Author Chris Brady's Leadership Blog

Some Beach

My new book is due out this July. Here is an excerpt from it (Chapter 8). I hope you enjoy it! 

“People travel to far away places to watch, in fascination, the kind of people they ignore at home.”

- - Dagobert D. Runes

            I grew up on the shores of the Great Lakes.  If you’ve never been there, particularly Michigan’s west coast, picture one of the famous California beaches: pristine sand stretching for miles along endlessly pounding surf, thousands of people, girls in bikinis, mountains in the background, sunshine beaming brightly, sports cars driving along the boardwalk, and surfers out in the waves.  The beaches of Lake Michigan are exactly like that, except for the surf (fresh water chop instead), people, bikinis, mountains, sunshine, sports cars, boardwalks, or surfers.  If you next dropped the water temperature twenty degrees, you’d have a pretty clear picture.  The shores of Michigan are stunningly beautiful, largely abandoned, and frigid as all get out.  Every now and then, however, you catch a few pretty good days.  At such moments a Great Lakes beach can seem like heaven on earth.

            So I consider myself at least a little bit of a beach veteran.  In addition to the extensive Michigan experiences, I have also enjoyed beaches from Japan to the Caribbean, Florida to Hawaii and Bora Bora.  Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the experience of a beach visit along Italy’s Amalfi coast.

            After a day of touring ruins, I thought a little break might be a good reward for the kids.  So the next day we packed up the trusty mini-bus with towels and sunscreen, balls and sunglasses, and drove into Maiori, scene of the famous grocery heist just days before.  It was early morning, and a work day for most, so the town was significantly transfigured from the jam-packed beach festival we had earlier encountered.  There were still quite a few folks about, but we were actually able to find a parking spot right along the beach.  Little did we know it would be the last good real estate we’d acquire that day.

            I had a bit of an inkling how this was going to work.  I’d seen it all along the French Riviera a few years prior.  Whereas the beaches of most of the world are wide-open, free-range sort of affairs, for some reason many beaches along the south of Europe get a little strange.  Maiori would be no different.  With the exception of a little postage-stamp sized “public beach” section, usually at the end closest to the messiest boats and worst seaweed and largest dead fish, the entire beach is occupied by businesses.  I don’t mean businesses along the beach; I mean businesses on the beach itself.  Almost all the way to the water’s edge umbrellas are arranged neatly in rows, crammed together so their brims almost touch each other.  Along both sides of such a property extends a chain or rope, cordoning off that business’s section of beach from the neighboring competitor.  One can easily keep track of the different sections because the umbrellas are color coordinated: all red in this section.  Next door? All green with white stripes, etc. You show up at the curb, pay an un-posted amount of money, then someone escorts you to your umbrella. 

            For us it was 15 euro for the whole day.  I asked about being in the row in front, near the water, and was told: “It is not possible.” Then we were led down some steps to beach level, out across a wooden walkway, then down between a row of umbrellas all the way to the end along the plastic chain separating our establishment from the one next door.  It was like being given the home in the neighborhood that faces the water tower.  I looked out toward the sea and saw six or more rows ahead of us.  The one along the water’s edge was completely unoccupied, as were 90% of the spots in the whole complex.  Compared to the acres and acres experiences we’d had on beaches around the world, this was high up on the strange list. 

            Next I surveyed our “property.”  It was at least nine square feet, consisting of the aforementioned umbrella flanked by a lounge on one side and a high-backed chair on the other.  I can’t help a small diversion describing these chairs:

            Italy is known around the world for its design.  This applies to cars, motorcycles, architecture, clothing, leather goods, what have you.  There is a style to the things Italians make that is unique and appealing.  In most cases, they just get it right.  Not so, however, when it comes to beach chairs.  Everywhere we went, from the hotel pool in Sorrento, to Villa Scarpariello, to this beach in Maiori, and later at our villa in Tuscany, we encountered these same awful chairs.  They were everywhere.  Pick up any brochure for a hotel and you’ll see them by the pool.  Drive by any beach and it’s all they’ve got.  Yet for us, the darn things were impossible.  We couldn’t figure out how in the world anyone could get comfortable in such contraptions.  Take the lounge, for instance; it was adjustable to two settings: 1) back ache and 2) neck ache.  Whoever had designed this highly popular chair had never taken a look at the human skeleton.  In the lower position the lounge required one to bend at the shoulder blades.  In the upright position one was expected to bend at the kidneys.  More time had apparently been invested into the device that folds up over the head, ostensibly to shield out the sun.  Instead, it invariably ends up in one’s face or hair.  Eventually I concluded this handy feature must be there to hide one’s grimacing face. 

            The upright chair was no better.  Sitting in it was an experience reminiscent of those baby bounce seats one hangs in a doorway.  The baby sets down into it, fully trapped, and bounces up and down.  This is exactly how this chair felt, minus the bouncing part.  That would have made it fun.  Instead, as soon as you plop down into it you realize you’ll need help extracting yourself.  This chair, too, has two helpful settings: 1) pinch fingers and 2) pop pelvis. 

