A Seed Planted Finally Begins to Grow

As I wrap up my week of orientation here at Mt. Angel Seminary, many thoughts are running around through my head, but one sticks out.  Having worked through the application process for the last several months and after discerning for many years, I have been really thinking about my journey of discernment, and my mind rests upon those moments which one might characterize as 'turning points.'  This story is of one such turning point.  In fact, it is the very first 'turning point' in the journey that led to all the others.

Recently, an old priest acquaintance of mine passed away.  Though I hadn't seen him for years, he had been at the forefront of my mind the past several months.  This priest was Msgr. Francis Campbell of the Archdiocese of Portland, and I was privileged enough to altar serve for his funeral Mass at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Portland.  When my vocation director emailed us asking for volunteers to serve the Mass, I jumped at the chance because it was Msgr. Campbell was the very first priest (and first person in general) to put the idea into my head that I may actually be called by God to be a priest.

Msgr. Campbell

It was my sophomore year of high school at Valley Catholic in Beaverton, OR, and Msgr. Campbell was presiding at one of our all school Masses.  I recognized him because, though he was retired, he helped at my home parish of St. Cecilia's occasionally since it was such a large parish.  Msgr. Campbell was always talking about the 'priest shortage,' and on this particular day, when we got to the Prayers of the Faithful, he added one on to the end.  He said, "And we pray that one young man in here," (and he kind of looked around at all of us), "may one day become a priest," or something to that effect.  I looked around and thought, "Uh-oh, what if it's me?  What if I am the answer to that prayer?"

Then at Sunday Mass at St. Cecilia's that very weekend, Msgr. Campbell happened to be saying Mass and he did the same exact prayer again! "That one young man in here will one day become a priest."  "Uh-oh," I thought, "It seems more likely now that it would be me, because if I go, then I can fulfill both prayers in one shot."  I even remember going to confession with him one time on a retreat.  After the confession, he asked me up front if I would consider the priesthood.  The idea that I might be called to the priesthood stayed with me ever after.

Of course, it sure took me a long time to discern this call and finally enter, but here I am.  What was really interesting, though, as I prepared to serve Msgr. Campbell's funeral Mass just one week before I was to enter Mt. Angel, is that I remembered one thing he used to say all the time to me when I'd see him at school or at church.  He would 'badger' me about the priesthood, and he would say something to the effect of, "Somebody's got to replace me when I'm gone."  And here I was, a new seminarian for the Archdiocese of Portland, serving at the funeral Mass of this great priest.  It seemed to me like God's providence was at work, not just some mere coincidence.  It reaffirmed the confidence and hope I had in my vocation.

Just before the Mass, as we waited in the sacristy, I told my Archbishop this story (albeit much more briefly).  He was so taken with it apparently, that he proceeded to tell my story to the whole congregation at the end of Mass.  I am sure that I blushed, and I even got a little bit choked up (which surprised me).  "I guess there's no backing out now," I chuckled to myself.

I am very thankful for Msgr. Campbell for planting the original seed of my vocation in my mind.  I am sure that he is now praying for me in the Communion of Saints.  Obviously, there were many other moments along the way that helped me discern God's will for my life, but it was this priest from the days of my youth that tilled the soil to allow God's grace to help the seed of my vocation grow into what it is.

Please pray for me and for all seminarians, and know that you are all in my prayers as well.

Mt. Angel Abbey

Leaving Utah and Looking Back: A Series of Reflections

This blog post wound up taking the form of four separate reflections on my time. There are no pictures in the post, so let memories be your photographs.

Reflection #1: Here I am at the 12th street Denny's in Ogden. My car is packed to the gills, I have turned in my keys, and I have begun the journey home to Portland. It seems funny to use the term 'home' for Portland since Utah has slowly become my home over the last six years. Can a person have two homes? Yes, I would say, and more.

When I taught at St. Joseph's in Ogden, I was involved in the theatre program there. On closing night, after the show was over, the cast and crew would strike the entire set within a couple of hours, and usually by midnight, the black box theatre gave no sign that a magnificent and intricate set had ever been there. It was the kind of thing that made one question whether there had actually been a play there or if one had simply imagined its existence. But the show lives on in the memory of those who performed it and those who experienced it. Once the set was struck (stricken?), the cast and crew and some parents would all go to Denny's to celebrate. Imagine the look on the waiter's face when 50 energetic kids (some still in their theatre makeup) walk in and get assigned to his section at one in the morning. The post-strike Denny's run was a tradition, and I partook of several of them during my time at St. Joe's.

