• Facebook
• Instagram
• TikTok
• X
• YouTube

A Fortress, a Stranger and a Missed Opportunity

Some days of pilgrimage are guided by carefully planned itineraries. Others begin with breakfast, a pair of comfortable shoes, and the decision to follow whatever catches your attention.

By Friday morning, I think Italy and I were finally beginning to get acquainted.

Not completely. My body still wasn’t entirely sure what time zone it was in, and after everything it had taken just to get to Italy, followed by our first very full day in Assisi, I was still tired. But this was our free day, which meant there was no bus waiting to whisk us off somewhere, no guide moving us from one sacred site to the next, and no carefully timed itinerary to follow.

We got up, had breakfast together, and headed back into Assisi with nowhere in particular we had to be.

That alone felt luxurious.

Assisi is the kind of place that makes you want to wander. The streets are narrow and steep, the buildings seem to rise straight out of the stone beneath your feet, and everywhere you look there is some little doorway, church, archway, balcony, or view that makes you stop. History isn’t tucked away behind museum glass there. People are living in it. They park their cars beside buildings older than our country. They hang laundry from windows overlooking streets people have walked for centuries. You turn a corner and suddenly find yourself standing in front of something ancient.

That is more or less how we found ourselves inside the Church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva.

Where Ancient Rome and Catholic Assisi Meet

From the piazza, the building still looks very much like what it once was: a Roman temple. The Temple of Minerva dates to the first century B.C., and its classical façade has survived remarkably well. Walk through those ancient columns, though, and you enter an ornate Catholic church.

I loved that.

Maybe it’s the history buff in me, but I kept thinking about everything those stones had witnessed. The Roman Empire came and went. Religious practices changed. Governments changed. Generations were born, lived their lives and disappeared, and yet this structure remained.

Italy kept confronting me with that idea. History doesn’t always vanish when one period ends and another begins. Sometimes the next generation builds right into it. They reuse it, reinterpret it and add another layer.

Standing there, I could see those layers.

Ancient Rome on the outside. Baroque Catholicism within. Modern people like us wandering through both.

There was something deeply fascinating about being able to walk through centuries simply by crossing a threshold.

Nearby stood the Torre del Popolo, the old civic tower beside the piazza, and Mr. John and I decided to climb it.

Now, keep in mind that we were still recovering from the journey that nearly prevented us from getting to Italy at all. Apparently our response to finally getting a little rest was, “You know what sounds good? Stairs.”

Up we went.

The higher we climbed, the more Assisi opened beneath us. From street level, you experience the city one little passage at a time. From above, suddenly you can see how it all fits together: the terracotta rooftops, church towers, stone buildings stacked along the hillside and, beyond them, that gorgeous green Umbrian countryside stretching out into the distance.

And then we saw it.

Way up there.

A fortress.

I don’t remember who said, “We should go up there,” but apparently no one in our party possessed the good sense to say, “No, we absolutely should not.”

So naturally, that became the next adventure.

The “Little Hill” to Rocca Maggiore

Aunt Lynn joined Mr. John and me, and we started walking toward the Rocca Maggiore, the medieval fortress perched above Assisi.

Now, I need to explain something for anyone who did not grow up in Louisiana.

We don’t really do hills.

Much of Louisiana is so flat that an interstate overpass can qualify as a change in elevation. So when someone in Italy tells you something is “up the hill,” please understand that the Louisiana translation may be closer to, “Prepare yourself, because we’re about to climb a small mountain.”

The streets just kept going up.

And up.

And around.

And then up some more.

But this was also where I began to see a different Assisi.

We wandered away from the busiest tourist areas and into streets where people actually lived. There were beautiful old homes tucked into the hillside, tiny entrances opening onto stone streets, flowers, balconies and cars squeezed into spaces where I would have sworn a vehicle could not possibly fit.

I was busy taking all of this in.

So was Mr. John.

Except Mr. John apparently decided that looking wasn’t enough.

We passed a man carrying water into his home, and Mr. John struck up a conversation with him.

“Do you live here?”

Yes, the man lived there.

Okay. Perfectly reasonable question.

Then Mr. John asked him how big his house was.

Sir. We are in a foreign country. This man is minding his business, carrying water into his home, and you have now begun what appears to be an unscheduled real estate appraisal.

The man, to his credit, answered him. The house was around 3,000 square feet.

Now I started paying closer attention.

Because the man wasn’t bad looking. He drove a BMW. And apparently he owned a 3,000-square-foot house perched on a hillside in Assisi overlooking the Italian countryside.

As we walked away, I looked at Mr. John.

“Wait a minute. You asked that man where he lives. You asked him how big his house is. You saw the BMW. You asked ALL those questions, and it never occurred to you to ask if he was single?”

Really, Mr. John?

I thought you were looking out for me.

To this day, somewhere in Assisi there may be an eligible Italian man wondering why three Americans stopped him on the street, gathered preliminary information about his assets, and then wandered away.

Opportunity missed.

The View Was Worth Every Step

By the time we finally reached Rocca Maggiore, I had developed a whole new appreciation for medieval people.

The fortress sits high above Assisi, and once you get there, you understand why. It was built for defense and surveillance. From that position, you can see across the city and far out over the Umbrian Valley. Anyone approaching Assisi would have been visible long before reaching its walls.

The wind was blowing hard when we got to the top, and the view was spectacular.

Assisi spread out below us in a way I hadn’t been able to fully appreciate from inside the city. From up there, you could make out the shape of the old settlement and understand how the walls once enclosed and protected the community. Beyond it were fields and roads, patches of green, distant villages and rolling hills fading into the horizon.

I stood there trying to imagine what it would have been like centuries earlier to look out from that same place.

We were looking for beautiful photographs.

The people stationed there once would have been looking for danger.

Same valley. Completely different world.

Inside the fortress, we found a long, narrow passage that led toward one of the watchtowers. It was dim and enclosed, and at some point I began to question why I had voluntarily followed everyone into it, but we kept going.

Then we emerged into the tower.

That view.

It was one of those moments when you stop talking.

The valley seemed to open in every direction. The wind was whipping around us, Assisi was below us, and for a few minutes I forgot about how tired my legs were and how far we were going to have to walk back down.

It was absolutely worth the climb.

Although what happened next certainly helped.

The fortress had a bar.

Yes.

We climbed a medieval fortress in Assisi and were rewarded with wine.

I don’t know who made that planning decision, but I would like to thank them personally.

We sat down, rested our legs, had a glass of wine and enjoyed the ridiculous wonderfulness of where we were.

There I was with Aunt Lynn and Mr. John, three people from Louisiana sitting in a medieval Italian fortress, sipping wine above Assisi after having just interviewed a stranger about his house and failed to determine whether he was marriage material.

This trip really was earning its name: Creole Chaos and Grace.

Meanwhile, Mama Had Chosen Wisely

Eventually we had to go back down.

Going uphill had been exhausting. Going downhill on steep stone streets introduced an entirely different concern: gravity.

It took us another twenty minutes or so to make our way back toward the city center, where we found Mama and Uncle Dan.

They had spent their afternoon enjoying antipasti and wine.

Let me make sure you understand the contrast.

We had climbed a medieval tower, hiked what I maintain was a small mountain, toured a fortress, crawled through a tunnel, fought the wind and made it back down without requiring Italian emergency services.