            Terri and I took turns trading back and forth between these two delightful implements of our most recent real estate transaction as our children frolicked in the sand.  Actually, they first had to snake through the maze of chairs and umbrellas and all the smoking Italians before doing any frolicking.  That’s apparently one of the largest attractions of the beach: smoking.  Everywhere we looked, that’s what people were doing.  Even the parents.  This was far different than Ireland, where we couldn’t help but notice how frowned upon smoking was, at least judging by the warning labels on cigarette cartons, which said things such as, “Warning: Smoking has been shown to kill people outright. It is stupid, stupid, stupid!” and “Only an idiot would buy this pack of cigarettes.” And those were some of the tamer ones.  So I guess what I’m saying is if you are a smoker, you probably want to choose Italy over Ireland.  Besides, the beaches in Ireland are probably pretty rainy, anyway.

            After taking in our position in the umbrella city, wrestling with the furniture, and observing the smokers, I next was confronted with physiques.  It was hard to avoid.  For one thing, single piece bathing suits must be quite out of style.  Instead, what’s fashionable seems to be flab hanging down over a bikini bottom.  And that was just the men.  The women’s suits were even less modest.  I learned more about Italian anatomy in half an hour than any lawn furniture designer ever knew.  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one noticing.  My five-year-old innocently made the comment, “These mommies and daddies don’t need to buy trampolines; their kids can just bounce on their bellies!”

            I snaked my way through the umbrella maze and joined my children in the water.  Here’s where the Mediterranean shines.  Warm, calm salt water gently carried me along on my back as I surveyed the beautiful mountain behind the small town.  I relaxed in total comfort, swimming with my children and gazing all around.  What a beautiful place, I thought, spotting a castle I hadn’t seen before perched high up on a crag. 

            Back on shore we kicked around a small soccer ball, then tossed it high to enable heroic diving catches.  I took the two younger children for rides on my back out past the swim area markers.  Out there the water grew a bit cooler, offering refreshment against the ever-rising sun.  The day was getting hotter and hotter and ashore I could see the umbrella city filling up.  We headed back to our little slice of territory and our kids began digging a commercial strip mine.  They piled the rough, nearly black sand high on four sides of an enormous pit.  This overflowed into several other beach sites in the neighborhood, crowding others out and blatantly trespassing – all without a permit.  No one seemed to mind, however, as between smoke rings we were given approving smiles and nods.  Once again we were welcomed by the friendliness of the people.

            Our children thought it was funny how the coarse sand stuck to them when they were wet, so they rolled around and got completely covered, sand filling their face, nose, mouth, ears, hair; all the places a parent would later have to scrub clean.  For the moment, however, they were having too much fun to be stopped.  We took pictures and laughed, sharing in one of those good family moments vacations are supposed to bring.  

It wasn’t long, however, before I started thinking about lunch.  I was going native.  Not all the way, though.  I’d have to be in Italy for a hundred years before I’d buy one of those tight, bikini-style swim trunks; maybe two hundred.

 

The Art of Vacation:

Take-Alongs and Take-Aways

 

1.    Everything looks better from the water.
2.    All beaches are not created equal.
3.    There are job opportunities for beach chair designers in Italy.

          

 

 

 

Dreams Have Ramifications

My first view of it came from at least a mile away, across fields and woods and colored by a setting sun. The spires of the Biltmore mansion stood proudly in a group, sticking up above the pines and pointing into the sky. Even from such a distance, it looked enormous.

I had tried once before to come here and tour this place, but instead a flu had me halucinating in a nearby hotel room bed. I fought off dragons and flew through black ink skies until our schedule forced us to move on - me in the passenger seat, curled into the fetal position. We left without even getting a glimpse. Now, four years hence, the glimpse alone was worth the trip.

The next day we gathered with dear friends and took the official tour. My favorite was the library, of course. Being a sucker for architecture and the creative process in general, I was taken in by George Vanderbilt's vision, his design, the attention to detail, and, obviously, the sheer size of the building. My mind went to thoughts of infrastructure and logistics, the complication of the build, and the cost. 125,000 acres, I thought! What an estate.

Seeing the servants' quarters, noting the scale of the kitchens and "working rooms," it occurred to me how many people must work to allow a few to be at leisure. What had Vanderbilt himself done, after all, to earn all of this? He was a third generation millionaire (billionaire in today's inflated dollar terms) who spent his inheritance on this dream home while his older brother carried on the family work. But then, who was I to judge? And who could begrudge someone using his means in a way he saw fit, that didn't hurt anyone, and that brought a lot of activitiy to a lot of people. Besides, there was also talk of his private contributions to charity. 

That's when I thought of it.

