Francis of Assisi

“I like your hat!”  Ed and I turned to the voice booming across the narrow Assisi road, ricocheting off stone buildings, climbing uneven staircases, and penetrating wrought iron gates leading to courtyards. 

“Is it Australian?” he asked in a British accent.   Quickly correcting his assertion he said, “Excuse me,” and bowed slightly from the waist. “I like your hatsss.” He emphasized the “s”, motioning toward my own ordinary black cap.

“A gentleman,” I thought. 

As he bowed, the bald center of his head reflected a hazy sun poking from behind a threatening cloud. His graying hair blew out wildly from his temples. The tall man had actually passed us before he called out. I’d eyed him from our side of the street that lacked sidewalks, watched him stride by striking his staff against the stone roadway with big movements that caused the caped coat to billow like a sail in the wind. He sported a fluorescent yellow crossing guard’s vest with white ties beneath his arms. A safety measure, I’m sure, because he commanded a chunk of space on a road where even Smart cars barely escaped scraped doors from stone homes and shops that lined the street’s edges.  The vest covered his brown oilskin Driza-Bone coat (originating from the phrase "dry as a bone”). We recognized the distinctive outer garment from our missions to Australia. (Extremely effective against the elements and definitely pricey.) I didn’t want to stare, but I had the impression of a bright blue cloth tunic beneath his coat and bulky white ankle socks in sturdy sandals.

We stayed on our side of the roadway, he on his, and we conversed with each other, flattening ourselves against the walls when the occasional car passed. He bellowed over the wind, “I had my own computing business, knew Bill Gates, though my company was very small compared with his operation. Did a lot of riding (he indicated his Driza-Bone coat)—money, traveled anywhere, put the money down, hotels… You never get to meet the people.  I feel I never really saw anything. Now, eating with the nuns. They serve soup, bread, everyone’s welcome… they don’t ask you who you are, you know?”

“Are you living here in Assisi?”  I asked. 

“I’m on my way to the Holy Land…staying with a couple. The lady gave me five Euro to go to the butcher for her...must be on my way.” 

I identified. Go where God leads, live by faith, rejoice at His provision, engage the challenge that proves His Glory. I live the perpetual excitement of traveling a course known only to God with the Holy Spirit at the helm. I wanted to bless him. We crossed the street to shake hands and introduce ourselves.

“I’m Annette, my husband Ed.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Ed said.

He replied, “My name is Francis.”

I knew it all along.