Over the last few weeks, as the bad news reports of terror and racial tension and coups and shootings and confusion have rolled over us in waves, two phrases run on a loop in my mind and heart, phrases I’m sure you’re carrying as well:
Have mercy, Lord Jesus.
What can we do?
It’s a short trip from helpless to hopeless, just a shuffling of a few letters and you’re there. I’ve felt the helplessness creep in over the past several days and when that happens, hopelessness is never far behind.
Add to that the fact that I am a painfully slow processor when important things happen – both the joyful and the tragic – and we’ve got ourselves a bad combination.
For a mountain of reasons that aren’t actually the point of this post, I’ve not written much lately. When faced with the time to write, I choose to read (First Women by Kate Andersen Brower), watch TV (A Chef’s Life), or stare blankly out the window instead.
And while intellectually I know this lull is a normal part of my life and creative process, it can be difficult to navigate, especially in a fast-paced world where the rhythm of input and output seems balanced and breezy for everyone else.
I’m working my way back, forging a quiet path through foggy confusion, back to the road of hope. I’d like to take you with me if you’re willing. We’ll make a stop in Italy, if you don’t mind, because that’s where I’m discovering a bit of hope from the past to inform the present.
I’m not yet sure how this will turn out, but that’s the beauty of blog writing – it’s an invitation to enter into the middle of a story without the pressure of either having to know the beginning or close it up neatly.
A blog is often a collection of middle narratives, reflections that happen in between beginnings and endings.
Enter with me into a story of love, hometown heroism, war, and mostly hope.
I hope.
***
Fifteen days ago, John and I arrived sun-kissed and bleary-eyed back on US soil after spending ten days in Italy.
We spent most of those days in the quiet countryside of Tuscany where we learned the story of Iris and Antonio Origo.
She was born Iris Cutting in England in 1902 to her wealthy American father and her English mother. Her father died when she was only seven and her mother brought her to live in Italy after her father’s deathbed request that she grow up “somewhere where she does not belong” so that she would be “cosmopolitan from deep down.”
This is where she spent the next years of her young life, living at the Villa Medici, built by the most celebrated family in Florentine history.
Needless to say, her life was one of privilege, comfort, and wealth. She eventually married Italian Antonio Origo and they bought a large estate in Tuscany about a hundred miles north of Rome. This move was puzzling to their social circles at the time.
“No one moved to the countryside like that, particularly not to such a ramshackle estate on a windswept hill, with no running water and – worst of all – no polite company.”
But the Origos didn’t simply happen upon this place in the Tuscan hills. Rather they chose this barren, desolate region on purpose. The couple had a plan for this land and after fifteen years of their care, attention, and hard work, they established fifty farms, a health center, and a school for 90 children.
I’ve only begun to learn about Iris but one thing that rings true in everything I read: her wealth was matched only by her compassion for the people who lived in the Val d’Orcia, the poverty-stricken area surrounding the estate.
She and Antonio dedicated themselves to help these people, using their wealth and position to turn the barren, chalky landscape into thriving, farmable land. They rejected the ease and comfort of an aristocratic life in favor of long hours working fields, caring for the sick, and providing a refuge for children and escaped prisoners alike during the Second World War.
She was a woman divided on many levels once the war started, as her country of birth was at war with the country she called home.
In the midst of impossible times where she didn’t have the luxury of knowing how this war would turn out, she seemed to remain fiercely loyal not merely to home or to country but to humanity. To health. To care.
She served the people in front of her, from the children given to her care as well as the escaped prisoners seeking refuge.
***
There’s a lot more to their story but what buried itself into me is that they chose this life out of a thousand choices otherwise – to build the valley where they lived, to invest in the people around them, to cultivate hope from the ground.
And now I’ve seen it with my very own two eyes.
Because that large, crumbling estate they bought back in 1924, the one overlooking the desolate Val d’Orcia?
This is where we stayed all week in Italy.
La Foce, home of Iris and Antonio, shelter to orphans, refuge for prisoners, school for the learning, symbol of hope.
Now it is neither crumbling nor desolate. And I can’t get over it.