One part of the audio tour mentioned that Vanderbilt had 40 full-time staff to run the place in his day. Yet, everywhere we went on the property, from the inn to the winery, from the guard shack to the house proper, we were met and greeted and handled by friendly, smiling people. There are way more than 40 people working here now. One man's dream from over a century ago has provided not only enjoyment, but employment for countless others down through the years. 

Dreams, you see, have ramifications. Beauty has a special quality that, when shared, is free and contagious. It can be appreciated by everybody. But beyond the sharing of a work of art, such as the Biltmore mansion, dreams can be productive in employing others and providing a livelihood, too. 

Dream big. Dream in a God-honoring way. Dream of things you can do with your talents and abilities to bring joy, share beauty, and impact others in a positive way. Do no harm. Seek to do good. For you can never know for sure how far your dream will reach or last, and how many it will benefit along the way. Who knows, someone may just be writing about your dream 100 years from now!

 

Art, History, and Michael Jackson

Below is another excerpt from my upcoming ITALY book (chapter 19). 

            One of the ways I’d sold this whole month of Italy concept to Terri was by emphasizing its educational aspects.  Partly due to our regular travel schedule, and also the fact that we insisted on living in two states at once, we had thus far entirely home schooled our children.  This had many benefits and effects on our family life, one of which was to turn us into opportunists always on the lookout for ways to teach.  So my sales pitch was an easy lob across the plate: What could be more educational than to go and see in person many of the things one normally only gets to read about in books? It was a strong argument, of course. 

 While in Siena, as we were touring the magnificent town hall called the Palazzo Pubblico, a project to restore some of the building's many fabulous frescoes was underway.  Christine stopped cold in her tracks when she noticed a college-aged woman lying on her side on the floor, carefully applying freshening color to a border originally painted over six hundred years prior.  This gave us the spontaneous opportunity to explain to our children the process of painting en fresco,wherein the artist applies the paint to the wall as its freshly laid plaster is still drying.  In this way, the art is applied into the wall and not merely onto it.  For this reason, the art is much more durable throughout the centuries.  Fortunately for us, and the world, the Renaissance painters from Michelangelo to Raphael painted almost entirely en fresco.  This was a moment of art history at its best. 

 This one little lesson inspired a search for art supplies and resulted in several afternoons of drawings and sketches.  Nathaniel and Christine each drew and colored fabulous renderings of the temples from Poseidonia, complete with fluted columns and admiring tourists.  J.R. drew a colorful rendition of his own, and Casey took a little table and chair out into the yard and made a near perfect sketch of La Contea.

            On another occasion, right around bedtime, Casey sat on the small love seat adjoining the desk I’d set up as my temporary office.  “Dad,” he inquired, “how come my allowance is worth so much less in Euros than it is in Dollars?”  I was glad he was seated, because my answer would take a bit of explaining.  As I launched into one of my favorite topics, Nathaniel heard what was going on and joined us.  Soon Christine and J.R. were there, too, and now I had eight brown eyes looking at me intently as I explained international monetary policy and the effects of inflation, balance of trade, and currency exchange rates.  I couldn’t believe their concentration level, their uninterrupted attention spans, the incredible teachable moment.  Their questions were pointed, informed, and insightful.  We chatted back and forth for almost two hours when finally Christine said, “Thanks for teaching us about inflation, Daddy.” 

            “How was that for some home schooling?” I asked pridefully of Terri after the kids were in bed.

            “It was fantastic,” she agreed.

            “I couldn’t believe how attuned they were to everything I was saying.  Even little J.R..  I think this trip has awakened in our children the hunger to learn,” I said, never one to miss a chance to reinforce a sale I’d made.

            “Yes, I’d agree.  But there was also another factor at work,” she said.

            “And what was that?”

            “It was bedtime and they were stretching it out.”

            Fast-forward six months after our month in Italy.  We were settling into our new surroundings in North Carolina, having recently sold our home in Michigan.  Terri had taken the kids to an event at a local museum in downtown Raleigh.  As a guide led the group around a corner and into a section of Italian art and history, my kids apparently came alive.  There was a painting of Mt. Vesuvius they recognized immediately.  They were even able to name some of the artists and their works.  As Terri recounted this story to me afterwards, I couldn’t help thinking how satisfying it is for a salesman to hear of his customer’s satisfaction.

            I have long believed that history is critical to a proper understanding of our human existence.  Billions of people have inhabited this place before us, and they’ve left fascinating clues and hints about the lives they lived.  They aren’t just names and places and dates, they were real people just like us.  They felt deeply, suffered terribly, laughed merrily, loved, ate, traveled, thought, raised children, worshipped, wrote, expressed themselves through art, built wonderful buildings, and wrote penetrating thoughts.  I get lost in wonder just pondering the depth and width of human history.  It is mysterious because so much of it is irrecoverable.  Tiny proofs of it are scattered across the globe, leaving often agonizingly incomplete records of what transpired before us.