Mama and Uncle Dan had eaten cheese and drunk wine.

I am not prepared to say who used their free day more wisely.

We joined them, laughed about our afternoon, wandered some more and eventually found gelato and other Italian sweets because obviously we needed to replace all those calories we’d burned climbing the “hill.”

By then, I was beginning to feel less like someone rushing through a pilgrimage itinerary and more like someone actually spending a day in Italy.

There is a difference.

I had time to notice things.

I had time to laugh.

I had time to look at a view simply because it was beautiful instead of because someone told me it was historically significant.

And I had time to be with my family without needing the moment to be anything more than what it was.

Strangers Were Becoming Friends

We eventually caught a taxi back to the hotel for dinner, and that evening another part of the trip began to take shape.

We started getting to know our tour group.

Remember, I had not exactly been Miss Congeniality up to this point. Mama, Mr. John, Aunt Lynn and Uncle Dan had already met some of the group while I was hiding in the airport lounge with my Cuba Libres. Then, when we finally reached Italy, I was so exhausted that I slept through much of the bus ride and skipped the first group dinner entirely.

By Friday evening, however, I was beginning to return to the land of the living.

That was when we really started visiting with June and Nick, Dave and Chris, and Yvonne, who would eventually become my soul sister.

Those five became some of my favorite people on the trip, although I didn’t know that yet.

That’s one of the things I came to love about traveling with a group like this. People who begin as complete strangers slowly work their way into the story. At first you’re learning names. A few days later you’re saving seats for one another, teasing each other, sharing food, checking to make sure everyone made it back to the bus and learning the little things that make people who they are.

There will be much more about them later.

That night, though, I visited for a while before admitting that the kid was tired.

It had been a full day, and I was ready for bed.

And Then, Aunt Felecia

Back in my room, I opened the window because the air conditioner wasn’t working.

Not exactly the romantic Italian moment you see in travel advertisements, but there I was.

The evening air came into the room, and somewhere in it I caught the faintest scent of perfume.

It was familiar.

I couldn’t place exactly where it came from, but it stopped me.

My mind went immediately to Aunt Felecia.

She had passed away over a year before, but grief has this way of sneaking up on you when you’re doing perfectly ordinary things. Sometimes it comes through a song. Sometimes through a place. Sometimes through something as small as a fragrance on the air.

I stood there thinking about how much she would have enjoyed all of this.

I imagined her laughing about Mr. John and the Italian homeowner. I imagined making that ridiculous climb with her and enjoying the wine waiting at the top. I imagined her seeing those views and those churches and enjoying the whole adventure right along with us.

Do I know where that perfume came from? No.

Maybe someone outside was wearing it. Maybe it drifted in from somewhere nearby. Maybe memory simply took something unfamiliar and made it familiar because that was what my heart needed.

I don’t need to explain it.

For those few moments, I felt close to her.

And after a day spent walking through a city where centuries sit right on top of one another, where the past isn’t really gone but remains woven into the life happening around it, maybe it made perfect sense that my own past would find its way into the room too.

I had spent the day looking at things that endured.

A Roman temple that survived an empire.

A medieval tower still standing over the piazza.

A fortress still watching over a city that no longer needed its protection.

Faith carried through generations.

Friendships beginning around dinner tables.

And then, in the quiet of my room, love that still knew how to find me even after someone I loved was gone.

That may be what I remember most about that day.

Not any one monument.

The feeling of being alive in the middle of so much history, with people I loved beside me, new people beginning to find their way into my life, and people I had lost somehow still traveling with me.

I closed my eyes that night exhausted, grateful and very full.

Not a stomach full from the gelato, although there had certainly been enough of that, but a heart full from the love surrounding me. Love of family, love of friends and love of God in this truly holy place.

🇮🇹 Creole Chaos Count

🏛️ Roman temples unexpectedly housing Catholic churches: One

🕰️ Medieval towers climbed despite ongoing exhaustion: One

⛰️ “Hills” that Louisiana people would classify as mountains: One too many

🏠 Strangers questioned about their home’s square footage: One

💍 Potential Italian husbands insufficiently investigated: One regrettable missed opportunity

🍷 Fortress bars discovered: Blessedly, one

🍨 Gelato consumed for cultural research: Necessary

🤍 New friends met: Five very important ones

🌸 Familiar fragrances carried through open windows: One

🙏 Grace received: In laughter, friendship, memory and the feeling that love had followed me across the ocean

🌿 What I’ll Carry Home

I thought pilgrimage would be defined mostly by the sacred places: the churches, saints, relics, Masses and moments of prayer. Those things mattered tremendously, but Assisi was beginning to teach me that pilgrimage also happens in between them.

It happens while walking uphill with people you love. It happens when somebody says something ridiculous and you laugh until your legs don’t hurt quite as much. It happens over antipasti, wine and gelato. It happens when strangers become friends without you realizing it’s happening.

And sometimes it happens late at night, when you open a window because the air conditioner is broken and a familiar fragrance makes someone you miss feel very close again.

Those moments matter too.

Maybe especially those moments.

❤️ From Me to You

If you’ve ever caught a familiar fragrance, heard a certain laugh, tasted a particular food or stood somewhere beautiful and immediately thought, Oh, they would have loved this, then you know exactly what I mean.

Grief doesn’t only remind us that someone is gone. Sometimes it reminds us how thoroughly they became part of us.

We carry our people into rooms they never entered and countries they never visited. They show up in our humor, our habits, our stories and the things we instinctively want to share with them.

So take the trip. Climb the hill. Eat the gelato. Laugh at your people. Talk to strangers, although perhaps exercise slightly more restraint than Mr. John. 😂

And when something beautiful makes you think of someone you love, let yourself have that moment.

Maybe that’s one of the ways we continue traveling, together.

Until next time, cousin, take care of yourself, take care of your people, and keep living the Bella Creole Life.

With love and intention,
Cici

✈️ Coming Next

Creole Chaos & Grace — Part Five:
Across the Apennines: Loreto, McDonald’s & Learning to Say Yes

• Facebook
• Instagram
• TikTok
• X
• YouTube

The post Creole Chaos & Grace: Part Four – Wandering Assisi appeared first on Bellacreolelife.

By Drew, Bella Creole Life Teen Correspondent

Everybody learns the same version of the American Revolution. Boston. Philadelphia. George Washington. The Declaration. Yorktown. Fireworks, roll credits.

That version isn’t wrong. It’s just not the whole story.

I got asked to be Bella Creole Life’s Teen Correspondent for this project, which basically meant I had to take the version of history I already knew from school and go find out what got left out. Turns out, a lot got left out. My brother Ian sat in on the research with me, and every time I found something wild, he had a reaction. So, you’ll see his comments pop up along the way, right where they actually happened while I was digging.

Wait, Louisiana Was Spanish?

Yep. During the whole Revolution, Louisiana belonged to Spain, not America. New Orleans sat right where the Mississippi River meets the Gulf, and that river was basically the biggest highway on the continent.

The governor of Spanish Louisiana, starting in 1777, was Bernardo de Gálvez. Even before Spain officially joined the war against Britain, he was already helping move supplies through New Orleans and up the river. One shipment on record had medicine, uniform fabric, weapons, and cartridge boxes.

