As I take my first few yarns and stretches after Christmas, I am filled with joy and appreciation for all the experiences of this year. How amazing it is to be aware of and to be in tune with one’s own gratitude and opportunity to be alive. Looking back on this year, I am humbled thinking of all the people, places, times, and experiences we’ve shared—some planned and others completely unexpected. And the thing is…I love them all:  the plan and the unplanned, the joy and the pain, the ups and the downs—for they have all been integral.

This year, as I sat in Christmas Mass, which specifically was a different kind of mass (one without pomp and circumstance, a mass for the poor where afterwards they are fed), memories of past years flood my mind…

Of course I think of my childhood and the many years of laughter with my parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, and grandparents. I think of my early adult years and the decision I made 15 years ago to not go home for Christmas; not because I didn’t love them but because adult Christmas pales in comparison to childhood ones. I thought of the many Christmas mornings I’ve spent abroad; and especially those in Honduras with Chris, Gregory, and my son Miguel. I thought of Christmas mornings when I awoke dreadfully unhappy, and those filled with unimaginable joy. When I suddenly “snapped to,” to find myself sitting in a Roman Catholic Church in, in, in…Rome…listening to mass in Latin? (no),  Italian! (close enough); nearly every cell in my body begins to vibrate.

Thankfully, there are enough similarities between Spanish and Italian that I understand the foundation of the message; and the rest I just make up (pretty fun, actually!). I marvel at the craftsmanship and the invaluable works of art in every direction I turn. I am aware that the intention is to keep parishioners in a state of uninterrupted bliss no matter where the eye drifts.

My eye drifts over at Tommi, and I smile. My eye drifts over to his family and I realize that no matter where, families are the same no matter where you go. They love, they fight, they judge, they forgive, they come home looking for themselves—and sometimes, they bring home with them the people they love, and the process repeats itself in the coming year.

At the end of mass, because Tommi’s father was the first collaborator of Mother Teresa in Rome and the person who found the house for the Sisters, we are invited back to the area where they live. In fact, I find out later that Tommi has been photographed, as a child, in the arms of Mother Teresa — but that’s a story for another blog. Again, because I don’t speak Italian, the majority of my time here in Rome is spent listening to and reading body language. If you have had a reason to be in a place where you don’t speak the language you realize what a humbling and exhausting form of communication this is. So, I shuffle along with everyone into Missionarie Della Carita, a separate part of the cathedral. There are times Rome’s beauty exhausts me. Why? Because it’s everywhere. You simply can not take it in. An analogy is to be constantly fed your favorite foods…at some point, you simply can not appreciate your gustatory feast any longer. The taste bud sensations grow weary and you bloat; and what was once savory becomes bland, ordinary, gluttony…that is until you have a spoon of sorbet.

Within a few minutes, I am told that a few feet away from where we stand is the room in which Mother Teresa slept whenever she was in Rome. My heart skips a beat. Then, without another word we shuffle into a little room where time seems to have stopped. There is the smallest of beds, a table, and lamp, and a few other meager items but I am completely spellbound to be standing in her private space. The room is so small that you could stretch out your arms and touch each side of the room. “The room,” I am told, “is kept just the way Mother used it.” I reach over and run my hand along her bed and her pillow. I begin to experience what can only be described as ecstasy. However, I try to contain myself.

Sister Mary Prema, The Mother General—the German-born Sister who has taken over the entire world-wide order since Mother Teresa’s death (who just happens to be there on this Christmas)—touches my arm and speaks to me; but I can no longer hear her. I am gone. I come back momentarily to realize that she is speaking to me in English and that I should probably pay attention in order to respond or risk her thinking that I am mute.

She hands me a medal with Mother Teresa and another with The Virgin Mary and a card with a picture of Mother Teresa upon which is written a prayer. I can no longer hold back the tears that are stinging my eyes. It must be understood that I am not Catholic. In fact, I was raised in what could be considered the opposite of Catholic. I grew up (whether consciously intended or not) with a healthy suspicion of the Catholic faith. However, as with most things, I have had opportunities to confirm whether or not my childhood beliefs were valid…which in summary means, I have found myself many times sitting in a Catholic church wondering if it could be ascertained that I didn’t belong there.

As we leave Mother’s room, The General Mother once more grabs my arm and thanks me for all the work that I am doing in the world; and that the world needs it. No kidding. She actually said those words. Without warning the tears began to pour down my face and I no longer care about how I look to those around me. Another Sister puts her hand on my forehead and gives me a blessing. I close my eyes. Ecstasy — in full bloom. I hug and kiss everyone (first left cheek and then right) and wish them, “Buon Natale!” And, somehow step out into the most beautiful courtyard I’ve ever seen. The sunlight dries the tears that stain my face. Suddenly, I can breathe again as I begin to comprehend what has just occurred.

What has occurred, I understand instinctively, is that I have just completed an important portion of my life’s journey. And, I am ready to begin a new one. I am grateful to everyone for the part each of us have played in this drama we call life. Most of all, I am grateful for myself for always having the courage to live my life by my own design. It hasn’t always been pretty, and I have certainly made lots of mistakes, but the one thing I can say is that I have lived, and that I have loved. And, for me, that’s a breakthrough!

Until next year…I don’t know when, but this is my last BreakThrough Blog until I am clear about where life leads me next. So, my friends…I’ll see you somewhere and I will most certainly continue to blog because I believe blogging has allowed me to open up to myself as well as share with you!

Happy New Year! Oh, and congratulations to Evonne Weinhaus! You made it! Thank you!!!

Use this discussion board/blog to post your insights. Read and discuss the insights of others. Go for it!