The walls of La Foce hold secrets they’ll never tell. Lucky for us, Iris tells some of them herself.
Oh did I not mention? Iris Origo was a writer.
“We live on a large farm in southern Tuscany – twelve miles from the station and five from the nearest village. The country is wild and lonely: the climate harsh. Our house stands on a hillside, looking down over a wide and beautiful valley, beyond which rises Monte Amiata, wooded with chestnuts and beeches. Nearer by, on this side of the valley, lie slopes of cultivated land: wheat, olives and vines, but among them still stand some ridges of dust-coloured clay hillocks, the crete senesi – as bare and colourless as elephants’ backs, as mountains of the moon.”
– Iris Origo
I’m feeding my casual obsession with Iris by reading her diary written between 1943-1944 from this very estate, War in Val d’Orcia.
John and I stayed in what I think may have been her bedroom and I got ready each day in her dressing room and even though I know the house has changed since she lived there and the Germans destroyed all the furniture when they took over the estate for a time during the war, it’s not so different in the end.
Because these are the walls. This is the land. Here was her view. The house still reflects her heartbeat.
***
Early one morning, I made my way to this spot overlooking the valley.
I thought about how God often gives us a hopeful vision of things to come before any of it makes sense.
I thought about what happened after John quit his job.
I thought about Iris and Antonio, how they had a vision for this “wild and lonely farm in southern Tuscany.” I thought of her care for the people and how they took the time to see that vision come to be.
They respected their place. Their service was specific, local, and committed. And it took time.
Still after all that, after years of care, they couldn’t stop the war from coming to their doorstep in the spring of 1944. They may have chosen this life in this particular place, but they could not choose their circumstances. None of us can do that.
“Awakened at six-thirty by planes circling low above the house. We wonder if there is a column on the road, and if so, whether it, and we, will be bombed together.”
Eventually, they had to evacuate.
“I took a tiny case, which we had in the cellar, contacting a change of underclothes for Antonio and me, a pair of shoes, some soap and eau de cologne and face powder, my clock and Giorgio’s photographs; and that is all we now possess. Each of the children carried his own coat and jersey. The grown-ups each carried a baby, or a sack of bread. And so, in a long, straggling line, with the children clutching at our skirts, half walking, half running, we started off down the Chianciano road.”
– Iris Origo, The War in Val d’Orcia
As I reflected on the reading for the day, I looked down at the bench next to me where my pen rested near my notebook.
All week I’d been using this cheap pen from my bank back in Greensboro. I brought it on purpose – the ink flow is consistent without being so thick that it shows through the paper on the other side. But that cheap pen with the name of our bank stamped on the side was a reminder of my own place, my own home and assignment.
Iris had her place and I have mine. She didn’t allow her helplessness to harden into hopelessness. For these 10 days, stepping briefly into another woman’s story helped me to see my own life more clearly and from a slightly different perspective.
She carried a hopeful vision to restore the land outside her window, to serve the people who came to her door, and to stand up for the rights of humanity no matter which side of the war they were on.
***
I warned you this post won’t have much of an ending. I thank you for traveling with me anyway.
Sitting in my sunroom in North Carolina, the phrases remain as I consider the state of the world, the heartbreak of humanity: Have mercy, Lord Jesus. What can we do?
Some half-thoughts come into my mind.
Our hope is in Jesus and his life is in us. What will we do?
We listen.
And when we feel ready to say words, we pause and listen some more.
It might seem passive and counter-productive, but it isn’t.
And as we listen, we continue to, as our pastor Todd Jones said this Sunday, “practice faithful presence.”
We listen and we stay. We look around at who is with us. We remain open to how their experience differs from ours. We refuse to say we know what it’s like when we cannot possibly know what it’s like.
We refuse to say “yes, but . . . “
We release the right to be understood.
We seek to understand.
We remain small as children of God, knowing our identity and affirmation comes from Him.
We affirm the dignity and humanity of others.
We forgive.
We receive the compassion of Christ so that we may hand it out in abundance.
We look for the barren ground and make plans for cultivation – both the kind outside our doors and the kind within our hearts.