This is the part that got me. We talk about the Revolution like it was all guts and battlefield glory. It wasn’t. It ran on logistics. Soldiers can’t fight in rags with no bullets no matter how brave they are.

Before this project I didn’t really think about the Mississippi River as a key part of the American Revolution. What surprised me is that winning the war depended not just on battles but on supplies, transportation, and support from other countries. The river mattered because it was the pathway for moving people, info, and military supplies across North America.

With British ships crawling the East Coast, that river route inland was worth everything.

Hold Up, They Fought in St. Louis?

This one genuinely broke my brain a little.

In May 1780 there was an actual Revolutionary War battle in present day St. Louis. Back then it was part of Spanish Louisiana, and the people there, residents, militia, Spanish officials, defended it from a British led attack. If they’d lost, Britain could’ve taken the upper Mississippi.

The second I told Ian this one, he just stopped and said:

“St. Louis, like St. Lous, Missouri? The place with the Arch, where the Cardinals play? Isn’t it like in the middle of the country?”

Yes, Sir, that’s the one.  This war wasn’t just a thin strip along the coast. It reached deep into the middle of the country. Bonus fact we couldn’t skip: St. Louis was founded in 1764 by French fur traders, before the U.S. even existed, and in 1877 workers took over the whole city for a stretch during a labor strike. History keeps going if you keep pulling the thread.

Learning that changed how far west I thought this war reached. Not even close to what I pictured in school.

The Guy Nobody Taught Me About

So, who is this Gálvez guy actually running the show in Spanish Louisiana?

Bernardo de Gálvez was born in Spain in 1746 and became governor of Louisiana in 1777. Once Spain officially entered the war in 1779 he didn’t sit back. He led military campaigns against British positions along the Mississippi and the Gulf Coast, and his forces captured Baton Rouge, Natchez, Mobile, and Pensacola. Every one of those wins weakened British power and protected key waterways.

Here’s the wild part. It took until 2014, over two centuries later, for Congress to grant him honorary U.S. citizenship. When I told Ian that, he did not hold back:

 “That was a really late thank you.”

Honestly, he’s right. That’s exactly what it was.

I looked closer at his win at Baton Rouge specifically. That one mattered because it gave Spain control of the lower Mississippi and weakened British power across the whole Gulf Coast. What really gets me about Gálvez is he wasn’t even American. He was from Spain, and he still put everything into the American cause.

Somebody Had to Actually Move the Stuff

We give battles all the glory. Nobody makes a movie about a supply chain. But an army with no supplies is just a bunch of hungry people standing around.

That 1777 shipment I mentioned earlier moved from Spanish Louisiana up the Mississippi, toward the Ohio River, then to Pittsburgh, then Philadelphia. In the 1700s. With boats, crews, storage, money, bad weather, theft risk, and the constant chance of getting attacked along the way.

A battle gets won or lost in a day. Keeping an army supplied never stops. Not before the fighting, not during it, not after.

Following that route made me realize how hard and important that job actually was. It took planning, transportation, money, and protection just to keep soldiers standing.

So, Is This a Creole History Story?

I want to be careful here because to be honest,  it’s complicated.

Not everyone connected to Spanish Louisiana identified as Creole. Not every soldier fighting under Spain even came from Louisiana. The people in this story came from a lot of different nations, races, cultures, and communities: Spanish troops, Louisiana militia, free people of color, Indigenous allies, and people connected to Cuba, Mexico, Puerto Rico, and the rest of the Caribbean.

But here’s what I can tell you. Some of the members of the Louisiana militia who fought under Gálvez were Creole. People whose names should be way more familiar than they are.

And here’s the part that changes everything for me personally. I can trace my own roots back to some of them.

I’m not going to unpack all of that in this post. This one’s just the foundation, so you understand how far this war actually stretched and how Creole people were connected to the fight for American freedom from the very beginning. The real story, the one with names, faces, and my own family in it, is coming in the next post.

So, consider this part one. Part two is where it gets personal.

Why This Actually Matters

The Revolution wasn’t won by thirteen colonies acting alone. International help mattered. Rivers and ports mattered. Supply chains mattered. Fights on the Gulf Coast and out west mattered. People whose names never made it into my textbook mattered.

Before this project I honestly thought the American Revolution only happened in battles along the east coast. The thing that surprised me most is that it wasn’t just the 13 colonies against Britain. There was a whole other side of this story happening in Louisiana.

If you’re a teenager reading this and wondering why it matters to you, here’s why. Even if you’re not Creole, this is your invite to appreciate the states that made up the then Louisiana territory more and see your history as bigger than the one chapter they assign in class. And if you are Creole, this is one more piece of proof that our story was in the room the whole time, even when nobody wrote it down.

As the country marks 250 years of independence, this feels like the right moment to look past the most familiar names and places. Louisiana was already part of the bigger fight for independence. It just took some digging to find it.

But this is only the first layer. There’s a lot more underneath it, including some family history I didn’t expect to find.

We’re just getting started. Come back for part two.

Sources

National Park Service, Bernardo de Gálvez — nps.gov

Texas State Historical Association, Bernardo de Gálvez

Wikipedia, Bernardo de Gálvez (background summary with cited references) — en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bernardo_de_Gálvez

City of St. Louis, St. Louis History — stlouis-mo.gov/visit-play/stlouis-history.cfm

Wikipedia, 1877 St. Louis General Strike — en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1877_St._Louis_general_strike

The post The American Revolution Had a Louisiana Side, and Nobody Told Me appeared first on Bellacreolelife.

When My Heart Was Ready, but My Body Was Still Catching Up

Sometimes we finally reach the place we have prayed to see, only to discover that arriving and being fully present are not the same thing.

Of all the places on our pilgrimage itinerary, Assisi may have been the one I anticipated most.

I have long felt a special devotion to St. Francis of Assisi. His simplicity, tenderness toward creation, concern for the poor, and willingness to surrender the life expected of him for the life God called him to live have always moved me.

Francis also reminds me of my grandfather, Papa T’fra.

Papa loved animals and carried the same kind of gentle appreciation for life that I associate with St. Francis. Over time, the two became connected in my heart. Going to Assisi felt as though it should have been one of the clearest, most meaningful, and most emotional days of the pilgrimage.

Instead, it is the day I remember least.

That truth still makes me sad.

After the canceled flights, the unexpected night in Dallas, the international crossing, the time change, and the long bus ride from Rome, my body was still trying to catch up with my spirit.

I had traveled across an ocean to walk where Francis lived, prayed, struggled, and began a religious movement that would influence the world.

But I was exhausted.

When I look through my photographs, I can see where I stood. I see the churches, stone walls, artwork, and people who surrounded me. Yet many of the memories feel as though I am looking at them through fog.

For a while, I felt disappointed in myself.

Then I began to wonder whether this too was part of the pilgrimage.

Perhaps Assisi’s first lesson for me was humility: accepting that I could not force myself to experience a holy place perfectly simply because I had wanted it so badly.

Something Great Built Around Something Small

Our journey into the world of St. Francis began at the Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels, which stands on the plain below the hill town of Assisi.

The basilica is enormous, but the spiritual heart of it is remarkably small: the Porziuncola.

The name means “little portion.”

