Story #8: Ancient Studio

Ancient Studio

I cut up the brochures, the train tickets, the maps and the leftover paper. Into perfect rectangles – I cut them all. Uncut paper in the left corner, cut paper on the right, my sewing supplies by my right hand, glue and paintbrush by my left.

I count the stacks of mixed paper and section them out, punching holes for the binding to come. I thread the needle (on the third try) and sew the papers together to form a tight stack for the middle of the scrapbooked journal. Now, for the best part – the covers. I drag out the old paint and peel off the dried remnants of the last artist – squeezing out as much of the paint as I can, rolling it out like leftover toothpaste. I wait. The paint dries.

Ariel and Tyler run down the stairs to the studio and interrupt my silence. They quickly toss a “Hey, Megan” in my direction and continue on to rummage through the supply shelves. I sigh and silently complain about monastery life, intentional communities, and shared living spaces. I retire from my crafts for the afternoon and organize my area, already impatient to continue working on my books, with wet paint that will takes ages to dry in the monastery’s studio basement.

Maybe I am an artist now. A new identity found in cutting, gluing, pasting, painting, creating. My rigorous study abroad schedule of poetry classes and Renaissance Narrative leaves some time for me to be an artist in the studio – or at least pretend to be one amongst real art majors. The walls, the ceiling – this cold, damp space makes me feel like an artist with frescoes above me and then stone walls around me. The faded, red stars on the decaying ceiling crumbles here and there, serving as a constant source of grief for our program director because art isn’t supposed on fall down onto the desks like that. It’s an artist’s space.

Our necks are always sore here in Italy. We enter churches, cathedrals, duomos, and the first body motion is to crane our heads back and look up. The first time I realized I had a weak neck was two months ago before arriving in Orvieto until our first trip to the duomo, the cathedral. The second time I understood (and was fascinated by) paintings on ceilings was in the darkest corners of a Roman underground grave. It was the same there, too: the detail, the holes and cracks, the pieces falling.

At first, that underground cemetery was just another stop on our busy itinerary in Rome – the Catacomb of Priscilla is a quarry that was used for Christian burials from the late second century through the fourth century. I understood it as just another destination to see before it was time to travel back home to Orvieto, and disappear to our separate rooms on the fourth day of traveling together. We wait in the entryway, sandwiched between a middle school tour group and then what looked like a retirement home outing. Finally, our turn. A petite nun emerges from the underground cemetery – a catacomb – and motions for us to follow her down into the caves. She gives a small smile at our hesitation and motions us forward once again – leaving us to wondering whether she could actually speak or maybe she wasn’t going to bother with Italian words we most likely won’t understand. We weave through the dark and bump into each other, whispering and trying to sneak a picture or two. Burial places of early popes, saints, and martyrs adorned with Christian symbols cause us to linger and then hurry along to ensure we aren’t the last one in the group, left in the dark. Suddenly the dates on the tombs just become a small number: “Oh, the fourth century? That’s old I guess.”

The silent nun, whom we named “Sister Mystery,” leads us down to the locked cave where words are left at the gate and silence fills the small, crowded space. Candles rest in corners and illuminate the low ceiling, etchings of color in scenes of Noah, the Annunciation, the three wise men, the prophet Isaiah, the Good Shepherd. The world's oldest-known image of Mary depicts her nursing the infant Jesus from the 3rd century. An artist chose this space to bring Biblical names to visual life. Set here on this ceiling solely for the Christians buried here to rest. The artist didn’t know that tour groups would move in and out, trying to make out a face here, a scene here, wondering whether that was Jesus or Joseph or if that painting over there is a lamb or a dog. But we don’t discuss the features of the aged markings, staying silent for a while.

Professor Doll suggests that we sing the doxology – what I’ve come to realize as a prayer to be sung when words fail but the moment still begs for voices to join together and praise. Sister Mystery closes her eyes and sings in Italian while we whisper at first, voices rising gently: Praise God from whom all blessings flow. It’s soft and slightly broken – people lose their breath for a few seconds before continuing on, sort of singing in a round of lost breath as voices move in and out of the group’s combined song. An artist’s work of red and dark green paint, fading and crumbling down as our voices rise. 