And now, here I sit in the very same 12th street establishment. Tonight is my closing night, ending a six year run in Utah. I have struck my set; both my classroom and my house are devoid of any sign that I had ever been there. Did Luke Stager actually live and work in Utah, or did we just imagine it? Just like the play, though Utah may not give any sign that I was ever here, the realness of the experience will live on in my memory and in the memories of those with whom I came into contact.

My teacher friend Adam arrives at the restaurant and finds me immersed in thought, and we reminisce about Ogden, Salt Lake, and our schools, sharing tales and memories, and looking with hope toward the future.

Reflection #2: As I prepare to leave Utah, a flurry of thoughts passes through my mind. This has been one of my best summers, and I wish I could extend my time here a little longer. I wasn't able to accomplish everything on my Utah bucket list, but that's okay for a few reasons. 1) My Utah bucket list did exactly what it was supposed to do. It motivated me to use my time wisely and to avoid spending a lot of unnecessary time indoors. 2) Having too many items on a bucket list is much better than having too few. I think anytime a person leaves a place they have lived for a while, there will always invariably be a sense of incompleteness. I would never want to leave Utah feeling like I had seen everything there is to see and done everything there is to do. That sense of restlessness and longing for this place is something I would like to preserve. It will help me remember this place even more fondly. 3) An incomplete bucket list should never be taken as a sign of failure. People who have bucket lists often have a tendency to measure their value by how much of their bucket list they have completed. This is a dangerous philosophy to have. This is especially important when we evaluate the travels and experiences of others. I think we often measure others' experiences by our own possibly very different set of expectations. An example: "You mean you lived in Utah for six years and you've never been to Temple Square?" Yes, that is true. But to measure those six years based on one stereotypical thing I didn't do seems outrageous. I played my viola on the top of Grandeur Peak. Who has done that? I was privileged to sing Bach's St. John's Passion and Mendelssohn's St. Paul with one of the best choirs I've ever sung in. I watched my students learn and grow up and do great things. Those sorts of very unique experiences are what will define my time here. We should never quantify another's experiences based on what we ourselves expect. Who knows what special and unique memories they have created and stored away?

Another theme that has been playing in my mind is the idea that nothing ever stays the same. As soon as I leave Utah, I will never come back to the same Utah. Sure, some things will remain, but I will once again be an outsider to the goings on. Things will proceed without me, as has been happening in Portland since I left six years ago. But even though it's a little sad to miss out on everything, I think it is important that things do change. That is what makes life in any place a joy and an adventure. It's just hard to know that things will change regardless of your involvement or attention to it.

Reflection #3: I am all at once delighted that I have met so many wonderful people during my time here and but also frightened by the fact that I may never see some of these people ever again this side of heaven. I may find similar people in Portland or even similar students if I teach again some day, but no person could ever replace by any means the people I have had the pleasure of meeting and knowing over the last six years. I remember the summer between my last year at St. Joseph's and my first year at Judge Memorial. My teacher friend Andrew and I were talking about various students we'd had and the amusing stories associated with them. I was telling him about a particular student I'd had named Maria Palmetto (code named, of course). There were many hilarious 'Maria Palmetto' stories, and I was lamenting the fact that at Judge, there would be no Maria Palmetto. "Do you think there could be another Maria Palmetto at Judge? Or someone like her?" I asked somewhat facetiously. I knew my friend's answer and agreed with it before he even spoke. He said, "No, I don't think so." He paused as I nodded in agreement. "And I hope you would be disappointed if you did." His comment struck me. "Yes, I suppose I would be." I said almost automatically. And it was true. Every person I have met in Utah is unique and special, and I am sure I will never find anyone anywhere else who could ever replace them. Yes, the people I've gotten to know are irreplaceable, and I know I'd be more than just a little disappointed if they weren't.

