Dear God, Show Me a Sign

Show me a sign. That’s all I need. Then I’ll know where I’m headed and what to do. A sign, dear God: one that I’ll know is from you. Dear God, show me a sign.

Bernadette and I have just returned from our vacation in Italy. We spent two weeks at

Lake Como in the northernmost edges of the country – only minutes from Switzerland. This mountain lake is dotted with small fishing villages, a few old and well-kept hotels, and dozens of magnificent villas dating back to the 17th century, some built by wealthy and powerful cardinals – complete with secret passages connecting bedrooms and escape routes.

Across the lake from our hotel there is a beautiful mountain – and half-way up, there is a tiny dot of a chapel built by some monks who I suppose wanted to take some higher ground than the cardinals down on the Lake. I wondered if the church was still open, who went there, and most of all how in the world people got to this church that hung on the edge of a mountain several thousand feet up. I learned from a tour guide that the church was named, Chiesa San Martin - The Church of Saint Martin, and that visits were possible. “There’s an easy trail,” she said. “Just take the ferry across the lake, walk through the village, and look for the signs for Chiesa di San Martin. The signs will lead you to the path that takes you up the mountain. Easy. No problems.”

The plan was for me to have a mini excursion alone that would give me time to reflect and renew my relationship with the Divine in the context of this new and beautiful place. So, the next morning I catch the first ferry across the Lake, as I study the tiny dot of a church half way up the mountain. I bring my camera, two bottles of water, and my prayer book, with intentions of reading Morning Prayer once I arrive at the church. As I make my way from the ferry through the village, I can’t find the sign our tour guide had described, so I decide to walk on any street that goes up, expecting to find a sign along the way. I’m afraid to ask directions of anyone at first – which gets me deeper into the village than I plan. Then I run out of village. I backtrack but still find no sign, then come across an old woman walking with her dog and 8 goats. In my best Italian I ask how to get to the church of San Martin. She looks at me sideways, waves her hand in a way to indicate a very general sort of direction and then says a few things I don’t understand. I’m afraid to ask again, so I smile, say, “Grazie,” and move more or less in the direction she is waving. In hindsight, I should have taken better notice of the goats. I think the goats were a sign.

As I make my way out of the village and into the hills, I see a trail – a wide cobblestone trail. This must be it. I am already dripping wet from the heat, so I stop, say a prayer, take a drink, and resume my trek. As I see a split in the trail I see a farmer working on the hillside. I approach him and ask him, “Dove la Chiesa di San Martin?” (Where is the church of San Martin?) He stands up and begins to move his hands in a way that suggests something is wrong. He’s speaking Italian and I’m having trouble translating his hands. The best I can get is that, I can’t get there from here and what seems to be a suggestion that I return to the village and start over. I smile, say, “No. Grazie,” and walk around him as he blocks the trail that looks the most reasonable to me. He gently grabs my arms and says, “No – notta’ theesa’ way.” I stupidly ask, “Then weecha’ way?,” as if speaking like him will help. He continues to try as I make an executive decision to ignore my Good Samaritan and continue on – UP. I walk past him and onto a new trail – a dirt path that is narrower – but negotiable. It brings me through woods and then in one surprising turn – out into the bright, scorching sunlight where there are no more trees – just rocks and lizards, and of course I imagine: poisonous snakes.

There is a view of the village and lake below from the edge of a severe drop – a view that would be beautiful to most – except those like me who have a debilitating fear of heights. As I stand frozen on the edge I can see the church -- still far away and much further up. As I continue the trail narrows again. It’s now just a little wider than one of my shoes – my new shoes that I bought at Dillards before I left - shoes I am wearing for the first time - walking shoes made in Portugal - shoes that were designed by someone who hasn’t figured out how to join the fronts and backs of shoes, and so there is a thick leather seam joined with Portuguese fishing line, which have now produced some really great blisters! 

I’m now making my way along the edge of the mountain, clinging to it like a babe to its mother, thinking about goats and saying the rosary. Then a sign: Caduta Massi. I don’t know what it means – but the illustration of falling rocks does the translation for me. At least humans have been here. Falling rocks. Oh great. Hail Mary full of Grace the Lord is with thee…

I round another bend and there it is – the church! Boy it’s closer to the edge than it looks from down below – and smaller. But my gratitude for having reached my destination overcomes me and I take hold of the building like it’s a long lost friend and weep. I am exhausted. I look up and notice there is no steeple. Where’s the steeple? This isn’t the church! It’s some stupid building somebody built half way up a mountain! For what? I brave a look off to my right and see the church -- far off and still further up. Much further. I look at the way I’ve just come and decide I can’t turn around and go back. I’m too scared. I continue on, inching my way along the goat trail for another twenty minutes… thirty minutes…. forty minutes… precipice to precipice…. narrow ledge to narrow ledge…. and then – there it is: Chiesa di San Martin.

I want music to greet me. I want GOD to greet me! But the mountain top church is deserted. I spend the next hour reading Morning Prayer – chanting the Canticles at the top of my voice – shouting all kinds of things that no one can hear in this isolated place – enjoying a view that is breathtaking – and postponing the return trip. As I begin to muster the nerve to head back I realize I have to relieve myself and peeing off the top of a mountain sounds about as much fun as one can have anywhere, let alone in Europe! And so I do, all the while proclaiming the act – because after all – how often do you get to relieve yourself - outside - at an elevation of 4,200 feet? So announcing it as I do it adds to the novelty of the act – and the radical freedom suggested within it. 

I move back from the edge, sit down, tear my handkerchief in half and bandage my bleeding feet. As I make my way towards my trail I see another trail: a beautiful, wide, cobblestone step with a fence next to it – and then another step, and another. THE TRAIL. The trail I never found. The EASY trail!

I make my way down the wide, easily negotiated, paved trail, and as I do the joy of an easier return trek overwhelms me and I feel the need to sing. And in this majestic location of my family’s ancestry I dig deep for an Italian song. Nothing. I dig deeper. The best I have is: “Mambo Italiano” by Rosemary Clooney. It will have to do. As I make the next turn in the trail, dripping in sweat, blood spotted rags hanging from my shoes, singing like crazy and actually trying a small Mambo step, I’m met by a group of tourists who have been eating lunch about 30 feet below me for the past hour -- on their way UP to the church! An awkward silence freezes the moment, and then to add insult to injury, I notice several in the group appear to be quite a bit my senior, one with a walker. There’s a nervous exchange in English and German with neither side understanding the other, except for the laughter they are trying to keep from erupting like Mount Vesuvius! 

Maybe we can’t always wait for God to reveal signs – that are – well God-like. Maybe we need to listen to farmers trying to help, and strangers along the way. Maybe they ARE God’s signs.