...We drive northeast into Umbria, past Perugia to Assisi. Seeing the town from the autostrada, rising from the plain ahead of us and perched on its throne of pale pink limestone, I am struck with a familiar and undeniable sense of homecoming. The town has that effect on people. A particular grace, peaceful and palpable resides within its fortified walls, like the safety and warmth you feel in the arms of one who accepts you unconditionally. It doesn't smother. Assisi's is a peace you can accept and pursue, or choose instead to let it waft around around you and away. And I believe it is the doing of one of the town's very own, Francesco Bernadone, St Francis of Assisi.
He lived in the late 12th and early 13th centuries, dedicating himself to a life of radical love and poverty in imitation of Jesus of Nazareth. His motto was "Pace e Bene", "Peace and All Good," and before his death he asked God to bless his town, all those in it, and all those who would come, with the gift of peace. I'm here to get my share.
It is said in Catholic circles that we do not choose the saints as patrons, but rather they who choose us. I’m a believer in that, though at a loss to explain the hows and whys of it all. I can only say that in the most spiritually trying times of my adult life, when body, mind, and soul have cried out to God for help, a Franciscan friar has appeared, unbidden, with words of counsel and God’s compassionate grace. When my spiritual life and faith dangled by a thread in 1994, decimated by a two-year psychological battle for survival, St. Francis stepped in as a herald from Heaven, his brown-hooded woolen habit a veritable banner of salvation. I’ve clung to it ever since, and planted it deep in the ground for others to find. Next to Bethlehem, Assisi is the capital of my holy homeland. So I am here, to visit my friend, a friend who chose me.
Francis' tomb is a warm and intimate setting for me. It’s so…him. Simple, holy, deep in the earth, ever accessible and welcoming. Standing in the center of a small grotto chapel under the Basilica, the tomb is sealed in rough stone, initially to curb medieval thieves seeking relics, and enclosed in open grating allowing pilgrims, petitioners, and the curious to extend a hand to the saint whose greatest joy was to serve God, the Love that is not loved. Francis’ closest friends lie here too, the first band of friars minor, encircling him like buddies around a campfire. I am here to join them in prayer, in a moment that bridges nine centuries and the distance between heaven and earth.
I kneel and slide my hand between the grate to lay my palm flat against the stone, joining my hand, my silent prayer, to all those that preceded it, and to those that will follow. I pray for several minutes in thanksgiving, in greeting, and private petition. Then I make the circle, stopping to pray at each of the other friars’ tombs. There really should be a campfire here, a buddy fire, songs of praise and deep, joyful prayer. Batty perhaps, to be thinking this while venerating a tomb, but that’s how close I feel to this group. They’re spiritual giants whose souls and lives surpass mine by colossal leaps and bounds, and yet they welcome me. Batty, paradoxical, but then again, that’s the quintessence of St. Francis, the troubadour who lived as a fool for God.
Cynthia, Trish, and Priscilla have also been praying here; Francis and his friends eagerly listening and sharing their intercession before God’s holy altar in Heaven. Coming around the other side of the chapel, I notice a basket of tall white pillar candles. When their turn comes, they will burn on the altar in front of the saint’s tomb. I make an offering and place two candles in the basket, one for my intentions, and one for my godson David, Cynthia’s youngest son. I return to the tomb for David, smiling at Priscilla’s whispered words, “You’re his godmother, get over there and pray!” I do, and feel a wave of warm air envelop me. Peace and All Good. Amen.