So thank you, good people of Utah, for making my experience what it was. Though I leave and enter a new phase of my life, these last six years will remain in my memory, and nothing in my future years will ever be able to replace it.  I might lament that I won't find another 'you' in Portland, but because you are uniquely awesome, I now know I would be disappointed if I did.

Reflection #4: As soon as I learned that my first PACE reaching assignment would be in Ogden, UT, I immediately knew exactly where I wanted to visit when I got there. I had learned about the famed Golden Spike, which joined the original transcontinental railroad, during my first week at my firsts real engineering job at the freight rail company Gunderson in Portland. They had made me and this other new guy watch a documentary about the history of rail transport in the United States, and it featured the Golden Spike heavily. It really captured my imagination, but when I actually got to Utah, I never went. In fact, I never went at all during my six year sojourn in Utah. Never went, that is, until last week, right before leaving.

Admittedly, the exhibit is not super exciting, and none of the original ceremonial spikes are even there; they are all sitting in museums somewhere collecting dust. But I thought of all the people who labored and died to make transport across this continent a reality. Needless to say, I was immersed in thought for quite some time.

My final reflective point is this, with respect to the Golden Spike: just as a golden rail spike forged a connection between two oceans worlds apart, so my memories and experiences will be the Golden Spike that links my two worlds of Portland and Utah. But my Golden Spike will not be sitting in a museum collecting dust.

Summer Bucket List

Summer vacation has arrived, and I am now faced with the prospect of approximately one and half months left in Salt Lake City, UT before I return to Portland.  I have a few things left to do for school, but really, I need to focus on my Utah bucket list.  I am mainly posting this so that I can perhaps hold myself to it a little more firmly but also in case anyone has any suggestions as to where I might go or what I might do.  Some of the things I listed are not really Utah things, but they are things I really want to do this summer.  Here is my list so far:

• Go to the Golden Spike
• Do my last two so-called Small Town Adventures
• Go to Antelope Island
• Go to the Spiral Jetty
• Hike Ben Lomond again
• Hike Lewis Peak
• Hike Mt. Ogden again
• Hike Mt. Timpanogos 
• Several other hikes
• Walk from St. John the Baptist in Draper to the Cathedral in SLC
• Actually visit Park City
• Go to Arches again
• Go to several other national parks
• Actually visit Temple Square
• Actually blog
• Visit Magic Valley, ID
• Finish my half of Ed's and my book
• Visit the Trappist Monastery again
• Finish reading a giant stack of books
• Beat Zelda: Twilight Princess
• Beat Final Fantasy V
• Beat Final Fantasy VI
• Finish learning a few songs on my guitar
• Finish writing some poems I've been thinking about for a long time

My brain is racing with lots of other stuff to do, but I'll leave my list at that for the moment.  The possibilities are endless, so long as I don't wind up binge watching The Office and Seinfeld for the umpteenth time.

A Journey of a Different Kind: Vocation and Devotion on the Feast of St. Gemma in the Middle-of-Nowhere, ID

This year's spring break brought many special opportunities.  After singing several days at the Cathedral of the Madeleine in Salt Lake City for the Triduum liturgies and for Easter Sunday, I was able to drive home to Portland to see my family and friends.  It was a short trip, but I managed to make the most of my time.  It was a very wonderful trip, but the most important part came toward the end of it.

St. Gemma Galgani

I had to be back in Salt Lake City to sing for Mass for the second Sunday of Easter, meaning I had to drive on Saturday in order to make it in time.  This was disappointing to me because Saturday would be April 11, which is the feast day of St. Gemma Galgani, who has quickly risen through the ranks and become one of my special patron saints.  I have a devotion to quite a few saints, but for some reason I have a special affinity for Gemma and I always mark her feast day with more than ordinary fervor.  So to have to make an eleven hour drive on her day was a very disappointing prospect.  I was especially annoyed because I had this special St. Gemma candle I'd gotten at her shrine in Lucca this past summer, and I had planned on lighting it on her feast day.  I couldn't very well drive with a lit candle in my car (especially since my car has no cupholders).  And I had begun a novena to her that would end on her feast day as well.  I was describing this letdown to my friend CJ, who suggested that perhaps it may not actually be that bad and, in fact, may even be a good thing.  I therefore decided to modify my attitude and thus make the most of the day.  This change of attitude was pivotal.