            History is also one of the most difficult subjects to impart to children.  It takes patience and a deep appreciation of it on the part of the teacher to have any hope of transferring its wonder to the next generation.  Many times as I relate stories from history in my speeches or writings, I run across adults who say they’ve never really understood history before.  “It was always so boring,” they say.  But it is not boring.  History is magnificent and as full of mystery as life itself.  It’s a story without full answers, an unfinished work of art still being crafted each minute of every day.  It was this depth of appreciation I hoped a slow and easy trip through Italy would impart to my children.  But I wasn’t leaving it to chance.

            In my opinion, perspective is the key to appreciating history appropriately.  This must occur through the agency of two other things: geography and a timeline.  I love maps.  In another life I probably could have been a cartographer, holding up in a dusty office in Florence or Genoa, working with parchments and ink, reproducing the territories being discovered by the brave mariners of the late fifteenth century.  Timelines too have been a fascination, the way they provide insights into concurrent events, or the proximity of one event to another.  When looking at timelines I have often been hit with “aha” moments, realizing for the first time, for instance, that the conquests of Alexander the Great were a great connector between the civilization of the ancient Greeks and the Roman republic and empire to follow.  So in the interest of maximizing the impact of our historical touring through Italy, I had decided to use both maps and timelines with the children.

            One day we assembled at the wooden picnic table on the veranda.  With a long, blank piece of paper we together wrote out a crude timeline, showing first the ancient mysterious peoples populating the Italian peninsula, then the Etruscans, next the Romans, followed by the Dark Ages and the rise of the official church, then the Renaissance, and onward up to the present day.  In one sweep, portrayed with colored pencils in the Tuscan sunshine, my kids were treated to the perspective only obtainable through simplification.

            “Now,” I asked, “Where do the frescoes we saw being redone in Siena fit on this timeline?”

            A little finger came forward and rested on a spot.

            “Almost,” I answered, then was able to give some explanation.

            “How about the ruins we saw in Poseidonia? Where do they fit on here?”

            This time the point was accurate.  I continued with these kinds of questions until I noticed boredom creeping in.

            Next I flipped over the crude timeline and drew an even cruder map of Italy.  It was at this point I was thankful we weren’t taking a month in Hungary, or Poland, boots being so much easier to draw than livers or spleens.

            “Who can point to where we are in Tuscany right now?” I asked.

            Again, out shot a little finger.

            “Good.  And how about where we are on the Amalfi Coast.  Where’s that?”

            Another nearly perfect point.

            I was feeling so good.  This teaching stuff was a piece of cake.  Then I caught myself and realized it wasn’t my teaching ability, and it certainly wasn’t my map or timeline making ability, rather it was the power of being here and seeing it all firsthand.  It was the power of place all over again.

            Next I asked, “And who painted the Sistine Chapel Ceiling?” I was certain they’d get this one easily.  We’d been talking a lot about art history, and one of my favorites of all time is Michelangelo.  Besides, we were planning to go to Rome soon and had been discussing seeing the Sistine Chapel.

            “I know!” yelled Christine full of excitement.

            “Okay, sweetheart, who?” I asked, waiting like every proud teacher to hear a demonstration of the growing knowledge of his pupil.

            “Michael Jackson!” she answered with all the sincerity in the world.

 

 

Francis of Assisi was no Sissy

Here is a chapter (33) from my upcoming book (working title) A Month of Italy: Rediscovering the Art of Vacation.  I hope you like it.

            “Preach Christ with all your might, and if you must, use words.”  That little quote, often attributed to St. Francis of Assisi, was the only thing I really knew about the man before this vacation. 

            Other interesting things are also attributed to this rascal believer, including legends that he conversed with the birds and talked a wild wolf out of terrorizing a little mountain town.  The more believable aspects of his life are fascinating enough, however, and the deeper I researched into the life of this little man, the more respect I gained for what he accomplished.

            Born a rich kid whose father was a textile merchant and mother was French, his “normal guy” name was Giovanni Francesco di Bernardone.  Growing up today we might call him Johnny Fran, or something catchy like that.  One can only imagine a life with such a moniker, so Francis did what all rich kids with funny names do; he lived it up.  He went in for all kinds of exciting things, such as fighting in a battle to defend Assisi, getting captured and spending a year in prison, getting seriously ill, recovering, and then taking a trip to Rome to tour St. Peter’s, much as we just did (except he got to see the original basilica, not the “new” one, of course, it being the thirteenth century and all).  Only instead of strolling around admiring architecture and the like, Francis decided to join in with the beggars he saw everywhere.  Apparently this life either appealed to him or appalled him so much he was never the same again.