Story #9: The Risen Sun

Easter morning, 2014

Easter morning, 2013

The Risen Sun

            The speakers boom around us – they’re not blaring loud music but rather the Easter message from Pope Francis. I run through the crowd with my Orvieto roommate, Becky, and my cousin’s boyfriend, Jon. I hadn’t seen Heather in ten years (since she moved to Rome) but when we were reunited only yesterday, I knew we must be cousins. Heather had warned us about the crowds in St. Peter’s on Easter morning, but a few too many snooze buttons and a missed train left us running through the masses even catch a glimpse of Papa Francesco – the new pope in Rome.

            We nudge our way through families and middle-aged women, swarms of nuns and older men. I grab onto the back of Becky’s coat as she pulls me through. Even though it’s the beginning of April, we’re still wearing our winter coats in Italy.            

            Jon leads us through, trying to get us closer to the piazza of St. Peter’s so we can hopefully see the pope before he ends his message and returns inside the basilica. As an American tour guide in Rome, Jon’s short Italian phrases for excuse me and pardon us help us out, but the sheer numbers of the crowd keep us on the outskirts. Jon shouts over the people that separate us from him – “The pope… he’s talking about… Easter and how… the resurrection…”

            Someone pushes Becky out of the way to move forward and we immediately check her purse, her pockets, to make sure nothing was stolen. Jon continues to translate the message for us, but suddenly the crowd cheers and Papa Francesco waves, moving back inside. Jon shrugs and asks if we want to grab something to eat on our way back to my cousin’s apartment on the other side of Rome. I want to know what the pope said about Easter. What was he telling us? I barely knew enough Italian to order a plate of pasta, let alone understand an Easter message full of church lingo and doctrine. I just knew that Buona Pasqua! meant Happy Easter! We follow our personal tour guide away from St. Peter’s Square and away from the new Pope’s Easter message.

***

            With weak knees and dizzy heads, we grab onto the last rocks that separate us from the mountaintop and heave ourselves up through the narrowed path. But we aren’t the only ones with the clever idea to hike Mt. Major on Easter morning. Even at 5:53am, we can’t hide our heavy breathing and stumbling feet from the eight people standing at the top of the mountain, all staring at us as we clamber up the last ridge.

            “Oh… Sorry! Sorry!” Ginny, Caroline, and I scramble to get out of their iPhone pictures of the sunrise. Didn’t they know that the picture wouldn’t even compare to the real thing? We move next to the hikers and take turns sipping from our shared water bottle. I stand up on the rock fort behind them and accidentally kick their stuff, almost knocking a bag of moss onto the frozen ground. We make it just in time, thankful that we left my house at 4:30am to drive around the lake from Gilford to Alton where we made our way up the mountain right as the sun, bright orange, begins to rise over the Lakes Region in New Hampshire.

            Hopping down from the rock ledge, the three of us grab our water and move away to a more secluded spot. Caroline spread outs a blanket and Ginny opens up her Bible to John 20: “Early on Sunday morning, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and found that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance…” She stops reading as we look at each other. Something smells… kind of weird… like skunk. We look over to our hiker friends and I realize that I didn’t accidentally kick over their bag of moss, but their bag of pot. Is this how people some people celebrate Easter? Do they smoke before they go and eat all their Easter candy? After a few confused looks at each other, we realize that it’s not only Easter on this Sunday morning but it’s April 20th, also known as smoke-pot day, “4/20.”

            Ginny continues to read: “He asked her, ‘Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?’ Thinking Jesus was the gardener, she said, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Mary.’”

The smoke blows and the morning wind carries it to us, even though we are facing away from the others. We pull the blanket closer and continue: “Mary turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, ‘Rabboni!’ (which means “Teacher”). Jesus said, ‘Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Loud 4/20 laughter breaks through our Easter reverence and Ginny closes the Bible. Our cold bodies press together as we sit in community, watching the smoke –  and the sun –  rise together.