Last year's 'shrine'

In the past, on the memorial of St. Gemma, I would buy some flowers and set them up in my school's chapel or at home with one of her holy cards on display.  I usually buy pink carnations (or white with red edges like the picture on the right).  Pink is a combination of red and white, and I thought of white representing her purity and red symbolizing the pains she suffered as a result of her physical illnesses as well as the special privilege she had of sharing in the pains of the Passion of Jesus (including the stigmata).  As someone who shunned anything smacking of vanity and always wore plain, black clothes, perhaps pink was a bit much, but I appreciated the symbolism, so I stuck with it.

I thought that perhaps this year I might continue my tradition of buying the pink carnations but because I had no chapel to put them in, I would make a mini shrine somewhere along I-84 and leave the flowers there.  I had no particular inclination as to where I'd leave them, but I figured the afternoon/evening would be best so I could say Vespers at the shrine in addition to my other prayers.

The night before I had to depart, I went over to Fred Meyer (the Portland equivalent of Smith's for you Salt Lakers) to pick up the flowers.  While I was there, I made sure to buy a decent vase to hold the flowers and as I browsed the home decor, I decided to buy some votive candles.  I bought a tall red one and a tall white one, again going for the same symbolism as the pink roses.  As I went to go to pay for my items, I wondered at the amount of thought I was putting into this, which was honestly comparable to the amount of thought I would put into a date or a gift for a significant other.  I have to admit that one of my friends makes good natured fun of me for my devotion to St. Gemma by calling her my 'saint crush.'  I had to laugh at myself for buying flowers and candles with well-thought-out symbolism for a saint's feast day.

As I left the store, I felt the gravity that this feast day was going to have.  Just that day (Friday), I had turned in my completed application for seminary studies with the Archdiocese of Portland.  I have been discerning the priesthood for quite some time, and finally, finally, I have taken action and applied.  There is still much more to the process before I am accepted, but I can safely say that most of my part is done.  Having not been accepted yet, I am hesitant to count my eggs before they hatch, so I am cautious about saying that I will definitely be in seminary (especially since I have had a tendency to cry wolf in the past), but it seems pretty likely at this point.  I feel that St. Gemma has been a special advocate for me, especially with regard to my vocation.  It seemed fitting therefore, that I should be observing her feast day with extra solemnity now that I had finally turned in the application.

After I hit the road the following morning, it was sunny for little while until I reached the dreaded Blue Mountains.  There was a wall of cloud that, when I reached it, began to unleash it's torrid downpour, which wound up lasting all the way through the rest of Oregon and even into Idaho.  Where was I going to set up my shrine?  I prayed that the Holy Spirit would show me when I ought to pull off and and where I ought to go.

Sure enough, eventually the clouds broke and the sun shone brightly on Magic Valley, which is in Eastern Idaho.  There were clouds ahead in the distance, so I knew my time was limited.  As I drove along, I spied a canyon with lots of rock formations that had a very easily viewable parking lot nearby.  I immediately got off at the next exit (147) and made my way there, which was surprisingly easy.  I shortly found out that the canyon was called Malad Gorge and that I was near the town of Tuttle, ID.

The mailbox

As I hiked around looking for a suitable spot, I spied something underneath a large rock.  It was a tiny little mailbox.  Suppressing my fears that a creature of some kind lived inside, I opened the box.  After all, the little flag was up.  Inside was a plastic bag with various trinkets.  There was a tiny booklet of orange paper bound by duct tape, and inside it read, "Everyone please leave something. :)"  It appeared to be written by a child with a pen completely devoid of ink.  I had to really concentrated to

The items in the mailbox

even read the impression left by the tip of whatever writing instrument had been used.  I scanned what other people had left.  There was a cigarette, a lighter, a roadside assistance business card, a punch card for Bandidos Mexican Grill (with 3 out of 6 punches), a quarter, a guitar pic, and a rubber stamp.  I felt like I had found a secret treasure.  I wondered how long this mailbox had been there and how long it would remain there after I'd left.  It wasn't particularly rusty, so I figured it hadn't been there for long.  After scoping out some potential spots for my shrine, I ran back to my car to get something to put into the mailbox.  I put in three things: a Bic pen, a copy of my signature Hoofprints of the Stag card from Magic: the Gathering, and a holy card of St. Gemma.  Perhaps whoever happened upon it next would find out who St. Gemma is and be brought back to God as a result.