            When Francis returned home after his pilgrimage to Rome, he refused to go back to his profligate way of life.  As a result, his former friends teased him.  It seems Francis wasn’t interested in playing sports anymore.  When asked if he was planning to settle down and marry, Francis supposedly answered, “Yes. To the most beautiful bride.”  What he meant by this was the bride of poverty.  “Oh, that Johnny Fran is such a jokester,” his former friends no doubt thought.  But they were wrong.  Francis’s vow of poverty was sincere, and his way of life consistent with his new views.   

He began tending to the needs of the local lepers: the lowliest and most avoided people of his day.  In the church of San Diamano near Assisi he had a vision in which he claims he was told, “Francis, Francis, go and repair my house, which, you can see, is falling into ruins.”  Francis took this vision literally, and launched himself into one of the original fixer-upper projects – the church in which he’d been praying.  Surely pleasing the local priest, Francis began helping with restorations.  He made a little miscalculation, however, when he sold some goods out of his father’s store to pay the construction costs, always exorbitant in Italy, I guess even in his day.  His father didn’t take too kindly to this appropriation, however, and attempted several popular tactics to get restitution, such as assault, battery, and lawsuits.

In a hearing before the local bishop, Francis renounced his father and his inheritance, in the process even removing every stitch of clothing from his person.  Departing the scene entirely naked, Francis went to live among the beggars once again, this time with a more authentic material situation. 

Slowly he was able to expand his fixer-upper activities, restoring several more local churches.  Then he heard a sermon that changed his life even further, compelling him to officially renounce a material life and to spread the word that the kingdom of Heaven was at hand.  He dressed in a simple rough garment, which lots of painters have since reproduced, and went around to all the towns in the area preaching repentance and faith in Christ.  Francis was sincere, and by the end of one year had gained eleven followers.  He refused any official ordination as a priest, and he and his followers began to be known as the “lesser brothers,” because they refused to act with pride or take their place above anyone else.

  Of course, such offensive behavior got them in trouble with the powers-that-be – The Church in Rome.  It seems that preaching at the time was illegal unless one had obtained official sanction.  So back Francis and his eleven went to the city that had started it all for him.  Incredibly, and thanks to a dream he’d had, Pope Innocent III gave them an audience and an approval of sorts.  Francis was instructed that as his group grew, they could come back and gain official acceptance from the church.  In other words, “If you can convince more people of your ideas then maybe we’ll be convinced, too,” or something like that.  This quasi-approval from The Church was pretty important because it allowed Francis and his eleven to avoid the complications of being declared heretics.  This was nice, because it allowed them to live, which was very helpful in gaining new followers.

Francis continued to demonstrate his life of poverty and preach his gospel everywhere he went, many times attempting to spread the message outside of Italy, and even purportedly preaching to the Sultan of Egypt.  His order of followers, ultimately called the Franciscans, spread around the globe, and the order he co-founded for women, called the Poor Claires, was also successful.  Francis was involved in many pioneering movements of the faith, both big and small, including the interesting Trivial Pursuit-type fact that he was the first to set up a three-dimensional nativity scene, complete with live animals.  It was two years after he died that he was officially pronounced a Saint, and therefore got the name he is best known by today: St. Francis of Assisi.  He lived a life consistent with his doctrine and has been a hero of the faith down through the ages.

As soon as I realized how close we were staying to Assisi, the town made famous by this fascinating man nearly eight hundred years ago, I knew we had to go check it out.  Only a short drive into Umbria past Lake Trasimeno, we began to notice the change in stone color as indicated in all the guidebooks.  Where Tuscany is typically the orange of terracotta tiles and the brown of the stones found throughout the region, stones of pinker and whiter hues characterize Umbria.

We spotted the gorgeous little town from the expressway, off to our left a few miles away, cozily nestled into the side of a large ridge.  The sun was already running out of steam for the day, and the dimming colors reflecting off the Umbrian stone made a pleasing contrast to the dark green all around the town.  It was beautiful.

In keeping with form we managed to park in the wrong place, as some polite residents in lawn chairs informed us.  So in standard fashion I unloaded the family and drove down yet another hill in search of a berth for the mini-bus. 

The first thing that struck us as we shopped our way into the city was just how marvelously clean it was.  This was true of most places we’d been, but for some reason Assisi was so prim we felt as if we were walking around in a dollhouse.  There were also plentiful photo opportunities and I was kept busy at the shutter throughout the evening.  One in particular featured three large, identical trees on a ledge behind a fountain on which two young men wearing fedoras, facing the opposite direction, were posing side-by-side for a photo of their own.  From my angle exiting a small tunnel, it looked like a Beetle’s album cover.  It is still one of my favorite shots I’ve ever taken. 

It took a searching eye to see the reconstructions and repairs from the devastation an earthquake caused here over a decade ago.  One or two buildings were undergoing massive restorations, but I wasn’t sure if this was the last of the repairs or just more of the type of ongoing construction one sees throughout these towns of old in Italy.