This tiny chapel is closely connected to the beginnings of Franciscan life. Francis and his early companions gathered and prayed there, and the site became the heart of the community that eventually grew into the Order of Friars Minor. The grand basilica was later constructed around the chapel to preserve it.

Even through my exhaustion, that contrast stayed with me.

A vast basilica built around a tiny chapel.

Grandeur sheltering simplicity.

The world created something monumental around a man who had chosen humility, poverty, and very little for himself.

Photography was not permitted inside, so I do not have an image to awaken the memory. What remains is an impression of the little chapel standing quietly within all that magnificence, holding the story of a beginning.

I thought about Francis praying there; not Francis as a statue, icon, or beloved saint surrounded by animals and birds, but Francis the man.

A person trying to understand what God wanted from him.

A person who did not begin with a fully formed mission or any idea of what his choices would eventually create.

He began with a small place, a restless heart, and a willingness to keep listening.

Perhaps that is what makes the Porziuncola so powerful. It reminds us that purpose does not always announce itself through something large.

Sometimes it begins with the small portion we have been given and our willingness to care for it faithfully.

The Rose Garden and the Quiet Places

Near the Porziuncola are places associated with Francis’s private prayer and spiritual struggles, including the rose garden and the Chapel of the Roses.

Tradition connects the garden with Francis’s struggle against temptation. The roses are known for growing without thorns, while the nearby chapel preserves the intimacy and prayerfulness associated with his life.

I remember this area more clearly.

The Chapel of the Roses was peaceful and simply beautiful.

Some spaces impress us because of their size and decoration. Others settle something inside us because they ask nothing from us. They do not demand to be interpreted, photographed, or fully understood. They simply invite us to become quiet.

That is how I remember the chapel.

Even in my fatigue, some part of me recognized the peace there.

Perhaps that was the grace of it. I did not need to produce a profound spiritual reaction. I did not need to remember every detail. I only needed to stand within the quiet for a little while.

Francis was not shaped only by grand moments. His life was formed in small chapels, lonely places, uncomfortable questions, and repeated acts of surrender.

That feels much closer to how most of us actually grow.

Faith Written Across the Walls

The Basilica of St. Francis is built on two principal levels, with the saint’s tomb located below in the crypt. Construction began shortly after his death, and the basilica became both his burial place and one of the great spiritual and artistic monuments of medieval Christianity.

Its upper and lower churches contain extensive frescoes depicting the story of Francis’s life and faith.

I wish I could say that every image remains vivid in my memory.

It does not.

I know we saw possessions connected to Francis. I know the frescoes surrounded us with the story of his life. I know we celebrated Mass inside the basilica.

But when I reach for those memories, they return only in fragments:

Stone. Color. Movement. The awareness that I was walking through a place built to preserve the witness of a man I had admired for years.

I have had to accept that the photographs remember more than I do.

Still, perhaps the meaning was working beneath the surface, beyond what I could consciously retain.

Francis’s spirituality was never about collecting or possessing experiences. It was about surrendering the need to possess anything at all.

Maybe I do not need to remember every detail of Assisi perfectly for Assisi to have left something within me.

St. Clare and the Company We Keep

We also visited the Basilica of St. Clare (Basilica di Santa Chiara), where the remains of Clare of Assisi are preserved and also the home of the original San Damiano Cross, which St. Francis was praying in front of when he received the direction from God telling him to “go and repair My house.”

Clare was not simply someone who admired Francis from a distance. She was his friend, spiritual companion, and a founder in her own right. Inspired by the Gospel life Francis embraced, she established the community that became known as the Poor Clares and fought to preserve their commitment to radical poverty.

Thinking about the friendship between Francis and Clare touched me.

We often imagine saints as isolated figures, each standing alone in a beam of holy light. Yet many holy lives were shaped through relationships.

Francis had Clare.

Later in the pilgrimage, I would stand near the tombs of St. Benedict and St. Scholastica, a brother and sister whose spiritual friendship shaped both their lives.

Again and again, I noticed the same pattern.

Saints knew other saints.

They prayed together, challenged one another, offered encouragement, and helped each other remain faithful.

It reinforced something I have heard throughout my life: we are influenced by the company we keep.

“You are what you associate with” can sound like a warning. In Assisi, it began to feel more like an invitation.

Choose people who call you toward your better self.

Choose people whose faith strengthens yours.

Choose companions who can recognize who God is asking you to become, even before you completely understand it yourself.

Francis and Clare did not lose their individuality through their friendship. They helped each other become more fully who they were called to be.

SN: In visiting her resting place, I remember seeing her mortal remains and feeling a sense of peace in the space. I was a little surprised, and honestly a little disappointed in myself, that my first thought was how strange it felt not to be unsettled while standing in the same room as the earthly remains of Saint Clare. Perhaps I had expected something darker or more uncomfortable. Instead, the room felt peaceful, sacred, and far more intimate than I was prepared for. A beautiful and unexpected experience.

The Young Face That Broke Through the Fog

The moment I remember most clearly from Assisi did not involve a medieval fresco, ancient relic, or grand basilica.

It involved the face of a boy.

At the Sanctuary of the Renunciation rests the body of St. Carlo Acutis, who had asked to be buried in Assisi because of his devotion to St. Francis.

Carlo died from leukemia in 2006 at only fifteen years old. He became known throughout the Catholic world for combining the ordinary life of a modern teenager with a deep devotion to the Eucharist. He also used technology to document Eucharistic miracles.

When I saw him, he looked like a young boy sleeping.

That is what reached me.

Not the formal language of sainthood. Not the unusual experience of standing before the body of someone recognized by the Church.

It was his hair.

Beautiful, thick hair.

It reminded me immediately of Drew.

Suddenly, Carlo was no longer simply an inspiring young Catholic whose story I had heard.

He was somebody’s child.

Somebody’s brother.

A boy who had laughed, eaten dinner with his family, used a computer, worried the people who loved him, and left an unbearable emptiness behind when he died.

Looking at him, I thought about how deeply I love Drew. Then I thought about the pain Carlo’s parents, siblings, relatives, and friends must have experienced.

We often tell the stories of saints through the meaning their lives hold for the Church. We speak of miracles, devotion, sacrifice, holiness, and witness.

But somebody still had to lose them.

Somebody had to leave the hospital without that child.

Somebody had to walk past his room afterward.

Somebody had to decide, again and again, to share his story with strangers.

Standing there, I wondered what it costs a family to give a child’s memory to the world.

What does it feel like to know that thousands of people pray beside your son’s tomb? What does it mean to hear strangers call him a saint while you still remember the sound of his voice at home?

There must be pride and gratitude.

There must also be grief.

Those things are not enemies.

A person can believe deeply in eternal life and still ache for the physical presence of someone they love. A family can understand that their child belongs to God and still long to hold him again.

That moment taught me something I had not expected to learn in Assisi:

Sainthood does not erase humanity.

It reveals just how sacred an ordinary human life can become.

The Devotion Required to Share Someone You Love

The longer I stood with those feelings, the more I thought about Carlo’s family.

There must be extraordinary devotion involved in sharing someone you love with the world after death—to allow strangers to look upon the face that once belonged to your private family life and hear them describe what your son, brother, or friend means to their faith.

His story now travels far beyond the home that first held him.