The shrine of St. Gemma at Malad Gorge

After leaving the mailbox behind, I found a spot to set up my shrine.  Unfortunately, though the sun was still out, a heavy wind began to blow and I found it impossible to keep the candles lit.  It appeared that I had waited too long to set up my shrine, and now the weather would not cooperate.  Eventually I found a new spot that was relatively shielded from potential rain, but the wind was unforgiving.  I had quite a time trying to constantly relight the candles as I tried to pray Vespers, and then it even started to sprinkle a little bit.  One thing I can say is that those extremely thin pages in the breviary do not do well in moderate moisture.  Eventually, I was able to modify the candles and their position to keep them lit and steadfast.

As I prayed my Rosary there and my other St. Gemma prayers, the sun set and night fell.  The clouds that had plagued me earlier all but disappeared and the stars lit the night sky like the flames of candles at Easter Vigil, casting light on my bouquet of pink carnations.  After finishing my prayers and determining that I ought to get driving again to arrive home at a reasonable time.  As I walked back to my car, I spied the faint light of the three candles glowing, just barely visible.  I wondered how long they would stay lit.  Perhaps I will return there one day and see if my shrine is still there.  I contemplated the graces St. Gemma had received and it made me think of the generosity and mercy of God.  As we say in the Divine Praises, Blessed be God in his angels and in his saints!

When I got back to the parking lot, I learned from a sign that this particular spot was called Devil's Washbowl.  Not anymore, I thought, this place belongs to Gemma now, and therefore to God.

Inspired by a Letter: An Adventure of Grandeur Hiking Grandeur Peak

Yesterday morning I returned to my home at about 1:00 PM after a morning at the Newman Center at the University of Utah.  I had planned for the day to go up to school and do some work so my Sunday would not be too crazy, but as has happened the last three weekends, the sun, the trees, and the outside were beckoning to me to become a part of them.  It would be a shame to miss out on what was clearly a grand day.  And so I sighed as I entered my house, knowing that I must banish from my mind the idea that I should put off my work to be a part of the outside.  That was my intent, that is, until I checked the mailbox.

In the mail was a letter from my friend Bob, with whom I had spent my time in PACE several years ago, and who has been living in Boston and was therefore snowed in his home for a few days with nothing to do but write letters to anyone who wanted one.  I had informed Bob that I indeed wanted a letter, and yesterday it fortuitously arrived and enchanted me with its typewritten font.  Even the typewriter periods had poked holes through the paper to the other side.

The last paragraph was what moved me the most.  I'd always known Bob was a good English teacher, but this letter showed me why.  At the end of the letter, he said:

Hope you're enjoying the ride and Utah's majesty hasn't gotten old, I know you're appreciating all she has to offer & every one of her darling sun rises or sun sets and the gnarl of her canyons and shapes, the distance of her sprawling into infinity. You're making me miss it--which is hard to do.  Oh Luke. Whisper into the wind on a mountain some time and know in that space your words are infinite and the universe is so thrilled just by your being in its space, in itself.

When I read that, my plans immediately changed.  I proceeded to change into a suit, procured a carnation from my 'boutonniere bouquet,' as I call it, placing it through the hole on my lapel, and put on my hiking boots.  I decided what peak I wanted to hike (Grandeur Peak) and set out of the house with an item one would not normally take on a hike (in addition to a suit): my viola.  Luckily, my case has straps that allows it to be worn like a backpack and a compartment in which I could store water and Clif Bars.

As I began the hike, I became painfully aware of how many people I was going to encounter on the way.  For some reason, I thought the trails would be fairly empty, but this was, of course, a ridiculous notion.  At first, no one appeared to pay any attention to me or to remark on my bizarre attire nor my musical instrument case strapped to my back.