Story #10: Vacationland

Vacationland

According to MapQuest, it takes fifty-two minutes to drive from Gilford, NH, to Moultonborough, NH. While it looks like Point A and Point B are mere inches from each other, it takes almost an entire hour to drive halfway around the lake. For the Wernig Family, it takes one boat and five cars to transport all passengers and luggage to the opposite side of Lake Winnipesaukee. Dad drives the truck with Michael sitting shotgun, they drive Papa to the boat marina, Grammy drives the Buick (with kayak), Mom drives the minivan (with kayak #2), while Emily and I take our beat-up Jetta – the classiest of high school junkers. Auntie Diane, Uncle Chris, Nicholas and Daniel drive from the opposite corner of NH to meet us there.

Emily and I wait our turn – we always have to pull out of the driveway last.

“Does Mom always pump the breaks like that? Oh gosh she’s like driving all over the road.”

“C’mon, Dad! It’s right on red! Right on red!”

“Look at her! What the heck, Mom. Why is she braking on the hill?” The fifty-two minute caravan to the lake house, or as we call it – “camp” – takes all of our patience and then some. Full of shortcuts through the woods and strange moments of Mom slamming on the brakes, we finally arrive at the old, rented cabin and begin the best, most fattening week of the summer.  Grammy cooks for weeks and we hustle back and forth from the cars to the refrigerator, unloading the homemade whoopee-pies, cakes, meatballs, and casseroles.

Friends from home make the drive over during the week. Some stay for the day, some just stay for an afternoon. A quick visit is always enjoyable but they don’t completely understand why we think the lake house, “camp,” is what we consider the most luxurious weeklong oasis. But doesn’t everyone want to eat bagel sandwiches for lunch, play cribbage with Papa, and go to the store across the lake to get donuts for breakfast and worms for fishing? Now this is vacation! Even our favorite games: snorkeling in the sandbar and collecting mussels, only to throw them back before we doggie-paddle on back to the beach. Catfish-hunting, minnow-hunting, and more.

Relaxing on the docked boat after a long day of activities, I squint harder in the sunlight, my sunburned cheeks facing upward as I try to balance my book above me while still laying on my back. The problem is the combination of the bright summer sun, my arms get tired from holding my book above my head, and it’s hard to flip pages when they all start falling down when I lose my grip on the left side of the book.

The boat rocks back and forth, back and forth as the midday waves of the cove woosh woosh woosh against the side of the boat. I sit, or lay, on the back, skin upturned toward the glaringly bright sky, lightly covered in a sad amount of sunscreen—something my mom would most certainly shake her head at.

“Megaaaaaaan!” Oh no. Here she comes. My mom ambles out of the tiny lake house that surprisingly holds eleven people.

“Mom I can’t hear you… these waves are too loud…”

“Put this on. Your cheeks are already on fire.” She tosses a greasy bottle of Banana Boat down to me and it hits the floor of the boat and the cap pops open. Grumbling, I shake a little bit of the sliminess on my arms, careful not to get it on my new bikini. Rolling myself back over to my book, I grin and resume the cheap love story that has consumed me for the majority of the afternoon. I’m reminded of tomorrow afternoon’s drive back home to pick up a few more beach chairs, to feed the cat, and to babysit for a few hours.

What was once a full week of Sunday through Saturday adventures has slowly turned into a Sunday through Monday, Tuesday through Wednesday, Thursday-but-not-Friday, week of vacation. The fifty-two minute drive becomes more frequent during the week Emily and I drive back and forth to summer jobs. High-paying babysitting jobs (for families vacationing in Gilford for the summer) bring us back for afternoons and we stay in Gilford for the night, waking up early for work the next morning. We wonder what we miss for “Grammy-dinner” that night and make sure to lock all the doors twice before falling asleep in our empty house.

“What do you think they’re doing?” Emily wonders aloud as we shut the blinds and turn the lights off. I can see them all, sitting in the living room. Auntie Diane reading her magazine, Uncle Chris convincing Daniel to go to bed, Michael and Nicholas playing another round of cards. Mom, Grammy, and Papa – they’re all reading under bright lights on side tables.

