By Lynne Zielinski
When He comes, in that day, to be glorified in His Saints and to be admired among all those who believe, because our testimony among You was believed.
~2 Thessalonians 1:10
Birdsong and butterflies filled the air and threads of sunlight pierced through the canopy of trees as I walked along the lane outside the ancient city of Pompeii. It was lovely and serene. I, however, was far from peaceful; I was a very damp basket case.
When He comes, in that day, to be glorified in His Saints and to be admired among all those who believe, because our testimony among You was believed.
~2 Thessalonians 1:10
Birdsong and butterflies filled the air and threads of sunlight pierced through the canopy of trees as I walked along the lane outside the ancient city of Pompeii. It was lovely and serene. I, however, was far from peaceful; I was a very damp basket case.
In just a few moments, I was due at the Villa de Misteri office to interview the chief archaeologist for the Vesuvius area. My interview questions were prepared, but I was not only nervous, I was as hot as a grilled sausage in the only business outfit I'd brought. A winter suit. Who knew that in late October in Italy, the temperatures could be unseasonably hot?
Some women "glow" when hot, others might perspire. Me, I flat out sweat. Torrents of water poured off my head, down my face and spouted off the end of my nose. Hardly the way to conduct a dignified interview.
I'd already had a few bad moments in Italy. In Rome I somehow managed to break security at the Vatican and ended up in the Papal courtyard. As the Swiss Guard grabbed my arm and two others ran over, I quickly prayed to Saint Peter to put a good word in for God to help me. This was his house; surely he knew I meant no harm. After a mere two minutes of questioning, the guards determined that this grandma in tennis shoes was no terrorist and released me with the admonition to, "Go and trespass no more."
Another harrowing incident occurred in Herculaneum. I was so busy photographing all the glorious sights, I somehow allowed my bag to slip off my shoulder. Not only was my credit card in there, so was a considerable sum of money and, most importantly, my memory card with about five hundred photos of Rome. After running wildly up and down the ruins without result, I reported my loss and gave my cell phone number to the guard office, then left for Naples.
"Gee, Lynne, you're handling this well," my companions commented.
"We gotta have faith; there are still good people in this world."
But, in my secret heart, I was worried. I sat on a bench and lifted my head in prayer. Noticing the church of Saint Anthony across the piazza, I petitioned him to intercede. Twenty minutes later, I received a call... my bag had been found! A messenger delivered it to me that afternoon with all the items intact.
The third incident took place in Sorrento. I have the language skills of a pigeon, so an Italian friend was to confirm my appointment with the archaeologist. It was essential that I meet with him the next day, as my window of opportunity was very tight. I stood on the Corso Tasso waiting for my translator so we could place the call. The archaeologist's office would be closing soon; time was running out. I toe-tapped, strutted and muttered and still my friend didn't show up.
Across the street I saw a church dedicated to Saint Francis. Since prayer had already worked so nicely for me, again I prayed. Before I even got to the Amen, my friend came stomping across the cobblestones on her stilettos.
So, now I was in Pompeii about to meet the professor. A little bit shaky and quite damp, I prayed one simple prayer, "Oh, God, please help me."
Immediately, an indescribable peace wafted over me like a clean linen sheet. I felt cool, both in body and spirit. As I continued to stroll toward the Villa di Misteri, I had a physical sense of Saint Anthony behind me, Saint Peter in front and Saint Francis beside me.
The interview went splendidly. Today my three amigos still walk with me wherever I go, putting in a good word to God whenever I need them.
Some women "glow" when hot, others might perspire. Me, I flat out sweat. Torrents of water poured off my head, down my face and spouted off the end of my nose. Hardly the way to conduct a dignified interview.
I'd already had a few bad moments in Italy. In Rome I somehow managed to break security at the Vatican and ended up in the Papal courtyard. As the Swiss Guard grabbed my arm and two others ran over, I quickly prayed to Saint Peter to put a good word in for God to help me. This was his house; surely he knew I meant no harm. After a mere two minutes of questioning, the guards determined that this grandma in tennis shoes was no terrorist and released me with the admonition to, "Go and trespass no more."
Another harrowing incident occurred in Herculaneum. I was so busy photographing all the glorious sights, I somehow allowed my bag to slip off my shoulder. Not only was my credit card in there, so was a considerable sum of money and, most importantly, my memory card with about five hundred photos of Rome. After running wildly up and down the ruins without result, I reported my loss and gave my cell phone number to the guard office, then left for Naples.
"Gee, Lynne, you're handling this well," my companions commented.
"We gotta have faith; there are still good people in this world."
But, in my secret heart, I was worried. I sat on a bench and lifted my head in prayer. Noticing the church of Saint Anthony across the piazza, I petitioned him to intercede. Twenty minutes later, I received a call... my bag had been found! A messenger delivered it to me that afternoon with all the items intact.
The third incident took place in Sorrento. I have the language skills of a pigeon, so an Italian friend was to confirm my appointment with the archaeologist. It was essential that I meet with him the next day, as my window of opportunity was very tight. I stood on the Corso Tasso waiting for my translator so we could place the call. The archaeologist's office would be closing soon; time was running out. I toe-tapped, strutted and muttered and still my friend didn't show up.
Across the street I saw a church dedicated to Saint Francis. Since prayer had already worked so nicely for me, again I prayed. Before I even got to the Amen, my friend came stomping across the cobblestones on her stilettos.
So, now I was in Pompeii about to meet the professor. A little bit shaky and quite damp, I prayed one simple prayer, "Oh, God, please help me."
Immediately, an indescribable peace wafted over me like a clean linen sheet. I felt cool, both in body and spirit. As I continued to stroll toward the Villa di Misteri, I had a physical sense of Saint Anthony behind me, Saint Peter in front and Saint Francis beside me.
The interview went splendidly. Today my three amigos still walk with me wherever I go, putting in a good word to God whenever I need them.
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