Greetings, everyone. I apologize for my absence from blogging over the past month, I never promised to be the best at blogging, but my enthusiasm for this book remains!! The past month has brought many exciting things. For today, I will talk about Italy. I was fortunate enough to spend eight days there recently. It is not a difficult country to feel the presence of God. The natural beauty everywhere you look, the lovely towns, vineyards, food, and people. The tallest point in most every town is a church, and not just any church, a beautiful, well maintained gothic or medieval masterpiece. Walking into the sanctuaries, you are no doubt, in a holy place, set apart from the rest. Catholicism is intertwined in many of the Italian peoples’ holidays and traditions, but there seems to be a large disconnect between modern Italian culture and fully embracing their faith. They are warm to the Catholic faith, like it’s something their grandma used to tell stories about, but not something practiced today. The glorious churches becoming more like museums from a time long ago, it’s art and history, but not a place of dwelling. I chased chant all over the Tuscan countryside. The websites were out of date, and the timings for masses were off. Nobody at our hotels seemed to know the first thing about where we might at least find monks still singing. It was disheartening. I got as far as listening to vespers outside a shut door (seriously, I have photo evidence), before I finally gave up. Yes, I know, if my whole goal was to see and hear chant in the wild, in Europe, I could have gone to the abbey of Solesmes in France, or Rome, BUT I truly did not think it would be such an endeavor in Guido de Arezzo’s old stomping grounds. Also, I was traveling with family and they were only willing to go to so many monasteries. Anyway, rant over. A true miracle happened on our last day in Italy. On our way out of Siena, it began to sprinkle, we walked into the Basilica of San Francesco, it was breathtaking. Mostly dark inside, beyond the incredible stained glass windows, and a small chapel where Mass just happened to be starting. We sat down, I noticed there were several different orders of monks. My heart fluttered. As the priest gave his sermon the storm picked up outside. He never hesitated in his message, even as the doors of the basilica blew open, the wind wailed and lights flickered. It felt a bit like a dream. Then finally, after communion, it happened, together, the monks and priests sang a beautiful Gregorian chant, in perfect unison, as the rain pounded the massive roof above us. I’ll admit, I cried. All was not lost, my faith was renewed and I am as convinced as ever for the need of books to bring the beautiful tradition of Gregorian chant back into the light.