I can hear them, too. Grammy closes her book and gazes out through the floor-length glass windows. The lake, the lawn, the sky – all black.

“Shhhh, do you hear that?” I image them setting their books down as Papa puts his glasses on. A loon. Listen. Michael and Nicholas hush as Grammy moves closer to the screen door and they all hold their breath.

“There it is, there he is,” she whispers. Mom turns off some of the lights and they listen to the loons calling across the lake. The calls echo from Alton to Meredith, from Moultonborough to Gilford, from our house to the camp, resting only for a moment until they reach the center of the lake and move outward again. 

Story #11: Clockwork

the last morning on the duomo steps

Clockwork

Time stopped under the arch. We climbed up a stream of cobblestones and move into the hollowed town. Clocks are frozen here, all thoughts of home are left at the base – or at least they were for four months. Days blurred together and seasons lost meaning. The arch has no gate or bars to keep time out, but we abandoned it in the grass before entering.

Now, our last morning in Orvieto was spent under the arch that separates the town from the narrow road that leads to the train station. Sleepy eyes strain to watch the last sunrise we’d see from this hilltop town. Crankiness and sadness overcome what was originally supposed to be a fun time as we fell asleep last night saying, “Let’s watch the sunrise before we leave for the airport!” The sun rose but so did our crankiness, our sadness. What was supposed to be a rejuvenating sunrise was just a reminder of what we would miss. Laura and I would be on the East Coast this evening while Sara would return to California. We make our way back through the arch, climbing up the steep cobblestone road to bring us back to our half-packed suitcases.

“I want to go to the duomo,” I break the silence with my demand to see the cathedral one last time.

“Oh… Megan, I think we wanted to go back to eat breakfast.” They look at each other and nod. I’m immediately annoyed at their inability to understand that I wanted to walk through Orvieto one last time. I didn’t want to go back to the monastery to have my hundred and tenth bowl of cornflakes. My last glimpse of Orvieto was going to be the duomo, not the dish rack in the monastery kitchen.

I sigh okay, bye and slowly move onto the side street, the shortcut. Waiting for them to change their minds, I look back only to see them link arms and turn up the main road to the monastery. I turn back to the shortcut and start to run. I have to maximize my time and visually memorize everything in Orvieto – and I only had about fifteen minutes to do it before we meet for the airport.

Hurried steps move through ancient streets and here I am, crying on foreign cobblestones again. But this time it isn’t because I want to go home, this time it is because I wanted to stay. To stay in this place where my biggest problem is whether to get gelato before or after dinner or both. Where we drink cappuccinos more than we drink water and where a quick walk can bring us from the monastery courtyard to the outer cliff of Orvieto, stealing our breath and slowing our pace to watch the trains. This place where we are so distracted by the ancient architecture and beauty that we crane our necks and trip on wobbly cobblestones.

I’m almost there. I’m the only sign of life on the deserted street so I run in the middle, tripping on an occasional loose cobblestone or two. I look around to see if anyone’s noticed, but of course no one’s here. I trust that a rogue Fiat won’t zoom out from around the corner to flatten me against the side of a neighbor’s doorstep. I approach the duomo from the side, still in the shade, and then make my way to the front. The sunrise light has just reached here. The first light the duomo’s seen today. I linger for a moment, deciding if I should really make this a thing and stay for a whole five minutes by myself. But this is the last time I’ll see the duomo! I need to remember it! I feel alone though, missing Sara and Laura.

A stray dog breaks the silence with a bark and a growl and suddenly I’m running again, wondering if this will not only be my last day in Orvieto but my last day on earth if this dog starts to chase me. My athletic façade is really just that – a façade and although I’m definitely a flight (instead of fight) kind of girl, that doesn’t mean my flight is fast enough to preserve my own life. The dog continues to bark and moves closer for a few steps, before turning back to a stray pigeon. I’m still sprinting away as if this is some sort of race to the death. I could see it now, written in newspapers at home: “study abroad student mauled by small terrier in Italy.”

