker, et al, one would have to remain agnostic (and, further, atheistic) toward religion in order to call themselves intellectually honest, because the only proof that religion offers is faith.

Mat has used this argument elsewhere in other posts at Men of Reason and Down with Absolutes. It is an interesting argument, but I am afraid it does not hold water. With all due respect to Mat, it seems to me to be the atheist’s ultimate artful dodge. In effect, the argument goes like this: “You are the one who came up with this God business, so the burden of proof is on you. As for me, I don’t have to prove a negative; i.e., that God doesn’t exist.”

Perhaps so, but the atheists, especially those who appeal to the sciences as the ultimate and only authoritative source of knowledge, have an even greater burden of proof. They need to explain the origin of the universe, and this has left them in a precarious position. As my good friend, Gordon Leidner states at his website Created Cosmos:

Today's scientists go to extreme lengths and propose some of the most fantastic theories in order to keep God out of the equation. In many of these theories, they are trying to create SOMETHING out of NOTHING.

Before Einstein’s theory of general relativity and the subsequent scientific consensus that the universe exploded out of nothingness some 14 billion years ago, the atheist could simply state that all matter and energy existed eternally (which, by the way, defies logic; but we will save that theme for another post). Armed with Darwinism and the now generally discredited "steady state" theory of the universe, atheists needed only explain how life arose out of inorganic matter (i.e., abiogenesis or spontaneous generation, which is still another far fetched absurdity that I hope to discuss in a subsequent post.)

But the atheists had the rug pulled out from under them with the theory of general relativity, a consensus that twentieth century scientists came to most reluctantly. As stated by Geisler and Turek in I Don’t Have Enough Faith to be an Atheist:

It was 1916, and Albert Einstein did not like where his calculations were leading him. If his theory of General Relativity was true, it meant that the universe was not eternal but had a beginning. Einstein’s calculations indeed were revealing a definite beginning to all time, all nature, and all space. This flew in the face of his belief that the universe was static and eternal. Einstein later called his discovery “irritating”. He wanted the universe to be self existent—not reliant on an outside cause—but the universe seemed to be one giant effect.

Thus Geisler and Turek introduce the basic cosmological argument which starts to shatter the foundation of atheism:

1. Everything that had a beginning had a cause
2. The universe had a beginning.
3. Therefore, the universe had a cause.

Despite the efforts of others to dance around such unassailable logic, Einstein knew the implications. Once he got over the initial irritation of his findings and came to terms with their implications, Einstein had yet another source of irritation:

In the view of such harmony in the cosmos which I, with my limited human mind, am able to recognize, there are yet people who say there is no God. But what makes me really angry is that they quote me for support for such views.

Though best described as a deist as opposed to a theist, there is little doubt as to where Einstein stood on the God question:

I want to know how God created this world. I am not interested in this or that phenomenon, in the spectrum of this or that element. I want to know his thoughts. The rest are details.

Speaking of details, there were obviously many other questions and objections Mat raised to my previous post, but I will deal with them one at a time. Stay tuned.

In Vino Veritas

• You have filled my heart with greater joy than when their grain and new wine abound. Psalm 4:7

In my last post, Biblical Enology, I mentioned how the Scriptures often speak of wine in a positive light (unless, of course, it is imbibed in excess quantities or to the point of addiction), and how the fruit of the vine was a major part of biblical culture. Like the rest of the Mediterranean basin, my homeland of Italy also has a rich viniculture, boasting of some great wines which, in my not so humble opinion, are preferable to the over-rated vintages of its next door neighbor, France. Some of my favorite Italian reds include: Piedmont wines from the north, particularly the three “B”s, Barbera, Barbaresco and Barolo; any decent Chianti from Tuscany; Montepulciano d’Abruzzo from the heel of Italy, and Nero d’Avola from Sicily.

The previous post also mentioned that I would be thrilled to carry on the tradition of my grandparents’ generation and keep some vineyards, but that is not in the cards, at least not now. But I have been making wine lately, even if the process has nothing of the thrill and romance (and hard work) associated with growing one’s own grapes, crushing them into must, fermenting, clarifying, aging and bottling. A few years ago I described my winemaking process to my elderly Italian cousin, who together with her husband had been tending Zio Nino’s old vineyards until she herself passed away last year. She stared at me incredulously and said, “It sounds like you are buying bulk quantities of already made wine and putting it in your own bottles!”

It’s not quite like that, but she probably wasn’t too far off the mark. This is how it works: A group of friends and I periodically venture over to Annapolis Home Brew (http://www.annapolishomebrew.com/), a wonderful establishment that supplies all the ingredients, equipment and accessories a vintner could ask for, including wine presses and crushers for the professional or old fashioned folks like my forbears. For amateurs like me, they have complete wine making starter kits. Once armed with all the equipment and paraphernalia, all you need are ingredients, which also come readily packaged in kits consisting of vacuum sealed containers of juice, yeasts, clarifiers and other ingredients designed to enhance and preserve.

Biblical Enology

• Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for it is now that God favors what you do. Ecclesiastes 9:7
  

I am sure I am not the first to notice, but it seems to me that wine is a thoroughly biblical drink. On the one hand, the Bible obviously has a lot to say about alcoholic beverages, with no lack of admonitions against drinking to excess or otherwise being mastered by alcohol. It is particularly negative about beverages on either extreme of the alcoholic content spectrum; that is, I cannot find a single positive reference in the Bible to beer on one end, or to distilled spirits (“strong drink”) on the other.

Wine is a different story. Though the Scriptures abound in passages warning against drunkenness and addiction to wine, they have a number of positive things to say about wine in general, as in the verse quoted above. The beverage is usually associated with joy and celebration, particularly at the time of harvest. In the Old Testament it is often part and parcel with sacrifices and offerings, and of course is an integral part of the Passover meal.