***
I confess lately I’ve been practicing impatience with my own slow-processing personality. This serves no one.
Instead, I’m continuing to learn what it means to let slow do what slow does best – nourish, strengthen, and grow.
When tragedy strikes, things we know to be true don’t stop being true even if the shock of it shakes the truth right out of our hands.
Truth might be misplaced for a while.
But truth is still true.
God is still good.
People always matter.
Listening is loving.
Kindness makes a difference.
Change takes time.
Seeds grow in the dark.
Circumstance may be out of our control, but our response isn’t.
Before helpless turns to hopeless, may we be willing to listen before we speak and do the next right thing in love.
Emily, thank you so much for writing this. I’ve been feeling unusually helpless and depressed by the state of the world, and trying not to let it shake my peace. Sunday, my pastor gave a homily on the Gospel (Luke 10:38-42) in which Martha complains about her sister Mary not helping her. More than anything else, his reflection on the fact that we must serve both those roles has helped me keep going. Like Martha, we can serve God in little acts: something as little as giving a meal to someone in need. But like Mary, we must remember to step back from what WE are doing to remember what God is doing, and to simply be with him.
Your writing and sharing of Iris’s life is a perfect example of God putting before me just what I need to read at exactly the right moment!
Thank you for sharing this. Your words help me process what’s going on in my own heart and mind. ❤️
Ditto Mindy! Emily, I appreciate you and your helpful words so much! <3 Francesca
Emily, thank you so much for this. Your story and your words have helped me understand what I’ve been thinking through and feeling in all this chaos as well. “God often gives us a hopeful vision of things to come before it makes any sense.” LOVE THAT. Wrote it in my bullet journal for today’s entry. =) Thanks again!
this is a lovely correlation between what is going on in the world and what’s going on inside of you. i think words are coming slowly for many of us, in light of what has happened and keeps happening and happening and happening. it helped me be patient with myself. thanks.
Thank you for the fresh perspective you brought home. By the way, your ending is perfect-little things we can do wherever we are. We each leave a legacy, and your legacy of words always inspires me.
Thank you for your special grace and pace. Don’t despair. Your voice is just what we needed.
Love this. Love you.
Thank you for sharing Emily! Beautiful. You’ve given me some things to sit and ponder and pray about.
Simple & beautiful.
Slow nourishes, strengthens, grows …
I like those words 🙂
This post is so beautiful. So much to ponder. I really love this:
“We listen.
And when we feel ready to say words, we pause and listen some more.”
If only we would do more of this as a people and a nation and a world. Thank you for sharing your processing and your heart with us.
I love to read your blog, your words tend to give me a sense of hope and peace because Our Lord gives you the ability to write these words! Thank you
Anita in SC
This was a gift, my friend…a very thoughtful gift. I’ve been in a similar place lately {not Tuscany, darn it! but struggling with the words and processing slowly}. The only thing I have been able to discern is a whisper that seems to keep repeating – focus on what is in right in front of you. I love the suggestion to practice faithful presence. I think I might be able to do that. At least I will try. xoxo
This means so much to me, Emily. I love the way you process – so thoughtful, so wise, so gracious. I used to think there was something wrong with me as everyone around me reacted, and I just felt sort of numb. I didn’t feel all the feelings until much later – as it worked its way through my slow heart.
This is so beautifully written.
I want to read that book!
Thank you for sharing hope during such uncertain times Emily! Your voice matters. Your words bring LIGHT and I have been so impacted by your God-given gifts as you’ve shared your voice and writing with all of us. Thank you for listening …for writing …for abiding in Him.
Emily, I adore your process. Slow and all. There’s something sacred and true and enduring about sitting in the circumstance and letting it become you. Thank you for sharing your wise soul with the rest of us. xo, Bekah
Thank you Emily for what you share with your readers. I’m an extremely slow processor also. It seems God saw fit to create some of us that way. Thank you for reminding me of the beauty of slow.