I run down the main street now, its slight slope downward causes my sneakers to smack down on the stones and I feel as if I’m falling, catching myself with every step. I slow in front of the family restaurant where we eat – where we ate – all of our meals. I want to remember this too. I stand in front of it for half a second before realizing that the dog could’ve abandoned it’s pigeon and might still be after me. I continue my frantic run through the abandoned streets and finally reach the monastery gate, huffing and puffing, clutching my side. I’m late. My classmates are dragging their suitcases out of the iron-gated courtyard, asking where I’ve been and why I’m sweating and why I’m not ready to go right now. 6:30 a.m. – I’m late, I know.

We’ve shared life together and now it’s time to hug and say goodbye, whispering promises to see each other again someday. Already looking forward to joyful reunions to make up for painful goodbyes. Time begins again. Weaving through narrow streets, the escape through the arch brings us back to time. We’ve packed up our bags, stuffed the study abroad experience into our suitcases. We’ve done life together – prepared meals, argued over cleaning schedules, cried with each other for tragedies at home, a place so far from here. Watches furiously tick as we race down funicular tracks and onto the crowded bus. Parking lot car horns, trains in arrivo and partenza enter into the landscape backdrop and then travel on, as we make our way on tracks that may or may not intersect again. 

Community & Solitude: An English Honors Thesis

"Community and Solitude, Words and Silence: A Nouwen-Inspired Journey"

Inspiration for this creative writing project was drawn from Henri Nouwen’s Out of Solitude, which is one of the books that shaped my experience in Orvieto, Italy. Nouwen writes, "The careful balance between silence and words, withdrawal and involvement, distance and closeness, solitude and community forms the basis of the Christian life… Let us therefore look somewhat closer, first at our life in action, and then our life in solitude."

Using examples from my home in New Hampshire, my home in Orvieto, and other places that may be unconventional “homes” such as a field hockey field or summers on the lake, these nonfiction stories are some of the most transformative experiences in my life. A few stories are about family times while others are about growing spiritually, but all of these pieces are situated in both place and relationship.

I will be posting different stories from the collection. I'm not sure if I will post all of the stories (there are 12 in total) because of the people and situations involved, but I will definitely post some of my favorites. :)

This is the full Henri Nouwen quote. I would've quoted the whole book - since it's so short - but I especially love this part: 

"Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure. Somewhere we know that without a lonely place our actions quickly become empty gestures. The careful balance between silence and words, withdrawal and involvement, distance and closeness, solitude and community forms the basis of the Christian life… Let us therefore look somewhat closer, first at our life in action, and then our life in solitude."

Graduation & more

May 27, 2014 - Tuesday

A week and a half after my graduation, I'm sitting in my room (at home in NH) wondering how a few things are possible right now: How am I a college graduate? How did I just waste the past week watching Scandal on Netflix? How am I moving back to Gordon on Sunday to start training for my new job? 

Once again, Netflix got the best of me and I've spent my days watching episodes upon episodes of shows that may or may not be a waste of my time. It's hard to believe that only a few weeks ago I was in the midst of final exams, my senior thesis presentation, senior formal, senior breakfast, baccalaureate, then GRADUATION, a graduation party, etc. Then here I am again, in another waiting period before I repack up my things to move back to Gordon for a month (to live in one of the worst dorms...), to start training for my job in the Academic Support Center (!!!!!!!!). Is this even real?! 

A few pictures from the past few weeks:

(some) field hockey seniors at senior breakfast

home in NH for Easter! 

apartment photoshoot

Orvieto reunion :)

 field hockey seniors at graduation

apartment dinner/fiesta at Fat Cactus

presenting my senior honors thesis

The Waiting Game

Today is the first day of quad break (or spring break) and with this comes the realization that I only have ONE MORE QUAD left of college... aka 1/4 of senior year. You could also say that I've completed 15/16 of my time at Gordon. I haven't thought about fractions this much since middle school but suddenly everything seems like a countdown including dumb things like "what if this is the last time I get stir fry in Lane?" Most likely that's not the case but I've been freaking out ever since I received an email yesterday with the subject line "Information needed for regalia, diploma, commencement." It's safe to say I've been hit with the nostaglia train and I can't believe it's almost over. I typed in my height, weight, and middle name into the questionnaire - making sure I spelled "Louise" correctly for fear that my diploma would be wrong (how embarrassing). 

