Ciao, Italia, il Mio Cuore.
This is something I wrote for a scholarship. I shared it on Facebook, but I decided I would like to share it on my blog. Here you go.
I flew through the air, leaving behind my world. The tears were dry before the plane reached altitude, but my heart ached. On that cool March evening two and a half years earlier, I could have never imagined how hard this would be.
The letter was difficult to read from the shaking hands and the teary eyes. In my mind, there had always been three phases in my life: pre-mission, mission, and post-mission. The letter was the beginning of the end of phase one. Training for phase two started with the signature on that single page message. I was now learning where I would be living and serving for the next two years. "Dear Elder Duclos," I paused and chuckled. "Elder" was what all male missionaries were called. It was the title I wanted so badly; all my heroes had once been called Elder. I made a quick joke about not wanting to finish the letter, saying that was enough for the day. My friends and family gathered laughed at the joke, but they knew I was dying to go on. "You are hereby called to serve as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the Italy Milan Mission." Excitement and joy burst from the crowd gathered in my parents' home. The feelings were mixed. Fear, excitement, confusion, and the noise around me were drown out as I spoke to my brother on the phone. He was an Elder, one in Puerto Rico. "I did it buddy, I'm going on a mission." He would not be home when I left. His two year, no vacation mission would end one month after mine began. Four years was a sacrifice that was not lightly made. It wasn't until later that the doubts and fears came. I didn't speak Italian. I had never lived on my own. At eighteen I didn't even know where Milan, Italy was. But those fears came later. That March night, the words I had read strengthened me and became etched into my mind. As they came to mind in the airplane leaving the Italy Milan Mission, those words were etched into my heart.
My television screen on my connecting flight from Frankfurt to Houston had some problems. There were several unsuccessful attempts by the flight attendants to correct the malfunction, however I didn't mind much; after all, I hadn't watched TV or movies for two years anyway. What was another 11 hours? I started doing what I liked to do in my free time: reflecting. I pondered some words from the March letter. "Greater blessings and more happiness than you have yet experienced await you as you humbly and prayerfully serve the Lord in this labor of love among His children."
When analyzing a text, religious or otherwise, a person naturally doubts, myself included. I have a skeptic in me, though throughout the years this voice became fully aware it was fighting a losing battle. The words of the letter were bold. Greater blessings and more happiness than you have yet experienced? I thought. It sounded like a letter from Willy Wonka. It was a claim either by an idiot or by a person who knew life very well, either way one who was confident that what he was saying was true. I listened for the skeptic, but he was silent. Critical of the wording, but the truth behind the words he could not refute. He and I were living proof of its truthfulness. Although he was constantly trying to loosen my grip on my faith, we knew that in the two years I had spent in Italy, I received greater blessings and more happiness than ever before. The man who had written that letter was no idiot.
Patrick. The gloom of my first Christmas day in Italy was overwhelming. We did not have the time, means, or permission to return home for Christmas. Ours was a vacation free two year service. My only contact with home was through a weekly email opportunity and two video calls per year, once on Christmas and the other on Mother's Day. I was having a hard day. Although I would have never admitted it at the time, I missed my home.
The words of the letter seemed so hard that day. "As you serve with all your heart, might, and strength, the Lord will lead you..." I just feel alone, he muttered inside of me as I stepped on the bus with my assigned partner, or companion. We had just finished our second visit of the day, bringing a message of joy that at that moment I didn't feel. Our appointment for our video call was in an hour and the members lending us a computer would be expecting us before then. The ticket scanner beeped as I surveyed the bus. That is when I saw Patrick. He was the only person on the bus with us. I felt in my heart the urgent need to talk to him. Like he'll talk to you. Remember the last time you tried to talk to someone on this bus ride? He just yelled at you telling you you were of the devil! It would be a waste of time. Today he was winning, so I stayed quiet. My head shifted slightly so I could see Patrick. I just couldn't shake the feeling. He was looking at me. I knew he was someone I needed to meet.
"Hi! What's your name?" After years of customer service before my mission, I had gotten really good at acting happy when I was not.
