European travels, continued.

If I had to concisely sum up my European adventure thus far, I would use 2 words:
novel beauty.

It's novel to me at least. I honestly don't understand how these people take this day in and day out.. To stare out across the Apennines or the Alps or the rolling, gentle countryside with farms plotted brilliantly onto the sides of steep hills - and to somehow not go mad from its grandeur? Do they become numb to all this glorious creation? How could they stand to stop marveling at the Gothic elegance of the duomo in Milano or the incredible panorama of medieval Gubbio? (or Siena or Florence or most other Italian cities, for that matter..)

I know it's easy to jump the assumption that I have simply become numb to the beauty in my own home. But that's not completely true. I may not be working to keep my jaw up every moment of every day, but I still praise G-d for the intense beauty of the Arkansan landscape around the Ozark mountains on my drives home from Fayetteville. Or the gorgeous view when driving south on 540 when the leaves begin to change. Or climbing dad's ridiculous tower atop the knob and seeing the curve of the horizon. Or taking the bike trail in Fayetteville.

The European beauty here is.... Different. Very different. Age has a lot to do with it. I've walked the same uneven, narrow streets as Saint Anthony and Marinetti and Puccini and Mussolini and Caesar. Back at home I've done that with... Bill Clinton? And I'm not such a nostalgic Pastist to freak out over that, but it is something I consider. The times and events that these walls and streets have seen are so very different than those of infant America's. Those times have added something to those less-than-straight walls. Yes age. Yes wear. But also yes to a character incomparable to any American dream home.

I think back to Urbania, la casa mia nell'Italia. Those streets... Their beauty. I remember them well. I walked them daily, felt the cobblestone beneath my shoes, admired the pattern that took great care to construct. In some areas, the grass grows between them. Freely; not exterminated with some chemical to keep some austere evenness. What have those streets seen? Wars, sickness, death. Joy, love, flowers. Beautiful, beautiful flowers...

I do miss my Italia. That's not to say the rest of this journey hasn't had its surprising helpings of beauty. On the way to dinner in Switzerland the other night, we pulled over to get a good view of the snow-covered Alps. It was a moment I couldn't capture with my little camera, but it's one burned into my brain. Their grandeur, their crispness, even on a sunless, gray day. Admittedly, that was just one of many moments in which His glory shone through creation in a way that overtook me. It grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, seizing my attention and screaming at me the wondrous, creative nature of the King Who has and is my life.


It was like seeing the clouds seemingly yards above my head in atop the Apennines,

like seeing the view of a whole city from above,

like inhaling the clear, Italian mountain air and wondering why I'm here...

At some point during a long train ride, the Lord taught me to stop questioning, start praising, and enjoy. So I am. To Him goes the glory. To Him goes my heart. To Him goes all thanks and eternal thanks dipped in reverence and awe. What else shall I give? My life, my love, my heart, my gratitude, and now this time. This solitary, blessed time in motion, hopping between countries and viewing His handiwork in a novel, beautiful way.

The terms 'novel' and 'beauty' cannot be separated and still properly describe this experience. Where I've been is CERTAINLY not new, and pretty places exist on every continent. But for me, this experience has been beautiful in an original, soul-shocking way. The novel portion is mine; the beauty portion is His.

For now I'll happily take a serving of both.

Grazie; danke; thanks.