I am even ready for the adult world? I want to say yes! but I still can't even manage to reschedule a dentist appointment, or successfully put air in my car's tires (this happened to me yesterday), etc. Just the other day I realized I forgot to put deodorant on - this can't be the life of an ADULT. In my free time, I job search and work on my resume and battle with the ladies in the registrar office. I still haven't figured out why it costs money for them to simply email me my transcript and it costs even more for them to print (either way, they never seem to be in a good mood - the registrar is a scary place). Anyways, the result of my job searching always end up with entry-level jobs that want 2+ years of experience. But how is this an entry level job? Haven't figured that out yet either and I'm left to wonder if I'm even qualified for anything! 

So here I am, at my current job in the writing center. Everyone's already home on quad break though and I'm rolling around the writing center in this chair with wheels. Taking bathroom breaks, water breaks, doing laps around the Academic Support Center to pass the time. I finally gave in and made my way to the third floor of the library to Bistro 255. It sounds more official than it actually is but it's a small coffee place in the library that serves snacks, drinks, and gelato. I've been a gelato snob ever since Italy and I've always been the one to upturn my nose and think that's not even REAL gelato in the library whenever people rave about how good it is. But on this boring night in the writing center, I grabbed my card and ran down there to order "hazelnut biscotti." I'll admit it - it was good... but obviously didn't even compare to La Musa in Orvieto. Still, I ate it all - spinning back and forth, counting down the minutes until my shift was over. Counting down the days in this waiting game where I am torn between college world and real world, spending my time either binge-watching Gossip Girl on Netflix or applying for jobs after graduation. After all, I only have 1/16th of my undergrad left so I have to maximize my time, you know? And I have to spend the rest of my mealpoints on (decent) gelato from the Bistro...

GCFH in the Dominican Republic

Our trip to the Dominican Republic as a field hockey team was focused on a verse that many of us had heard before: “She is clothed in strength and dignity, and laughs without fear of the future” (Proverbs 31:25). A week spent with the girls in the village of Cercadillo not only changed this verse for me, but reinforced what it means to be a strong woman of God. The vision for our trip to the Dominican began with Marta Peralta, a Gordon alum who wanted to bring field hockey to Cercadillo. We first met with Marta back in the fall and she explained that the young women in Cercadillo are often lost in a culture that is primarily focused on the men. Field hockey could be something that might give the girls confidence as they could take pride in a sport that would specifically be for them. Marta also mentioned that there was a chance that the girls might not be interested in field hockey at all, and would never use the sticks, balls, shin guards, and mouth guards again after we left. Although this was a definite possibility because field hockey is a strange sport (why can you only use one side of the stick, anyways?), we hoped for the best and started to plan.

After months of organizing, planning, fundraising, and then a few frantic moments of packing on New Year’s Eve, all twenty-two of us left for the airport. Although leaving on January 1^st was a little crazy in terms of holiday plans and traveling back to the Boston area, it seemed perfect to start of the New Year with our trip to the DR. We had a few days to relax and prepare for the upcoming week when we would start the field hockey camp. Field hockey would be in the morning, then three stations in the afternoon: a Bible study, English “class,” and crafts.

Twenty-three girls signed up for the camp and we all gathered at the field, passing out longer sticks to the taller girls even though they all wanted the shorter, hot pink sticks. We then paired them off to pass with each other. I’ve worked at the field hockey summer camp at Gordon for the past three years and I think that field hockey is difficult to explain sometimes, even in English. I quickly realized that none of my mediocre Spanish vocabulary had prepared me for field hockey instructions: “Hold your stick like this,” “Put your feet like this,” “This is how you can stop the ball.” I gave up and eventually I found myself making small talk about the weather, using one of the few phrases I could remember from seventh grade Spanish class. I’d wave my hand around and say, “Hace mucho calor!” The girls would nod in agreement, sometimes giggling at my awful Spanish – probably wondering why this American girl could only say “It is very hot.” Thankfully, we had Marta, her husband, Esteban, and their friend, Jonatán, to translate and help us coach.