Terri really got into the shopping in Assisi, finding a monogramming store to customize some aprons for friends and relatives.  We picked up a few more gifts and found a little out of the way place for dinner, taking our seats at long picnic tables in the front by the bar area.  This was also where one had to pay at the end of a meal, and a funny photo opportunity presented itself.  I looked up between my first and second plates to see a nun standing at the cash register waiting to pay her bill.  From my vantage point the cash register was not visible, and it looked like she had sidled up to the bar for a drink.  I decided not to take the picture, she not having actually incriminated herself, and instead enjoyed a private giggle at the arrangement of some of these restaurants.

After dinner we strolled the main streets, and I especially liked the Tempio di Minerva, the remains of a Roman temple dating back to the time of Caesar Augustus.  It has been incorporated as the front of a more “modern” building, an amalgamation done hundreds of years ago.  This made me think of a similar arrangement in Castiglione del Lago, and served as a constant reminder of the many layers of history enveloping us throughout our travels.

Unfortunately, the hour being late, we ran out of time and light.  I would have loved to have seen the twenty-eight panels of frescoes depicting the Life of St. Francis by Giotto, some of his most renowned work, in their original position in the lower part of the Basilica di San Francesco.  Also in this church rich in art treasures are frescoes by Martini, Lorenzetti, and even Cimabue.  Knowing that we were only scratching the surface with our abbreviated evening visit, I made a mental note to return some day and “do” Assisi correctly.  Besides, with the kids in tow we had bypassed many a museum and church interior during this trip, missing out on huge amounts of painted masterpieces.  Perhaps a future visit, Lord willing, could revolve around an itinerary of Italy’s best frescoes.  Wouldn’t that be a chance at sensory overload.

I made due with what we had to work with, however, and leaned against a ledge and watched the sunset.  The reflected light from the changing sky almost made the buildings of Assisi glow.  As I snapped a few last photos, trying desperately to capture with the lenses what the senses themselves could barely take in, I thought about the ground upon which I stood.  How many pilgrims had migrated to this city throughout the centuries, searching for inspiration from a man who actually practiced what he preached?  I found it interesting that in a world with no shortage of self-promoting, selfish, greedy, murderous, power hungry, materialistic, and glory hungry people, that a humble, dedicated little man from a tiny hill town could have gained so much acclaim, much less have had such an impact.  About him author Robert Clark wrote, “He’d given Christ a face people hadn’t seen before, the peasant’s face.  Until then Christ had been the Redeemer as the judge and king of the universe: he was painted enthroned, stern and impassive.  Now he was the Redeemer as the man of sorrows, the god who became human to the quick and the marrow in order to lay claim to human wretchedness.”  In fact, in my reading I discovered that many historians believe the “Franciscan revolution” begun by this humble man, which brought people back to a basic, humble faith, served to delay the Reformation by nearly three hundred years. 

Is it that rare for someone to preach Christ with all his might, and if he must, use words? 

Maybe. 

Or perhaps it’s not rare, but obscure “lesser brother” types away from the camera lens of Hollywood or the national news are the ones who do it.

Or, maybe it’s supremely difficult, requiring the kind of meekness described in the Bible: enormous strength held under control, the animal appetites tamed and subdued. 

The more I thought about it the more I realized what a tough, heroic figure St. Francis really was.  The thousands of pilgrims throughout the centuries had chosen a worthy figure to emulate on their own journeys homeward, and I was glad to be numbered among them.  

 

Mastery is Beautiful

There is nothing like watching excellence in motion. I am always inspired by greatness in life, by someone who has mastered his or her craft, by professionals at the top of their game. In this mesmerizing video sent to me by my friend Ed Zentner, beautiful videography, music, scenery, and finely honed athleticism combine in a visual poem. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did, and that it inspires you to reach mastery and balance in your own chosen field.  

Israel at the Intersection

Stone steps greet my weary feet once again, while the sun keeps up its constant beaming from above, pounding on my hat and searing my skin.  The bag on my back, though small, irritates me from long companionship, and the camera that produces the pictures I so love is an annoyance. My senses are overloaded and my brain is full.  It's been another full day of touring the Holy Land.

From Dan to Beer-Sheva, and Caesarea (Maritime) to En-Giev, we've covered this land.  We swam in the Sea of Galilee and bobbed in the Dead Sea (this latter event so comical I couldn't stop giggling at the curious situation of lying on top of the water).  We've surveyed archeological digs both old and new, gathered smooth stones from the Brook of Elah where David did so to the great chagrin of Goliath, and drove to the military installations along the borders of the Golan Heights. We passed through the Palestinian checkpoint at Jericho where the soldier there (Palestinian) was watering flowers. I've seen the Israeli soldiers, many of them young girls with cute pony-tails bouncing down the backs of their uniforms, toting AR 15 machine guns as if they were shopping bags.  We have pushed through crowded, narrow market streets while the Muslim call to prayer boomed loudly from speakers mounted to minarets high above.  I've seen monks in their brown robes with white ropes, nuns in their hobbits, and beggars of several faiths.