I do not know exactly what Carlo’s family feels, and I would never presume to speak for them.

But as an aunt looking at a boy whose hair reminded me of Drew, I felt the smallest shadow of what such a loss might mean.

That is the memory that survived my exhaustion.

Love made it through the fog.

When the Memory Is Not What You Hoped

I still wish I remembered more of Assisi.

I wish the basilicas were vivid. I wish I could reconstruct the Mass, frescoes, streets, and prayers with complete clarity.

Part of me still feels guilty that the place I had anticipated so deeply became the least distinct part of the pilgrimage.

But perhaps faith is not measured by the sharpness of our memories.

I was there—tired, imperfect, and trying to receive whatever I could.

I stood in places where Francis prayed. I entered the little chapel at the heart of the Franciscan movement. I felt the peace surrounding Clare. I saw a modern saint who looked enough like a child I love to break my heart open.

Maybe I did not fail to experience Assisi.

Maybe Assisi reached me through the one doorway I was still awake enough to open.

🇮🇹 Creole Chaos Count

😴 Hours of sleep still needed: Far more than the itinerary allowed
📸 Photographs now carrying many of the memories: Most of them
⛪ Sacred places visited: More than my tired mind could absorb
🌹 Quiet chapels that reached me anyway: At least one
🤍 Saints who reminded me of family: Francis, Clare, and especially Carlo
😭 Unexpected emotional moments: One young face was enough
🙏 Grace received: Through what I remembered—and what I had to release

🌿 What I’ll Carry Home

Assisi taught me that sacred experiences do not always reach us in the way we expect.

Sometimes we prepare our hearts, cross an ocean, and arrive too exhausted to take everything in. We may forget important details, miss the perfect photograph, or fail to feel the emotion we imagined we would feel.

That does not mean the journey was wasted.

Grace does not depend upon our perfect attention.

Sometimes it finds one image, one quiet room, or one human connection and uses that small opening to reach us.

For me, it was the sight of Carlo’s hair and the sudden thought of Drew.

Through that one tender connection, Assisi reminded me that holiness is not separate from love. It grows from love—love for God, love for family, love for our companions, and the courage to allow that love to extend beyond ourselves.

❤️ From Me to You

Perhaps you have had an experience you were certain would change you, only to leave wondering whether you were too tired, distracted, or overwhelmed to receive it properly.

Be gentle with yourself.

Not every sacred moment arrives with perfect clarity. Some experiences settle quietly beneath the surface and reveal their meaning later.

Sometimes the photograph remembers for us.

Sometimes the heart does.

And sometimes, long after the moment has passed, we realize grace was present even when we were too tired to recognize it.

🌿 Keep Exploring

One of the gifts of pilgrimage is discovering how much more there is to learn after we come home. I have shared Assisi here as I experienced it: imperfectly, emotionally, and through the haze of exhaustion. But the places and people woven through this day hold stories far larger than the pieces I was able to carry with me.

If something in this chapter stirred your curiosity, I hope you will follow it.

Learn more about the Porziuncola and the beginnings of the Franciscan movement. Explore the history and art of the Basilica of St. Francis. Spend some time getting to know St. Clare, the San Damiano Cross, and the friendship that helped shape both Clare and Francis. And if the young face of St. Carlo Acutis touched you the way it touched me, learn more about the ordinary teenager whose extraordinary faith continues to reach people around the world.

Perhaps that is another kind of pilgrimage: allowing one story to lead us toward another, one question toward deeper understanding, and one moment of curiosity toward a faith and history we did not know before.

Continue exploring:

• The Porziuncola and Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels
• Assisi, the Basilica of St. Francis and Other Franciscan Sites — UNESCO World Heritage
• St. Carlo Acutis — Official Website
• Sanctuary of the Renunciation and the Tomb of St. Carlo Acutis
• Canonization of St. Carlo Acutis — Vatican
• Pope Leo XIV’s Homily at the Canonization of Carlo Acutis and Pier Giorgio Frassati

Sometimes the journey does not end when we leave a place.

Sometimes that is simply where the learning begins.

✈️ Coming Next

Creole Chaos & Grace — Part Four:
Wandering Assisi

The post Creole Chaos & Grace: Part Three – Assisi appeared first on Bellacreolelife.

—and the Back Row We Claimed for the Rest of Italy

• Facebook
• Instagram
• TikTok
• X
• YouTube

Sometimes grace looks like a profound spiritual revelation. Sometimes it looks like noise-canceling headphones, an eye mask, and six empty seats at the back of a tour bus.

After the canceled flights, unexpected overnight stay in Dallas, and frantic effort required simply to keep the trip alive, our rescheduled departure day finally arrived.

We were tired before we ever boarded the plane.

Not regular tired.

This was the kind of tired that makes you stop caring whether your clothes are wrinkled, whether your hair looks right, or whether the stranger beside you believes you are friendly.

We had spent so much energy trying to reach the flight that, when we finally settled into our seats, Italy still felt less like a destination and more like a test of endurance.

But we were on the plane.

At that point, that was enough.

A Seat That Would Not Recline; and a Woman Who Was Not Happy

My seat was terrible.

It did not recline, which already felt like an insult on an international flight. Then the woman seated beside me arrived in what I can only describe as a fully committed bad mood.

She complained. She was short with people. She seemed irritated with the seat, the plane, the delays, the situation, and perhaps humanity in general.

Normally, I try to be pleasant. I believe in kindness, understanding, and extending grace.

I also had noise-canceling headphones and an eye mask, and I had absolutely no intention of talking to her.

My plan was simple: put on the headphones, lower the mask, and mentally disappear until we reached Rome.

Somehow, though, we began talking.

I do not remember exactly how the conversation started. Perhaps one of us mentioned the delays. Perhaps exhaustion broke down the usual barriers between strangers. Whatever happened, her mood gradually softened.

By the end of our conversation, she apologized for how she had behaved.

Look at God.

I boarded the plane determined to block her out completely, and instead, somewhere over the Atlantic, we found a small moment of understanding.

It did not fix my seat. That thing still did not recline.

But it reminded me that sometimes people are not offering their best because they do not have much of their best available in that moment.

After everything that had happened since New Orleans, I understood that better than I might have on another day. My own reserves of patience and grace were not exactly overflowing either.

Crossing the Atlantic While Barely Conscious

People sometimes describe international flights as romantic crossings into another world.

Perhaps that happens in first class.

From my seat, the experience mainly involved attempting to sleep upright, adjusting my eye mask, shifting positions without elbowing anyone, and occasionally checking the flight map to see whether Europe had moved any closer.

The cabin lights dimmed, and the engines settled into their constant hum. Some passengers watched movies. Others whispered, slept, or tried to convince their bodies that the strange meal being served was appropriate for whatever time it was supposed to be.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, the days blurred together.

We had already lost part of our itinerary. Now we were losing hours to the time difference too. My watch said one thing. My body said another. My spirit simply said, “Please let us get there.”

Eventually, we did.

We landed in Rome exhausted, relieved, and only partially aware of our surroundings.

There was no dramatic arrival. No elegant moment of stopping to absorb the fact that we had finally reached Italy.

There was luggage to collect, a tour group to locate, and another four-hour journey waiting for us.