I still miss my Dad

It was three years ago today that my father passed away. I am thankful that he lived to a good old age and we had a great relationship, and I have nothing but fond memories. But I still miss him.

Yes, losing loved ones is part of life, and time does have a way of tempering the loss. Furthermore, my faith assures me that I will be reunited with him. But every once in a while it hits me like a ton of bricks that he is no longer around. But then, the renewed sensation of loss is quickly followed by a bittersweet joy that reminds me what a great dad I had.

At his funeral it was my privilege to give one of the eulogies. After rereading what I wrote at the time, I realize that I would not change a thing.

Honoring the Living

You will notice that my last few posts were about some very dear people whom I wanted to honor on the occasion of their passing. When I shared these posts with a friend from work, she gave me some positive feedback along with some helpful advice: “I wish someone would write similar memories of me when I die. Come to think of it, we should write about the people we love and care for BEFORE they die, not after. It’s then a testament of their value which they can appreciate while living”

Good advice indeed! I got to put it into practice the other day, on the very special occasion of my mother in-law’s 90th birthday, which we celebrated in the fellowship hall of Rosebank United Methodist Church in Cecil County, Maryland. As the cake was being served, I got to share the following:

Zio Ugo

When it rains it pours. I no sooner finished writing a tribute for my beloved Zia Fortuna, than her husband, Zio Ugo, followed shortly after her. Like hers, his health had been deteriorating for years, and both of them had been suffering greatly over the past month or so. By God’s mercy, they went within a few days of each other.

How do I describe Giuseppe Scarfì, known to me as Zio Ugo? He was the fun uncle, always good for a joke (sometimes a bit off color, much to Zia Fortuna’s chagrin). He dearly loved his family, both immediate and extended. He addressed young and old alike with terms of endearment such as tesoro [treasure] and gioia [joy], and they were heartfelt expressions.

Fortunata Vadalà Scarfì: Requiescat in Pace

 Born Fortunata Vadalà, my father’s sister was known to me as “Zia Fortuna”, which literally means “Aunt Luck”. Her name was a bit of a misnomer, as she had her share of misfortunes, particularly during the latter part of her life. But then again, you wouldn’t know it by her unflappable joy and serenity and her contagious smile, even in the midst of adversity.

I first met her when I was three years old, during a long vacation in Italy. I remember very little about that summer of 1961, but I was apparently taken with Zia Fortuna. Numerous times since then she lovingly reminded and teased me about a conversation we had just before it was time for my parents and me to return to the states:

“Ora te ne vai in America, e mi lasci sola.” [Now you are going back to America and you will leave me all alone.]

“No, zia, Fortuna!” I protested with sincerity and innocence. “Io non ti lascerö mai sola!” [I will never leave you alone.]

Birthdays

Today, February 10th, is my 51st birthday. No big deal.

Though I certainly enjoy the well wishes I have received, and the extra nice birthday meal, it’s funny how the excitement of birthdays diminishes with age. When I was a kid I looked forward so much to February and my special day. I also shared a birthday with my beloved grandmother, Nonna Antonia, and I never minded dividing the attention with her. I thought it was kind of neat to have the same birthday as my nonna. Here is a picture of a typical celebration, when I turned three and she turned fifty-eight. There I am standing on a chair between nonna and my beautiful mother, with everyone else either looking into the camera or drooling over my mother’s strawberry shortcake, which was something to die for!

In addition to enjoying my birthday as a child, I also looked forward to February for the hope of a good blizzard or two that might get me out of school. Now it seems that if it snows at all, it’s only enough to get my kids out of school but not enough to shut down the federal government (my beloved employer), so what good is that? For that and other reasons (also related to age) I have come to have little use for February’s cold, short and dark days. And with birthdays not as exciting as they used to be, the month has little or no redeeming social value. (Okay, the romantic side of me still enjoys Valentine’s Day.) I have heard (though I am not sure it is true) that the ancient Romans left January and February off of their calendar because they would just as soon not acknowledge these otherwise dreary and entirely forgettable months.

Don’t get me wrong. Life is good and every day is a blessing. But I’m more than ready for spring.

Merry Christmas to all

Dear Family and Friends,

For obvious reasons, this year we have had occasion to sing lots of lullabies. Leo in particular has enjoyed singing Sicilian lullabies:

Ninna nanna, beddu miu (Lullaby, my handsome guy)
dormi dormi, nun chiangiri, ninna nanna... (Go to sleep, now don’t you cry, lullaby...)

Life has not been the same since Allen and Christine blessed us with our first grandchild, James, born this past July 9th. It’s not that he needs the soporific and calming effect of a lullaby; truth be told, the kid doesn’t cry much. On the few occasions that he fusses, we put him back in Christine’s arms and, presto! ...problem solved!

But it is an incredible joy to sing lullabies to a grandson, be they Sicilian, Italian or otherwise. Maybe it’s because in so doing we start to imagine the lullabies that our grandparents sang years ago to our parents, and even to us. The thought brings with it a bittersweet nostalgia. At our age, these memories are starting to become dearer as the years slip by, taking with them more and more loved ones from those wonderful generations. And little by little, in due time we will be considered the older generation (notwithstanding that we are rather young grandparents, barely into our fifties.).

These two semi-older folks are doing pretty well this Christmas. Thank the Lord, we do not lack for decent health. Truth be told, we really don’t lack for anything of importance. We love each other, and our children (and, of course, our grandson) are a great source of joy. What more could we ask?

Above all, our greatest gratitude and joy are for the Child who was born more than two millennia ago. Because of Him, our sins are forgiven, and we have the blessed hope that the passing of the years and generations is not the final word. We wish you a blessed Christmas and a joyful New Year.

Leo and Susan and family