"I am Patrick." His words were not special, but as he spoke, I felt the skeptic shrink into the recesses of my mind for at the forefront was a feeling of joy. Those selfless feelings had not led me astray. Thoughts of home disappeared as I learned of my new friend. My heart filled with a brotherly love that I needed to feel.
Patrick had just left his home in Ghana to find a better life in Italy. He did not find one. His life felt pointless. He lived in a charity house, but he felt he had no reason to go on. He had no job, money, or love. My sadness was that of a bad day, but his was that of a life that had fallen off track. He needed a hand from his brother and I had reluctantly been the person to offer him that hand. Regardless the letter's promise was still true. I had been led.
He was just the first. Whether they were from Italy or Ghana or China, they needed me as much as I needed them. Any time I had an excuse to turn in and focus on my own problems, if I just focused my concerns outward to help others, I would find true happiness. It was not the service that solved my problems. As I saw men like Patrick go through hell, I realized that I was not. As I lost sight of my life in the service of my brothers and sisters in Italy, I had saved myself. I lost myself in the service of others, which in the end is the service of God, and the person I had become was grown. The name on the ticket was the same, but the person who read that letter was not the same person who was sitting on the plane from Frankfurt to Houston.
"We are experiencing some slight turbulence on the flight, please be advised." My thoughts of the past were interrupted by the shake of the world. Patrick left my mind, but my heart was full of love for my brother. The turbulence didn't bother me much. I actually enjoyed it. It is during storms when a tree learns how to be flexible, how to adapt, and most importantly it is when a tree learns how weak it is. The weaknesses I was aware of in myself were found in those storms.
"The Lord will reward you for the goodness of your life." It had been hard. I now know better than most how little the world wants religion in it. I know how hard it is to share with someone my heart only to have it thrown to the ground. People never realized that it hurt. I did not blame them. They didn't understand and I wasn't there to condemn them; I was there to help them understand. It was in these hard times that I found a love for people who didn't know me. They became my family.
The March night I didn't know of Italians but I was excited to have a unique experience among them. After a six week crash course in Italian I gained a respect for them. They must be geniuses if they can speak that language! After a few months among them, I grew judgmental. It seemed the longer I spent among them without accepting them as they were, the harder it was to enjoy my time with them. I grew a desire to change them, but not the way a brother wants to help his sibling grow and improve. I wanted them to change as an unloving teacher wants his children to be quiet. My desire was full of pride. But when I let go of judging them, everything became better. I still knew their flaws were flaws, but I looked at those flaws as the character of the people, not as the problem with their culture. The thought, Why is she so worried if the pasta is cooked perfectly?!, changed to Why don't we worry about what we eat as much as these people? Indeed, I had been blessed for the goodness I had allowed enter my life. The goodness that was this new family. The goodness that was 100% Italian.
"Benvenuto," she had said as she handed me my ticket. It was hard to take the ticket back. It was hard to get onto the plane. My eyes were dry. Rejection and scorn and many other trials had taught me how to keep tears down. The plane started to accelerate. I thought about lift and drag and all the different physics of flight, though I had not studied for two years. The school of life was full time, however. I knew that any moment the plane would be airborne. Tears would follow.
The wheels of the plane touched only air and as expected my vision was blurred with a physical expression of internal pain. That is what happens when a person leaves behind the thing they love most. I thought of Patrick and Andrea and Alejandro and Angela and Gina and Julian and Smart and Jean Paul. I thought about old castles and cobblestones and culture. I thought about pain and hardships and disappointment. I thought about the land that had been so foreign two years before but had become my home. I was going back to where I came from, but I was leaving my home. I cried because I didn't know when I would be home again.
Penniless after spending my life savings on my unpaid volunteer service in Italy, I stepped off the plane. University was going to start soon. I had no job and no idea what I was going to do. Phase three was a lot longer than one & two. I was about to walk down some stairs and see my family for the first time in two to four years. Fear. Doubt. But no. "Greater blessings and more happiness await you." I had a promise given to me that I was not going to give up on. Italy was with me now. Elder Duclos would no longer be my name, my title, but that didn't matter now. I had joined the ranks of heroes. But I still had work to do. "You are assigned to labor." I walked into my new life.
