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Posted: November 25
I have known for many years that holidays feel different for an American living outside of the United States. Christmas just does not seem the same when sand flies and the glare of a tropical sun greet you on Christmas morning. And of course, the Fourth of July, Memorial Day and Thanksgiving are not even celebrated beyond the U.S. boundaries; memories of long-ago holidays fade with the physical distance as much as with the years.
This change is not all negative, mind you, as I realized during my first Christmas in Belize, just south of Mexico, where I was teaching as a young Jesuit on my first assignment after university studies. The thought of family up north gathering around a tree in the glow of the season had me feeling blue for several days. Then I read about the horrible cold front that was paralyzing the U.S. in late December and leaving holiday-travelers stranded by snowstorms. Several of us scholastics used the holiday to go swimming. As I drifted lazily in the warm Caribbean waters just offshore of the college, I reflected that perhaps it was not so bad to be where I was.
That memory came back to me last night as I was praying at the end of a busy day right before Thanksgiving. My sister Barbara had written that she was going to stay home for work to spend the entire day preparing a traditional turkey dinner for her family. American Jesuits working in Rome will gather at the Curia for Mass and a reception before heading out in groups of men from the same province to dine at restaurants. The three of us from the Missouri Province, along with Dave Fleming who is visiting Rome, are going to a nice little neighborhood restaurant. I got to pick the place so I think it will be nice, but we will have a regular Italian dinner rather than the turkey with dressing and everything else. It won’t feel the same, but that is all right. I think I have learned finally to be where I am, to embrace the people God has given me to be with. Today is a work day in Rome, not a holiday; but that means that Enzo Di Ventura, one of the maintenance staff, came by to help me fix up the taboret that I use in my painting studio. He was very helpful and properly appreciative of the paintings. (Now that always makes me want to give thanks.) And shortly I will walk down the long corridor to the rifettorio for pranzo, just like every day. In the afternoon we Americans will gather, but the whole day calls me to be thankful for being a Jesuit, for being able to paint, and for having friends to share my life. To quote Genesis, “He looked at it and saw that it was good.”
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