On the second day of camp, we were all taking a water break when we turned around to see the girls organizing teams, switching their pinnies around, and then they began to play a game without our help. This was probably one of the most encouraging moments on the trip and it seemed as though they would continue playing after we left. Sometimes we would scrimmage with the girls, sometimes we would let them scrimmage each other. They would run over for water, quickly talking to each other and then run back onto the field. We would ask Marta, “What are they saying?” and she told us that they were talking about how much they loved field hockey already.

I think there’s something so interesting about how participating in sports is not only helpful in terms of learning commitment, dedication, and discipline, but there is something so important about gaining self-confidence from playing a sport. Field hockey has definitely been a huge part of my life in terms of self-esteem and confidence, and the greatest joy on this trip was to be able to share something that has given me confidence with the young women of Cercadillo. Sometimes short-term missions trips are challenging in the sense that it is difficult to see long-term change in just a week. It’s hard to feel like you’re making a difference or that the work you’re doing is even worth anything. Will these young women continue to play field hockey for years to come? Maybe. We hope so. But more importantly, we hope that Proverbs 31:25 will always serve as a reminder to them that strong woman can play sports, they can have strength and dignity, and they can laugh without fear of the future. 

My favorite video!

My friend/roommate in Orvieto, Becky, put this together this video of our semester! I could watch it over and over again because it really shows what our life was like in the monastery - along with all of our picnics, hikes, and more. I love it. I'm not sure if the link works yet but hopefully it does... 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vuVc2WzEYLo

One of Tim's photos :)

Day #5 in California

November 17, 2013 – Sunday

On Sunday morning, we went swing dancing in the park. This was almost as scary as Saturday’s trolley ride but swing dancing was more awkward. Apparently in the park every Sunday, they teach you how to swing dance for the first 45 minutes or so and then it’s just a free-for-all of people asking you to dance for the next two hours. It’s safe to say that I was pretty darn anxious about this because dancing with strangers is definitely not on my top 100 list of fun things to do. Sara loves dancing, though, and she was so excited to bring us. Anyways, it was 90% fun and 10% awkward so it was a success. Definitely some serious awkward moments though. Some of Ed’s friends were there, which was nice, because then there were a few more boys to dance with that weren’t COMPLETELY random. At the end of the morning, the announcer woman then asked who was visiting from out of town. She was like “and please welcome Megan and Laura from Boston!” Apparently Sara gave her our names and then we had to go to the middle of the circle with 8 other visitors and then boys would take turns dancing with us in front of every else! So. Awkward. But I don’t regret it because now it’s funny.

After swing dancing, we had to say bye to Sara because she had to make the drive back to Santa Barbara and beat the traffic. It was sad to say bye to her because it was just a few days ago that we met her in the train station! After she left, Laura and I went to the Butterfly Museum and Plant Conservatory (not sure if this is the real name but there were lots of plants and butterflies). You weren’t allowed to touch the butterflies but we tried our hardest to get them to land on us. Laura thought one landed on her but it was actually a dead one.  

We went out to dinner with Ed and his friends at another Mexican restaurant. I got a quesadilla and it was so good! We also got frozen yogurt after. Ed drove us to the airport and we had plenty of time before our flight at 10:30pm. I’m not sure why I thought that I would have a ton of time to sleep AND do homework on the plane. Unfortunately, neither of us slept very well on the plane and the woman next to me kept bumping my arm while she was knitting. Ugh. We arrived in Boston at 7am where Laura’s brother picked us up! It was such a short trip but so so so worth it. I wish Sara went to Gordon although she’s definitely a California girl and I guess I always have someone to visit in California (because I have so much time and money to go there every weekend, right?). Even though it was short, it seriously felt like the three of us had never been apart and it’s so nice to have a friendship that started in Orvieto but can still continue. It doesn’t feel like our friendship is based on nostalgia or anything that would make it hard to be friends after studying in Italy together. 

Swing dancing with Ed's friend

When they asked all of the "visitors" to raise their hands. Obviously,  I was thrilled.