Meeting the Group (Well, Sort Of)

Mama, Mr. John, Aunt Lynn, and Uncle Dan had already met some of our fellow pilgrims at the gate in Dallas.

I had not.

While they had been introducing themselves and socializing, I had been in the airport lounge recovering from what I considered the emotional violence of American Airlines.

By the time we reached Rome, I was technically surrounded by the people with whom I would spend the next several days, but I was not yet prepared to be charming, curious, or particularly social.

Normally, I would want to know who everyone was, where they came from, and what had inspired them to take the pilgrimage.

That day, I mostly wanted to know where the bus was and whether anyone expected me to remain awake once I got on it.

The Great Back-Row Occupation

Our charter bus was nice. The seats were spacious, comfortable, and far more inviting than the airplane seat that had held me hostage across the Atlantic.

The tour guide explained that we would rotate seats during the pilgrimage so everyone could experience different views and locations on the bus.

That sounded fair and reasonable.

We did not do it.

Mama, Mr. John, and I found the final row at the back of the bus. It stretched across six seats, meaning each of us could have two seats to ourselves.

It was perfect.

There was room to stretch, sleep, and keep a bag beside you without someone having to climb over it.

Mama settled in and silently staked her claim. Somehow, without any formal announcement, the issue was closed for the remainder of the pilgrimage.

Nobody attempted to take our row.

Not once.

I cannot prove it, but I believe Mama’s face communicated everything anyone needed to know. She has a way of looking settled that strongly suggests negotiation would be unwise.

The guide may have wanted us to rotate.

The back row had other plans.

For the rest of the trip, it became our territory, our own little mobile Louisiana outpost traveling through Italy.

Four Hours to Assisi. Or So I Am Told

The drive from Rome to Assisi took approximately four hours. I think.

I would love to describe the Italian landscape in rich detail: rolling hills, olive groves, medieval towns in the distance, and cypress trees lining the roads.

I am sure it was beautiful.

I slept through most of it.

After everything it had taken to get there, my body made an executive decision. Italy could wait. I needed a nap.

There may have been introductions and wonderful conversations happening around me. There may have been breathtaking scenery passing outside the window.

I remember very little.

What I remember is waking occasionally, confirming that my family and backpack were still present, and going directly back to sleep.

It was not the graceful beginning to our Italian pilgrimage that I had imagined.

But it was honest.

Sometimes the first thing you do after crossing an ocean to reach a place you have prayed to see is sleep through the ride there.

Assisi Without the Grand Entrance

By the time we arrived in Assisi, I was beyond tired.

The group planned to gather for dinner, but I had reached my limit. I went to my room, showered, and climbed straight into bed.

There was no socializing, no welcome meal, and no meaningful attempt to introduce myself to the cast of characters with whom I would soon share churches, prayers, meals, bus rides, laughter, frustrations, and more than a few moments of confusion.

I slept.

And that was exactly what I needed.

Pilgrimages are often described as journeys of sacrifice, discipline, and spiritual openness. But the body is part of the pilgrimage too. Sometimes honoring the journey means admitting that you are depleted and allowing yourself to stop.

The saints of Assisi had waited centuries for me.

They could wait until morning.

The Pilgrimage Between the Big Moments

Looking back, I am glad the journey did not begin with a perfectly framed view of Italy or an elegant first dinner with the group.

It began with a woman having a bad day beside me on an airplane.

It began with a seat that refused to recline, a conversation neither of us planned, and my family quietly taking possession of the back row of a bus.

It began with me sleeping through scenery I had crossed an ocean to see and choosing to miss dinner because my body needed rest.

None of those moments sounds especially holy.

But pilgrimage is not found only inside shrines, basilicas, and sacred tombs. It is also found in the ordinary work of making room for another person’s humanity, laughing at what cannot be controlled, accepting our limitations, and trusting that missing one moment does not mean we have missed the journey.

Grace had brought us to Italy.

Now it was asking us to slow down enough to receive what came next.

Creole Chaos Count

✈️ International flights completed: Finally, one
💺 Seats that reclined: Not mine
🎧 Noise-canceling headphones: Essential equipment
😒 Difficult seatmates softened through conversation: One
🚌 Bus rows claimed for the entire pilgrimage: One glorious six-seat row
😴 Italian countryside actually observed: Very little
🍽️ Group dinners skipped in favor of sleep: One
🙏 Grace received: Through conversation, rest, and the wisdom not to challenge Mama for the back row

🌿 What I’ll Carry Home

I often think meaningful journeys should begin with energy, enthusiasm, and complete presence.

This one began with exhaustion.

Exhaustion has a way of stripping away performance. I did not have the energy to pretend I was fine, force myself to socialize, or experience every scheduled moment simply because it appeared on the itinerary.

I had to accept the journey as it was, rather than as I believed it should be.

That first day taught me that being present does not always mean doing more. Sometimes it means allowing yourself to rest so you can be fully awake when what truly matters arrives.

And sometimes the first grace you receive in a foreign country is simply a shower, a bed, and the promise that Assisi will still be there in the morning.

🌍 Want to Follow the Road We Barely Saw?

If our very sleepy arrival in Italy has you wondering what we missed while claiming the back row and napping our way toward Assisi, there are much more alert people who can help. You can start with Rome Fiumicino Airport to see where our Italian adventure officially began, then explore Umbria Tourism for the rolling hills, medieval towns, and countryside I sincerely wish I could describe from memory. When you are ready to make your way to Assisi, the official Visit Assisi site is a great place to explore the city, plan a visit, and learn more about its sacred and historic sites. And for a deeper look at why Assisi holds such an important place in world history, art, and Franciscan tradition, visit UNESCO’s Assisi World Heritage page. Consider this your chance to experience the scenery I apparently crossed an ocean to sleep through.

✈️ Coming Next

Creole Chaos & Grace — Part Three:
Assisi

• Facebook
• Instagram
• TikTok
• X
• YouTube

The post Creole Chaos & Grace: Part Two -The Crossing appeared first on Bellacreolelife.

The Pilgrimage Began Before We Ever Left the Ground

• Facebook
• Instagram
• TikTok
• X
• YouTube

Sometimes the first miracle of a pilgrimage is not reaching the holy place. It is simply making it onto the airplane.

People keep asking me how Italy was, and every time they do, I smile—not because I do not know what to say, but because I honestly do not know where to begin.

Do I begin with standing only a few rows away from Pope Leo XIV? With touching the tomb of St. Benedict, praying in the cave of St. Michael, or walking through the beautiful streets of Assisi?

Or do I begin at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, staring at a departure board and wondering whether I was going to make it to Italy at all?

Every pilgrimage has a beginning. Ours began with canceled flights, missed connections, rising panic, unexpected expenses, family patience being tested almost immediately, and a whole lot of grace.

Welcome to Creole Chaos & Grace.

Five Pilgrims, Three Starting Points, One Destination

Our little pilgrimage crew was coming together in a way only God could have organized.

Mama and Mr. John packed up the car in Cloutierville and drove west toward Dallas. Aunt Lynn and Uncle Dan were scheduled to fly from Shreveport. I was flying from New Orleans.

The plan seemed simple: meet in Dallas, connect with our tour group, and fly together to Rome.

Easy enough.

Except God, or perhaps American Airlines, had apparently prepared a different itinerary.