Oh how I love your slow processing heart and the way God made you to share what you see, hear and learn with us. I’ve had some of those same bench moments with my journal and pen here in London, when the world suddenly feels big and overwhelming, your place in it small and yet quite significant because God chose you to be right where you are. Those times remind me to savor every moment knowing God uses the past to inform the present in a ways that change my perspective. I’m sure he will use your story one day for someone sitting on a bench somewhere in the future. xx
‘Practice faithful presence’
my new motto, to recognise Jesus through the storms in life, church, country & government and the world.
Thank you Lord for Emily, bless her, as You work in and through her.
Beautiful post, Emily, thank you. And I see you found a bench in Tuscany, that makes me smile!
Thank you for this slow processed post. I am so sick and weary of way too many speaking fast with NO processing, which typically helps no one. Your example helps us all. I’ve been waiting to see and hear some of your travel stories. My heart belongs in Tuscany and I am a little more homesick for this place I’ve never lived. I just love how you wove your words together here. Beautiful.
Emily, I greatly enjoyed this piece. A wonderful reminder to be present and faithful in the small things, in those right around us, and not feel overwhelmed that we need to change the world or solve the world’s problems. When each of us plays our small part, out combined efforts can in effect bring about substantial change as the Origo’s did. Thanks for the reminder to be slow yet faithful in our actions and words, giving each to God for him to work according to his will.
Thank you for sharing your heart. It is much appreciated. I received this yesterday – “The Lord will fight for you, you need only to be still.” Ex. 14:14. May the rich blessing of His multiple grace flood you and yours.
Emily,
Thank you for sharing these words, honest words, the beautiful pictures…. with the shooting of a police officer in Kansas City, KS yesterday in our community, I am thankful for these stories and ideas to be thinking through this morning. Praying I/all of us keep learning the time to be silent (to listen and learn) and the time to speak, and for the wisdom and discernment with what to say.
This is stunning beautiful and full of so much truth. Thank you, Emily, for the perfect start to my day.
StunningLY. Yeah, I would be wise to listen to your call to slow, especially when I type. 😉
I often feel like your posts are exactly the right thing I need to hear at the right time. This one resonated, and I will hang on to these words especially:
Kindness makes a difference.
Change takes time.
Seeds grow in the dark.
Circumstance may be out of our control, but our response isn’t.
Thank you. You perfectly put into words what I haven’t been able to get out of my vocal chords. I was trying to choose which words that I would quote specifically when I post your post on my FB page…and I’m just going to encourage folks to read them and sit with them all for a bit. Also, I think we forget that ours is not the only generation to experience bad things and chaos, and this helps us to remember that, and to look for examples of how previous generations handled their chaotic circumstances, especially good to see how they handled them in the light of love and dignity for others.
This is a keeper! So beautifully written, and so much to digest (I’m a fellow slow processor!). Thank you for sharing your heart and speaking truth and love to a hurting world. I know I will revisit this post time and again.
TRUTH IS STILL TRUE. Enjoyed this post very much. Not just a little, but very much! And, now I must add the book to me list. Logan posted wonderful photos from Tuscany – I enjoyed every one. xo
Your words are rays of sunshine breaking through the dark clouds surrounding my soul. Thank you, Emily.
Thank you Emily for giving me courage to tackle the wilds of our farm land. To beat back the bush and build a new home and life and to be patient with the process in it and in me. God always uses your words to speak tender encouragement to my heart. I loved her story and I am glad you retold it here.
Oh! This is such a good post. Thank you for writing this.
Emily,
Beautifully written post!! In this crazy mixed up world we can offer Jesus. We can share a smile, send a card, email or e-card and let them know we care. I use my time to pray for the victims, and ask God when He’s coming back.
Blessings 🙂
I love following you on your journey because you so often help me to process mine and what God is doing in my heart. Thank you for sharing even as you are in the fog! I feel many of the same things lately, showing down, taking a bit of a road trip with Jesus and being brave enough to be a seed and throw seed.
Emily you come as a breath of fresh air . i love your posts in my in box. Thank you.
I’ve delayed reading this because anything containing the word “hope” tends to repel me. Just read and it might be one of my favorite posts of yours ever.
I was meant to come here today. Thank you.
Speechless! Beautiful post – my spirit was lifted. Thank you