Homesickness

When I was younger, I was always the homesick kid. I was the one that would struggle through summer camp with teary eyes. I was the one that would go home from sleepovers early because I missed my family. The idea of leaving my family, especially my mom, was always painful to me. Even more painful was the idea that my family could simply carry on without me, living their day-to-day life without my presence.

As I got older, the severity of it slowly slipped away. Sure, once in a while I would still be struck with a pang of homesickness when my sister snapchated me a picture of my family from our favorite restaurant or my family facetime me during a lazy afternoon, but at least when I was at Notre Dame I was lucky enough to only be a 3-hour train ride away from my hometown. I even came full circle this summer while working as a camp counselor, making it my job to comfort and dry the eyes of homesick campers.

Three weeks ago, everything changed. I said good-bye to my family through teary eyes and I waved to them the entire time I was in the TSA line (it might have been a little overkill). It was heartbreaking to think that I wouldn’t see them for at least 5 months. This will be the longest I’ve gone without seeing my family. Despite my lifelong dream of exploring Europe, a little part of me thought of me at age 11. And that little part of me wondered, could I actually do this?

Luckily between classes and making friends and eating too many pastries and going to museums till my eyes grow droopy- I haven’t had much time to catch my breath, much less be homesick. But, it is in the tiny quiet moments that I find myself missing home the most- in the stillness of Mass on Sunday, or just before I open my eyes in the morning and I still think I’m in my bed at home. These little moments are when it hits me: I miss home.

I reflected back to a wonderful homily I heard just before [KM1] I left for France. It was November at a post choir rehearsal trip to Root Beer Float mass on the Feast Day of St Francis Xavier. Father Pat gave a wonderful homily about the friendship that St Ignatus Loyola and St Francis Xavier shared. Both men took their Jesuit vows in the church of St. Pierre du Montmartre Church (which is in one of my favorite parts of Paris). However from there they wanted to go in two different directions, Loyola wanted to stay put in Paris, serving others and working on his own writing. St. Francis Xavier wanted to follow his call as a missionary and travel the world teaching about Jesus. Loyola was upset at first- Xavier was a dear friend and he wanted him to stay in Paris with him. But it was Xavier’s call to travel and he knew that he couldn’t stay in one place, God was asking something different from him. It was only through God’s grace that Loyola realized that the most loving thing that he could do is to let Xavier go. So he said good-bye to his friend, because he loved him so much, he could let him go.

For those of us studying abroad, we are doing just as Xavier did, we are leaving the nest of what is safe and familiar, and following our call into the unknown. We might not go preaching the mission of the Jesuits or even with the direct purpose of charity and service, but we go to exchange thoughts and ideas. The experiences we have abroad will shape and transform us, exposing us to new places, people, and concepts that we haven’t yet had the chance to explore. This is part of God’s call for us, a call to be exactly where we are supposed to be and to let the experience mold us into people can chance the world in the unique ways we are supposed to. But we also do this knowing that there are people who love us so much- that they let us go. Loyola had to let Xavier leave in order to fulfill God’s plan for him and so to do our families and friends.

When the moments of homesickness hit me, it is this thought that I turn to. I am only here because people, my family and friends love me so much that they have given me the chance to leave and explore. They realize that this is where I need to be and that this experience will transform me. And I take comfort in knowing that when I return, it will be back to this place of love; that I am so privileged and blessed to have a place to be homesick for.

Beacons of Hope

There were a lot of things I expected out of my study abroad experience. Living in a new city, improving my French, making international friends, eating pastries, visiting museums- the usual. However, three days into my time in Paris and I was faced with something I never thought I’d experience.

It was Wednesday, January 7^th, 2015. I was spending the day in the Latin Quarter with two other Notre Dame students. We spent the morning in the French Social Security office filling out paper work. After, we decided to reward ourselves with a warm Panini and a trip to the Pantheon. The Pantheon is a peculiarly interesting old church converted into a burial place for the famous writers and thinkers of France. We passed time visiting the tombs of Victor Hugo, Voltaire, and Marie Curie. As we were on our way out, I noticed a missed call from my dad. When we got outside the monument I called him back.

“It’s expensive to call me, so be pithy,” I quipped when he picked up.

“I just want to make sure you aren’t dead,” He said bluntly. I exchanged confused glances with friends.

“Why would I be dead? Did something happen in Paris?” I asked.

He went onto explain that a terrorist attack had happened there that morning. He didn’t know much about it, only that the terrorists were still on the loose. I was instantly terrified. All of a sudden the city I had dreamed about became sinister and threatening. Each person walking by was a potential threat. Nowhere felt safe. I began shaking, tears threatening my eyes. I can never remember ever feeling as afraid as I did in that moment.

We ducked into a Starbucks to figure out what was happening. We were finally able to use the internet and look up the news. We figured out that it had been a planned attack against a satirical newspaper, Charlie Hebdo, which had been under threats for portraying Mohammad in their notoriously anti-religious cartoons. Learning that the attacks were planned and not just random made us feel a little bit safer and eventually we found the courage to leave the Starbucks and walk back to our dorm.

The next few days continued to be frightening as the city fell into lock down. Going to class, visiting monuments, and even getting into our dorms required ID and mandatory bag checks. The metro stations were filled with armed guards. Military vehicles drove down the streets. Sirens blared non-stop.

On Friday, we found out that hostages were being taken. The Eiffel Tower was evacuated. Some metro lines were shut down. Our professor encouraged us to go home and stay inside our dorms. Too afraid to take the metro, we walked back from class. Not long after we got back, we found out that the hostages had been released and that the suspects were dead.

After it was all over, I was so confused about how to feel about the whole event. I was overwhelmed with the sadness of the loss of human life. I was upset that my first week in Paris was marred with such pain and terror. I was equally mad at myself for letting the events affect me so much. I felt like I should have deep philosophical thoughts about Freedom of the Press and religion, but I only had inarticulable, disjointed thoughts. I didn’t know what to think or feel, but I felt as if I should.

I began to try to look for signs of hope, which began to flicker up in the stories that emerged afterwards. There was Ahmed Merabet, a Muslim French police officer, who died while protecting the cartoonist of Charlie Hebdo. He lived out Voltaire’s quote, “I do not agree with what you have to say, but I'll defend to the death your right to say it.” He also died bravely, laying down his own life to protect others, even those who mocked his own religion.

There is also Lassana Bathily, a man from Mali working at a Jewish grocery store where the building was taken hostage by terrorists. He bravely and quicklyushered the costumers of the store into the shop’s freezer when he heard the gunshots. He thought beyond his own safety and used his courage to save the lives of others.

There were other signs of hope that I experienced personally. As the events across Paris transpired, my inbox began filling with messages from friends and family checking to make sure I was okay. I was so touched by the people who reached out, not just with whom I am close, but professors and friends I haven’t talked to in years. It reminded me just how much people care about me and my well-being.

Situations like this are difficult- they are unexpected, they are upsetting, and they leave you at more of a loss for words than for answers. Yet in the wake of the event emerges stories of hope and through this hope we begin to feel God’s love. Each night, I fall asleep watching the light at the top of the Eiffel Tower pass over the city. It reminds me of the beacon of hope that is God’s love. It washes over the city, shining on each person. God’s love is endless, it shines on controversial cartoonists, and heroic citizens, and small scared study abroad students, and even terrorists. God’s love has no stopping or ending point, no limits. So as I continue to search for answers in the wake of horror, I realize the answer is simple. It is the same thing that God has been doing forever and that we must do now- love.