The Flight I Did Not Know I Had Missed

I arrived at the New Orleans airport with plenty of time to spare. I was already mentally in vacation mode: perhaps a cup of coffee, a little people-watching, and then Italy.

Instead, I looked at the departure board and saw the word every traveler dreads:

CANCELED.

Not delayed. Not boarding late. Canceled.

Apparently, American Airlines had “helpfully” rebooked me onto an earlier flight. There was only one small problem: nobody told me.

So, naturally, I missed the flight I did not even know I was supposed to be on.

I went to the counter assuming there had to be some reasonable way to fix the situation. The agent was kind, but kindness did not change the fact that there were no other American Airlines flights that could get me to Dallas in time for our international departure.

I called customer service. The representative searched for alternatives and then offered the most memorable suggestion of the day:

“Well, you could always rent a car and drive.”

Drive?

Ma’am, have you looked at a map? Do you know how far New Orleans is from Dallas? Our flight to Italy leaves in six hours.

I do not remember what expression crossed my face, but internally I was somewhere between uncontrollable laughter and complete panic.

Emergency Manager Mode

Years in emergency management have taught me that you are allowed one moment to panic.

Then you solve the problem.

I took a breath, looked around the terminal, and asked myself one question: Who might still be flying when everyone else is not?

Then it came to me.

Southwest.

I grabbed my suitcase and started power-walking across the airport like Wilma Flintstone trying to get the family car moving.

When I reached the Southwest counter, I practically pleaded, “Please tell me you have something going to Dallas.”

The agent looked at the screen and said, “We have one seat.”

One single seat, leaving in less than an hour.

I handed over my credit card so quickly that I am fairly certain I said, “Charge it!”

It was one of the best impulse purchases I have ever made.

Meanwhile, in Shreveport

Just as I began to think everything might work out, my phone rang.

It was Aunt Lynn. Their flight had also been canceled.

This is probably the point where I owe her an apology.

I had used nearly all my emotional energy managing my own travel disaster, so my empathy tank was running on fumes. Instead of offering comfort, I went directly into logistics mode.

“Well, y’all can drive.”

Not my finest moment.

At the time, though, I was simply trying to keep all the pieces moving. Thankfully, Aunt Lynn and Uncle Dan did exactly that. They found an Uber driver willing to take them all the way from Shreveport to Dallas, which is remarkable when you really think about it.

Thank God for Love Field

Sometimes the answer to your prayers does not arrive where you expected it.

Mine arrived at Dallas Love Field.

While storms were disrupting flights into DFW on American Airlines, Southwest Airlines was still moving. I made it to Dallas shortly before the weather shut everything down and climbed into yet another Uber for the trip from Love Field to DFW.

By then, it was becoming clear that this pilgrimage was being unofficially sponsored by Uber.

Airport Lounge O’Clock

When I finally reached DFW, I had arrived at what can only be described as Airport Lounge O’Clock.

I was not interested in shopping, sightseeing, socializing, or making new friends. I wanted a comfortable chair, a little silence, and a Cuba Libre.

The first one disappeared rather quickly.

Not long afterward, Mama texted to say they had arrived. Then came another message: Aunt Lynn and Uncle Dan were there too.

I felt enormous relief, followed almost immediately by guilt. While I had been flying to Dallas, they had spent hours riding across Texas in an Uber.

That realization made Cuba Libre number two—and possibly number three—feel entirely reasonable.

The Storm Was Not Finished With Us

Once everyone had finally made it to DFW, we began to believe the hardest part was behind us.

Then the delay notifications started.

First, the flight was pushed back a little. Then it was pushed again. Every few minutes, another hopeful-looking message arrived, each one moving our departure farther into the evening.

The mood in the airport gradually changed. People stopped smiling, stopped checking their watches, and stopped pretending everything was going to be fine.

Eventually, the storm won.

At approximately 7:30 that evening, we were notified that our flight would not leave that night. Our new departure time was 12:35 the following afternoon.

We had officially lost the first day of our pilgrimage.

The Grand Hyatt That Got Away

This may have been the most personally offensive event of the entire day.

I immediately called the Grand Hyatt located at the airport and found three available rooms. They were convenient, within walking distance, and exactly what we needed.

I had them.

Then someone distracted me. I do not even remember who or why. The call disconnected, and when I called back, the rooms were gone.

Just like that.

At that point, I laughed because there was really nothing else left to do.

Grace for the Night

Eventually, we found rooms at a Marriott outside the airport.

That meant another Uber, another check-in, and another adjustment to the plan.

On paper, it looked as though we had lost something. We had missed a day in Italy, spent money we had not expected to spend, and exhausted ourselves before the pilgrimage had officially begun.

Looking back, however, I think we gained something too.

Somewhere between the canceled flights, surprise expenses, missed connections, long rides, airport cocktails, and family members trying not to lose patience with one another, the pilgrimage had already started.

Not in Rome.

Not in Assisi.

Not beside the tomb of a saint.

It began when each of us decided we were not giving up.

Before we ever set foot in Italy, I was reminded that sometimes the first act of faith is not kneeling in prayer. Sometimes it is simply taking a breath, adjusting the plan, and saying:

“Let’s try again tomorrow.”

Creole Chaos Count

✈️ Flights canceled: 2
🚗 Unexpected Uber rides: 3
🍹 Cuba Libres: Enough
📱 Delay notifications: Too many to count
😂 Family patience tested: Immediately
🙏 Grace received: Exactly when we needed it

🌿 What I’ll Carry Home

Before we entered a basilica, touched the tomb of a saint, or walked through ancient streets, God reminded me of something I have spent years teaching through emergency management: plans are important, but flexibility is essential.

Pilgrimages, like life, rarely unfold exactly as we imagine. The destination may remain the same, but the road can change without warning.

The delays and detours were not interruptions to the pilgrimage. They were the first lesson of it.

Sometimes grace does not remove the chaos. Sometimes it simply gives us the strength, creativity, and people we need to keep moving through it.

✈️ Coming Next

Creole Chaos & Grace — Part Two:
The Crossing—and the Back Row We Claimed for the Rest of Italy

• Facebook
• Instagram
• TikTok
• X
• YouTube

The post Creole Chaos & Grace: Part One – The Beginning appeared first on Bellacreolelife.

By Cici

There are seasons for creating… and there are seasons for living.

Over the last few months, I’ve admittedly been quieter than usual here at Bella Creole Life. I’ve looked at my camera roll more than once and thought, I really need to post that.

Then another incredible experience would happen.

Another family gathering.

Another pilgrimage.

Another conversation with an elder.

Another story I didn’t want to forget.

Before I knew it, I had hundreds of photos, pages of notes, voice recordings, and enough stories for months of blogs and podcasts.

The truth is… I’ve been busy living the very life this project was created to celebrate.

Bella Creole Life was never meant to be just another food page or travel blog.

It was born out of a desire to preserve the stories, faith, food, family traditions, and history of Louisiana Creoles before they disappear. Somewhere along the way, I realized I couldn’t just tell those stories from behind a computer screen—I had to keep going out into the world to experience them myself.

And what a season it has been.

This spring took me across Italy on a pilgrimage with my mom, my aunt, my uncle, and our dear friend Mr. John. Together we prayed in Assisi, Loreto, Monte Cassino, Monte Sant’Angelo, San Giovanni Rotondo, Pompeii, Rome, and so many sacred places I had dreamed of visiting for years.