Ciao, Italia, il mio cuore.
I flew through the air, leaving behind my world. The tears were dry before the plane reached altitude, but my heart ached. On that cool March evening two and a half years earlier, I could have never imagined how hard this would be.
The letter was difficult to read from the shaking hands and the teary eyes. In my mind, there had always been three phases in my life: pre-mission, mission, and post-mission. The letter was the beginning of the end of phase one. Training for phase two started with the signature on that single page message. I was now learning where I would be living and serving for the next two years. "Dear Elder Duclos," I paused and chuckled. "Elder" was what all male missionaries were called. It was the title I wanted so badly; all my heroes had once been called Elder. I made a quick joke about not wanting to finish the letter, saying that was enough for the day. My friends and family gathered laughed at the joke, but they knew I was dying to go on. "You are hereby called to serve as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the Italy Milan Mission." Excitement and joy burst from the crowd gathered in my parents' home. The feelings were mixed. Fear, excitement, confusion, and the noise around me were drown out as I spoke to my brother on the phone. He was an Elder, one in Puerto Rico. "I did it buddy, I'm going on a mission." He would not be home when I left. His two year, no vacation mission would end one month after mine began. Four years was a sacrifice that was not lightly made. It wasn't until later that the doubts and fears came. I didn't speak Italian. I had never lived on my own. At eighteen I didn't even know where Milan, Italy was. But those fears came later. That March night, the words I had read strengthened me and became etched into my mind. As they came to mind in the airplane leaving the Italy Milan Mission, those words were etched into my heart.
My television screen on my connecting flight from Frankfurt to Houston had some problems. There were several unsuccessful attempts by the flight attendants to correct the malfunction, however I didn't mind much; after all, I hadn't watched TV or movies for two years anyway. What was another 11 hours? I started doing what I liked to do in my free time: reflecting. I pondered some words from the March letter. "Greater blessings and more happiness than you have yet experienced await you as you humbly and prayerfully serve the Lord in this labor of love among His children."
When analyzing a text, religious or otherwise, a person naturally doubts, myself included. I have a skeptic in me, though throughout the years this voice became fully aware it was fighting a losing battle. The words of the letter were bold. Greater blessings and more happiness than you have yet experienced? I thought. It sounded like a letter from Willy Wonka. It was a claim either by an idiot or by a person who knew life very well, either way one who was confident that what he was saying was true. I listened for the skeptic, but he was silent. Critical of the wording, but the truth behind the words he could not refute. He and I were living proof of its truthfulness. Although he was constantly trying to loosen my grip on my faith, we knew that in the two years I had spent in Italy, I received greater blessings and more happiness than ever before. The man who had written that letter was no idiot.
Patrick. The gloom of my first Christmas day in Italy was overwhelming. We did not have the time, means, or permission to return home for Christmas. Ours was a vacation free two year service. My only contact with home was through a weekly email opportunity and two video calls per year, once on Christmas and the other on Mother's Day. I was having a hard day. Although I would have never admitted it at the time, I missed my home.
The words of the letter seemed so hard that day. "As you serve with all your heart, might, and strength, the Lord will lead you..." I just feel alone, he muttered inside of me as I stepped on the bus with my assigned partner, or companion. We had just finished our second visit of the day, bringing a message of joy that at that moment I didn't feel. Our appointment for our video call was in an hour and the members lending us a computer would be expecting us before then. The ticket scanner beeped as I surveyed the bus. That is when I saw Patrick. He was the only person on the bus with us. I felt in my heart the urgent need to talk to him. Like he'll talk to you. Remember the last time you tried to talk to someone on this bus ride? He just yelled at you telling you you were of the devil! It would be a waste of time. Today he was winning, so I stayed quiet. My head shifted slightly so I could see Patrick. I just couldn't shake the feeling. He was looking at me. I knew he was someone I needed to meet.
"Hi! What's your name?" After years of customer service before my mission, I had gotten really good at acting happy when I was not.