 

We walked into many an old church, usually constructed dead atop some Biblically important site, now entirely obliterated by the building meant to commemorate the very event it now obscures. Perhaps the most adventurous activity was wading through the narrow (and sometimes short) tunnel of Hezekiah, a 1750 foot wonder that snakes around back and forth under the old City of David and takes water from the Gihon Spring to the Pool of Siloam.  This required feet that could withstand long exposure to the cold and still flowing spring water, a flashlight, and the ability to duck repeatedly, as well as a decent ability to fight off claustrophobia.  But we all made it through, shamed by the 90 year old lady who soldiered through it with us without a word of complaint or even a slow step.  Climbing the recently unearthed ceremonial staircase from the Pool of Siloam to the Temple Mount above (way above, I might add) turned into another spelunking adventure as we ended up squeezing between ancient ashlars that framed a drainage system (at least that was our best guess).

 

I've seen wild Ibex, commercially tamed camels one can ride for ten shekels, and prairie dogs with a fancier name which I now forget.  There have also been cats, lots of cats, loose in every nook and cranny of these old cities. But everywhere and all the time there have been people.  I have been all over the world, and have visited what I had previously believed to be some pretty crazy, diverse places.  But I must admit, never in my life have I seen anything like Israel.  Enemies exist in muted tension side by side.  Radically different faiths fight for the same commemorative soil.  Cultures crash like cars in a downtown intersection, with sounds and wounds just as loud and painful.  I work my brain like a prize fighter trying to make sense of it all.

 

Israel, chosen by God to be the intersection of the world.  Israel, today, as much as ever, upholding its duty to be the place where all the cultures flow together.

 

Our trip was billed as a study tour, and study tour it has been.  Under the masterful tutelage of Dr. Doug Bookman from Shepherds Theological Seminary in North Carolina, we've been whisked around this mysterious land like the students in the classroom of Miss Frizzle, the zany but enthusiastic grade school teacher whose "Magic School Bus" transforms itself into whatever shape is needed to give the students a tactile, on-location lesson of the material being covered.  With contacts in every corner of this land, Dr. bookman has us transported up to places like the half-built and then abandoned palace of Jordan's King Husain, which was begun in 1965 but quickly abandoned with the outbreak of the Six Days War in 1967.  From it's ruined hulk, a place (to quote Dr. Bookman) where "Osha has never been," we could look out at the surrounding hills and almost see the Bible narrative that occurred there coming to life.  While we pass other tour groups in silly kerchiefs and matching hats, we sneak around where people rarely go and take a look from off the beaten path.

Another joy has been traveling with long time friend and business partner Orrin Woodward and his wife Laurie. As we learn we discuss, and review and analyze.  Learning is always more fun in concert with other minds equally enthused and invigorated with the lamp of growing understanding.  Further, we've been in cahoots with a small team of others from Califormia, Indiana, North Carolina, and Georgia, who have been as fun as they have been adventurous.

This tour is not over, but its days are rapidly ending. And as they close, I realize once again that the more I learn, the more there is to understand.  Further mystery is always on the other side of new understanding, and these days in Israel have opened me to more wonder than I ever could have imagined.  My appetite to study and learn even more about the foundations of my faith and the plan of God for this land is mightier than ever. My faith is stronger, my knowledge higher, and my camera fuller than when I began. And yes, my feet might throb as I drop into bed at night, but my mind races and my heart leaps at all that God has done.

  

 

LIFE on a Motorcycle

Below is another small excerpt from a rough draft of my "Italy book" (still as yet untitled):

I had one more day left with the motorcycle and took an extended ride to savor the last moments with my new friend. It’s surprising the connection a man can develop with a vehicle, but I guess it’s because shared experiences build bonds, and this bike and I had traversed many a twisty road, bounced down bumpy trails, zoomed along farm paths, putt-putted through the cobble stone streets of many ancient towns. It had been my magic carpet of sorts as I’d used it to drop into stimulatingly unknown spots in this captivating country. To me, getting far off the beaten path is the best way to get an authentic feel for a place. This little motorcycle had provided a super enjoyable way to do just that. We had dead-ended in farmer’s fields, families’ driveways, and tiny piazzas in front of churches at the top of little hill towns.

I had adopted the attitude that acting like I belonged somewhere was half the battle of being allowed there in the first place. I guess you could say I was adhering to the philosophy that asking forgiveness is easier than obtaining permission. So I would just pull up to an ancient town, watch what the local scooters and motorcycles were doing, and then do likewise. This worked well enough. However, there were times when I could swear I was receiving strange looks from people, as if somehow they knew I didn’t really belong. Thinking that to be impossible I would simply nod and continue on my path, exploring like a Conquistador. Only after several weeks did I notice the huge sticker on the front headlight bezel that read: “RENT ME.”