The first people to stop and talk to me were a pair of middle aged women with a couple of dogs on the way down.  Like many people I would encounter, they asked what I was doing, wondering if perhaps there was going to be a wedding at the top of the mountain or maybe a proposal.  I shuddered at the idea of anyone having a wedding at the top of a mountain in the early days of February, but I politely said no, though I conceded that such an explanation made sense.  After all, why else would someone dressed in a suit with a white carnation and a musical instrument be going up to the top of Grandeur Peak?

I simply told them that I thought today seemed like such a grand day and that such a grand day demanded grand deeds, and playing my viola at the top of a mountain in a suit seemed like a grand thing to me.  They applauded my efforts and lamented that they would not be there to hear me.  This encounter was like many I was to have throughout the day. 

The going was moderate, but toward the top there was a lot of snow, and luckily my boots proved to be superior to it.  I encountered a couple who were resting for a moment.  Like many of the other folks I had encountered, they asked what I was doing (and whether it was for a wedding or proposal), and I explained about grand days demanding grand deeds.  They then revealed that they had been unsure whether they had wanted to continue to the top because of all the snow, but that now that they had a 'concert' to look forward to, it would be worth it.

When I actually reached the top, the sun was shining through the clouds in the west, and Bob's words echoed in my mind.  It was much colder than it had been down below, and to my surprise, I was actually alone.  I said a prayer or two, ate a Clif Bar and had a drink and pulled out my viola.  I began with Wild Mountain Thyme, followed by the tune Thaxted, which is also known as O God, Beyond All Praising and is featured in Holst's Jupiter.  As I wrapped up that tune, the hikers I had passed began to appear.

The couple who'd decided to go to the top after all arrived first.  The lady said I should get a minister's license and perform marriages at the top of mountains and make some money.  I shuddered to think that people would become ministers so they could make money performing strange weddings at the top of mountains, but I simply said, "That would be an interesting idea."  Another gentleman arrived and took pictures for us.

Another group reached the top and the girl in the group asked if I knew the tune of Greensleeves, which I then proceeded to play.  Another two gentlemen in state-of-the-art hiking gear arrived, explaining that they had been hiking along the Church Fork ridge for eight hours.  After I played a failed attempt at the Prelude for Cello Suite No. 1 by Bach (my hands were getting too cold), they said their eight hour trek was worth it just for that.

The final piece of the performance was Schubert's Standchen.  I couldn't execute the double stops I normally use, but it was definitely the best piece of the 'concert.'  The couple were the only people left, and they listened intently before departing, leaving me once again alone.  I regarded the Wasatch Valley below, crowned with the rays of the sun penetrating the clouds, just on the verge of sunset, said one final prayer, sang the Salve Regina, and made my way down.

It was in this way that I became a grand part of the grand day, and it was in this way that I could come as 'close' as I could to God in the heavens.  To take my very best to the peaks of the mountains to do as poet John Gillespie Magee, Jr. said, "slip the surly bonds of earth" and "touch the face of God."

Visiting Friends and Saints: Venice, Padua, Florence

It was like a foot high.

What a joy it has been these last few days! I have been in Italy for almost four days, and it has been quite a whirlwind.  We arrived in Venice after a series of flights with very little sleep and were immediately thrown into the thick of things. It has been raining in Venice for several days in a row, and so the water levels are super high at high tide. There are walkways that lead everywhere so you don't have to walk in the water. Of course there are vendors everywhere selling these convenient plastic boots, but I wouldn't cave. It was a little crowded on the planks, but we made it work.

So expensive

Some highlights from Venice: this first day was the only day on the whole tour we do not have to sing, and good thing too, because we were all super tired. We spent much time walking around the city and seeing the various famous spots. We got to go to this place where they sold Murano glass, and they had a little glass making demonstration where this guy made a carafe in like two seconds with what appeared to be no effort.  The students were all very impressed.  And then he threw what he made back into the fire as though it were not big deal. We went upstairs to look at what they sold and saw many similar carafes for many many Euros.