"I am Patrick." His words were not special, but as he spoke, I felt the skeptic shrink into the recesses of my mind for at the forefront was a feeling of joy. Those selfless feelings had not led me astray. Thoughts of home disappeared as I learned of my new friend. My heart filled with a brotherly love that I needed to feel.
Patrick had just left his home in Ghana to find a better life in Italy. He did not find one. His life felt pointless. He lived in a charity house, but he felt he had no reason to go on. He had no job, money, or love. My sadness was that of a bad day, but his was that of a life that had fallen off track. He needed a hand from his brother and I had reluctantly been the person to offer him that hand. Regardless the letter's promise was still true. I had been led.
He was just the first. Whether they were from Italy or Ghana or China, they needed me as much as I needed them. Any time I had an excuse to turn in and focus on my own problems, if I just focused my concerns outward to help others, I would find true happiness. It was not the service that solved my problems. As I saw men like Patrick go through hell, I realized that I was not. As I lost sight of my life in the service of my brothers and sisters in Italy, I had saved myself. I lost myself in the service of others, which in the end is the service of God, and the person I had become was grown. The name on the ticket was the same, but the person who read that letter was not the same person who was sitting on the plane from Frankfurt to Houston.
"We are experiencing some slight turbulence on the flight, please be advised." My thoughts of the past were interrupted by the shake of the world. Patrick left my mind, but my heart was full of love for my brother. The turbulence didn't bother me much. I actually enjoyed it. It is during storms when a tree learns how to be flexible, how to adapt, and most importantly it is when a tree learns how weak it is. The weaknesses I was aware of in myself were found in those storms.
"The Lord will reward you for the goodness of your life." It had been hard. I now know better than most how little the world wants religion in it. I know how hard it is to share with someone my heart only to have it thrown to the ground. People never realized that it hurt. I did not blame them. They didn't understand and I wasn't there to condemn them; I was there to help them understand. It was in these hard times that I found a love for people who didn't know me. They became my family.
The March night I didn't know of Italians but I was excited to have a unique experience among them. After a six week crash course in Italian I gained a respect for them. They must be geniuses if they can speak that language! After a few months among them, I grew judgmental. It seemed the longer I spent among them without accepting them as they were, the harder it was to enjoy my time with them. I grew a desire to change them, but not the way a brother wants to help his sibling grow and improve. I wanted them to change as an unloving teacher wants his children to be quiet. My desire was full of pride. But when I let go of judging them, everything became better. I still knew their flaws were flaws, but I looked at those flaws as the character of the people, not as the problem with their culture. The thought, Why is she so worried if the pasta is cooked perfectly?!, changed to Why don't we worry about what we eat as much as these people? Indeed, I had been blessed for the goodness I had allowed enter my life. The goodness that was this new family. The goodness that was 100% Italian.
"Benvenuto," she had said as she handed me my ticket. It was hard to take the ticket back. It was hard to get onto the plane. My eyes were dry. Rejection and scorn and many other trials had taught me how to keep tears down. The plane started to accelerate. I thought about lift and drag and all the different physics of flight, though I had not studied for two years. The school of life was full time, however. I knew that any moment the plane would be airborne. Tears would follow.
The wheels of the plane touched only air and as expected my vision was blurred with a physical expression of internal pain. That is what happens when a person leaves behind the thing they love most. I thought of Patrick and Andrea and Alejandro and Angela and Gina and Julian and Smart and Jean Paul. I thought about old castles and cobblestones and culture. I thought about pain and hardships and disappointment. I thought about the land that had been so foreign two years before but had become my home. I was going back to where I came from, but I was leaving my home. I cried because I didn't know when I would be home again.
Penniless after spending my life savings on my unpaid volunteer service in Italy, I stepped off the plane. University was going to start soon. I had no job and no idea what I was going to do. Phase three was a lot longer than one & two. I was about to walk down some stairs and see my family for the first time in two to four years. Fear. Doubt. But no. "Greater blessings and more happiness await you." I had a promise given to me that I was not going to give up on. Italy was with me now. Elder Duclos would no longer be my name, my title, but that didn't matter now. I had joined the ranks of heroes. But I still had work to do. "You are assigned to labor." I walked into my new life.
Ciao, Italia, il mio cuore.
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