As my friend and co-author Orrin Woodward says, "Don't wait until someday to live your LIFE!"

"Oh, Spaniard, You Should See the Colosseum!"

Here's a snippet from a manuscript I'm roughing while here in Italy; musings on the Colosseum in Rome.

I also struggled, as I guess most do, with the purpose behind this amphitheatre.  This enormous, beautiful structure was constructed as a showcase of cruelty.  Only God knows how many murders occurred here, how many innocent victims, how many ferocious animal fights, the scope of the tragic destruction - all this, shockingly, in the name of entertainment.  As I stared down into what was once a celebrated killing field, I wondered what the Romans unashamed bloodlust had to teach us about our own society, and ourselves.  Were they worse than us, or just more public and shameless with their atrocities? I tried relating a little of this to the children, but with a five and a six year old the answers didn’t exist for their predominant question: “Why?”

            Why, indeed.

            It was a sober moment, in which it was impossible to forget that the power of Rome came from its violent conquests, just as in the arena it fed off the blood of its victims, by conquering, subjugating, enslaving, and systematically thieving.  Although Rome is famous for developing an effective system of jurisprudence, the “glory that was Rome” was anything but just, and certainly not glorious.  

 

Speechless - Let's Ride Motorcycles!

 

International Travel as Education, Adventure and Service

Raised in Michigan, a state with bountiful shoreline and beautiful state parks, I didn't venture too far from home for most of my youth. There were the occasional family trips across the country, the most memorable being the one to California and back after my High School graduation, complete with a robbery, car accident, and engine flames in the cab of the motor home while driving down the highway (these and other episodes will perhaps be covered in future musings). Mostly, however, I stayed close to home in the good old Flint area. My first airline flight didn't occur until age 19 when I went to pick up a car in Oklahoma.

Then it all changed. I spent some time in Texas as a student, then attended grad school in Pittsburgh, then went to finish my Master's degree in Toyohashi, Japan. My view of life was forever molded and expanded by these experiences. I had been bitten by the travel bug. I soon thereafter began traveling for for my job, and went out west to visit friends when I got time off work. Eventually my entrepreneurial endeavors took me across most of the United States and Canada. Finally, I began traveling abroad on vacations, more to study and learn than as a holiday.

Travel can sometimes be a bear, especially considering weather delays, mechanical problems, lines, germs, and a myriad of other inconveniences. However, it can almost always be considered a blessings if experienced with a good attitude and seen in the correct light. After all, there is still something exhilarating about sitting in a chair and hurling through the sky at 500 miles per hour. It is still a thrill to sit down, then stand up a few hours later at a different spot on the map.

Walking the parapet of a castle in Cardiff, seeing purple ridges in Killarney, looking out over Florence from the lantern of Brunelleschi's Dome in the Duomo, driving a Smart Car through the tight streets of Santorini, riding a water taxi in Venice, kayaking in Dubrovnik, scuba diving in the British Virgin Islands, or working with the children of the Favellas just outside Rio are all experiences that leave their imprint on a person. Cultures, languages, topography, mores, manners, customs, climates, and histories are all different and infinitely interesting. International travel opens one's eyes and heart to an entire world of people who in many ways live differently, but in many important ways share the same characteristics.

I would heartily recommend a good dose of international travel to everyone who is able. Although it's a cliche that it will broaden your horizons, it also happens to be true. It will increase your understanding of your fellow man, soften your heart to the plights of others less fortunate, increase your grace in handling differences and peculiarities, open your eyes to possibilities, and enlighten you in your perspective on the size of God's world while helping to clarify your place in it. I know for me, international travel has always produced deep moments of gratitude and speculation, engendering thoughts such as, "I could be doing more."

If you don't already have it on your dreams list to travel abroad, allow me to heartily make the recommendation. It will cost money and gobble up some time, but it will be worth it. I consider it a facet of my lifelong, self-directed educational process, and therefore priceless. I have written elsewhere with some recommendations and considerations for international travel for those serious about putting detail into their travel dreams. 

I believe international travel can and should also evolve into something more than just personal gratification - it should be about service to others. There are unlimited needs around the globe where we can pitch in and make a difference. Get involved in your church's mission efforts to spread the gospel and feed the orphans and widows, for example. We are needed, perhaps more than ever, in person and on the spot to demonstrate the source of our blessings and to give back from all that we've been given.

There will be a thousand reasons and distractions and interruptions that will attempt to stop you, but make it a priority to get out and see the world (and serve the world) yourself. Build your business to the point where you can afford the time and money, or work your career hard enough to earn the time off necessary, or, if you are in the years of your formal education, perhaps you could seek out some of the many study abroad programs that have become so popular. You will learn more than you can imagine, grow more than you might predict, contribute more than you might otherwise, and enjoy it more than you can probably believe. Your adventure awaits. Live purposely and travel light.