Preparing to sing in San Marco's

On Sunday, we got to sing in the Basilica San Marco, which has mosaics covering the entire ceiling. It was very impressive. It was really difficult space to sing in, but we did okay. It was nice to hear Mass in Italian again (though I forgot my book with the Mass parts in Italian). Later that day, the adults and chaperones got some time off while the parents came and took their kids out for the day. With my free time, I got to visit my friend Mandi (who I used to teach with at St. Joe's) and her family, who live at the US Air Force base north of Venice, and who Ed and I had seen this summer in Parma. I had let them know about our Mass at San Marco's and so they came and heard us, and then we went out to lunch and toured Venice for the day. It was really cool to see them again, and we had a lot of fun.

Basilica of St. Francis

The next morning, we left Venice and passed through Padua. In Padua, we got to visit the Scrovegni Chapel, which had these very beautiful frescos depicting events from the life of Jesus and Mary, and this really cool fresco of the Last Judgement. Then I hopped a taxi over to the Basilica of St. Anthony and went and prayed a special prayer for my grandma at the tomb of St. Anthony, since she had had a special devotion to him (which also happened to rub off on me). It was really powerful to be before the actual tomb of a saint.

San Lorenzo

From Padua, we drove to Florence for the second leg of our tour. That evening we got to sing Mass at the Church of San Lorenzo for the memorial of St. Leo the Great. The sad thing about singing the concerts and the Masses in these churches is that we get precious little time to look around and appreciate their beauty, but I guess we see so much stuff that there is precious little time.

Which brings us to today, which began with some epic tours of various museums, starting with the statue of David. It seemed strange to start with David since everything else kind of paled in comparison, but oh, well. But I also got to have a cool adventure of sorts today. So it turns out that the author (Meg) of one of the blogs I follow (piercedhands.com), and with whom I was slightly acquainted (by way of prayer intentions) happens to be on a pilgrimage/speaking tour in Europe and by chance (or by providence, rather) happened to be in Florence today. I invited her to our concert that night and we wound up meeting up for lunch. We had an excellent chat about Catholicsm, teaching, vocations, and Fanta (how European Fanta is so much better than American Fanta). You might say European Fanta is Fanta-stic. Ha ha.  But don't worry, I didn't make that joke at our first meeting (didn't want to ruin my first impression, after all). I've read some of her blog, and she's read some of mine, and so it was kind of funny to jump into conversation with someone new when in a way you already knew each other but not really. After lunch we went to Eucharistic Adoration, which Meg had found in a church earlier that day, which was exactly the thing I needed. Before leaving our separate ways, we made sure to get a selfie:

Blog Power!

San Stefano

The concert at San Stefano that night went pretty well. The students are all really excited and high strung, which makes it difficult for everyone to focus, but that kind of challenge is what makes these things so much fun. I was having such fun singing in this beautiful choir, and I smiled so much during this concert (despite a few rocky pieces). I can't remember smiling that much during any performance. Usually I am so serious. Well, I guess I was still serious, but I was able to let some of what I was feeling shine through. Sometimes I can't believe that I get to sing in such a talented choir, singing the music that I love to sing, and performing it in the context in which it is meant to be performed (the liturgy).

Here in Italy, meeting old friends and new, old saints (and perhaps some new), praising God in song, I have much to be grateful for.

The Return to Rome: Cathedral Choir Performance Tour

So, after many months, I am returning to Italy.  I think I alluded to this return in the blog previously.  The Madeleine Choir School, the only coed Catholic choir school in the United States, goes on a performance tour/pilgrimage every four years to Italy (with tours to other foreign countries every two years in between).  This being my fourth year in the choir, it is the first opportunity to sing there.

One thing that worked out pretty well is that all the great northern Italian cities we had to pass by on Belloc's Path to Rome are cities I'll get to see on this tour.  We start in Venice, then we stop by Padua, then a stay in Florence, then a brief stop in Assisi (where I think we get to sing in the Basilica of St. Francis), and then on to Rome for the final five days.  There we get to sing in St. John Lateran and St. Peter's Basilica (for Sunday Mass, too!) among others.

Right now I am in the airport in SLC waiting to head to JFK in New York, simply hoping I can get some sleep on the plane after a late night of grading, last minute classroom and sub preparation stuff, and packing.  It wasn't technically an all-nighter, but it was close.  And I'm sure that it will be worth it.

I'll hopefully be posting from time to time while in Italy, and if you want to see more pictures than you can see here, you can check out my Instagram.  My username is just lukestager.

Ciao!