We celebrated Mass at the tombs of saints who have inspired me for decades.

We stood before the humble resting place of Pope Francis.

We attended a General Audience with Pope Leo XIV—the first American pope, and a pope whose Creole ancestry makes that moment even more meaningful to me.

Along the way, I also carried Blessed Father Seelos with me through Italy, sharing his story and inviting others to discover the humble Redemptorist priest whose life continues to inspire so many in Louisiana and beyond.

Back home, the journey didn’t stop.

I attended the beautiful celebration of Our Mother of Perpetual Help with New Orleans’ Filipino community—a reminder that the traditions we cherish as Creoles often echo across cultures. Different languages. Different histories. The same deep roots of faith, family, food, and celebration.

I spent time at St. Joseph Abbey with the Benedictine monks on the Northshore.

Visited the peaceful grounds of St. Helena Catholic Church in Amite.

Then, over the Fourth of July weekend, I flew to Chicago for the Cane River Creoles Family Reunion. There is something incredibly powerful about standing in a room full of people connected by history, by ancestry, and by a shared commitment to making sure those stories continue long after we’re gone.

Those moments reminded me why Bella Creole Life exists.

And yes… somewhere in between all of that, I still have the 9-to-5 that keeps the lights on. Bella Creole Life has always been a labor of love, squeezed into evenings, weekends, airports, and late nights after work. I know many of you understand exactly what that feels like.

One of the greatest blessings during this busy season has been watching my nephews, Ian and Drew, step into this mission with me. Seeing the next generation not only learn about their Creole heritage but become storytellers themselves has been one of the proudest moments of this entire journey. They remind me that preservation isn’t just about looking backward—it’s about equipping those who come next.

And we’re just getting started.

In the coming months, you’ll see all of these stories shared through blogs, reels, podcasts, and photo essays.

You’ll come with us through Italy.

You’ll meet remarkable people whose lives shaped Creole history.

You’ll hear family recipes and family stories.

You’ll explore churches, festivals, cemeteries, and communities that continue to keep our culture alive.

And perhaps the adventure I’m most excited about…

I’m beginning the journey to trace another branch of my family’s story—back to Canada.

Many Louisiana Creole families have roots that extend far beyond Louisiana, and I’ll be documenting my research as I work to establish Canadian citizenship through ancestry. I’ll share the genealogy, historical records, surprises, and lessons I learn along the way in hopes that it encourages others to begin tracing their own family stories.

Because that’s really what Bella Creole Life has always been about.

Not simply preserving the past.

But discovering who we are because of it.

Thank you for staying with me, even when life pulled me away from posting.

Thank you for cheering on Ian and Drew as they carry this mission forward.

Thank you for believing that our stories matter.

There is so much more to come.

We’re just turning the page to the next chapter.

With gratitude,

Cici

The post I’ve Been Busy Living the Bella Creole Life appeared first on Bellacreolelife.

A Discussion of Culture, Identity, and History

If you ask ten people what it means to be Creole, you’ll likely get ten different answers.

And the truth is… they’re probably all speaking from a real place.

Because Creole identity in Louisiana has never been singular or fixed. It is layered—shaped by history, culture, language, faith, family, and, just as importantly, by the systems that tried to define people long before we ever had the chance to define ourselves.

To really understand it, you have to hold two truths at once: Creole identity is cultural.
And it has always existed within a world structured by race.

A Word That Meant More Than It Seems

Originally, Creole was a straightforward term. It meant “native-born”—someone born in the colony rather than in Europe.

But Louisiana was never a simple place.

From early on, the population included people of French and Spanish descent, enslaved Africans, free people of color, and Native communities—all interacting, forming relationships, building families, and creating a shared cultural world.

So the word Creole began to stretch.

It came to represent more than birthplace. It reflected a way of life—rooted in language, Catholic faith, foodways, music, and tightly woven family networks. It described people who belonged to this place in a way that outsiders did not.

And importantly, in its earlier usage, it was not limited to one race.

That matters.

The Systems That Shaped the Conversation

At the same time, identity in Louisiana was never free from structure.

Under French rule, the Code Noir regulated slavery and attempted to define relationships between Europeans, enslaved Africans, and free people of color. It didn’t just control labor, it shaped social order, family life, and the boundaries of belonging.

When the Spanish took control, they expanded recordkeeping practices influenced by their caste system. Parish records, legal documents, and census data began reflecting increasingly detailed classifications, based on ancestry, status, and perceived race.

So while Creole identity was forming culturally, it was also being documented, categorized, and constrained.

That dual reality, lived identity versus imposed identity, is at the heart of why this conversation still feels complicated today.

Culture, Language, and the Early Creole World

Before Louisiana became part of the United States, Creole identity was deeply tied to culture.

Language, especially French and Louisiana Creole, was central. Catholicism shaped community life. Family networks connected people across regions like New Orleans, Cane River, the River Parishes and Southwest Louisiana.

In that context, “Creole” often signified belonging to that cultural world. It was an identity shared across racial lines by those who were part of that linguistic and religious community.

But that would not remain the dominant framework.

Americanization and the Narrowing of Identity

After the Louisiana Purchase in 1803, American influence began to reshape everything.

English replaced French and Creole in public life and education. Over time, especially by the early 20th century, laws and policies enforced English-only schooling, accelerating the loss of heritage language.

At the same time, American racial frameworks, far more rigid and binary, took hold.

Where earlier systems, though complex, allowed for multiple categories, American society increasingly reduced identity to Black or white.

That shift had lasting consequences.

It didn’t erase Creole identity, but it compressed it, forcing people to navigate a world that no longer recognized the in-between.

Gens de Couleur Libres and the Creole Middle Space

One of the clearest examples of that “in-between” space is the community of gens de couleur libres. free people of color.

In Louisiana, particularly in places like New Orleans and along Cane River, these communities developed strong social and economic foundations. They owned land, built businesses, practiced their faith, and created tightly connected family networks.

Their existence challenges any simplified understanding of race in early Louisiana.

And many Creole families today trace their roots back to these communities.

But even within that space, identity was not static.

It was negotiated.
Lived.
Sometimes contested, even within families.

Survival, Choice, and the Weight of History

As Louisiana moved into the late 19th and early 20th centuries, those complexities became harder to sustain.

Jim Crow laws enforced segregation. Access to opportunity became increasingly tied to racial classification. Social and economic realities forced families into difficult decisions.

Some individuals chose to pass, aligning with whiteness when possible. Others maintained a strong identification with Black identity. Many navigated a more fluid space, even when the broader society resisted it.

These were not abstract identity debates.

They were decisions shaped by:

• safety
• access
• survival
• and the desire to protect future generations

We don’t have to agree with every choice to understand the conditions that produced them.

Color, Community, and Belonging

Even today, the legacy of those systems lingers.

Within Creole communities, variation in skin tone, features, upbringing, and community acceptance continues to influence how people identify—and how they are perceived.

And if we’re being honest, that can create tension.

I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.

I’ve seen family members distance themselves. I’ve seen identity become a point of quiet division. And I’ve seen people who never felt fully claimed by any one group, even while carrying a deep sense of belonging within themselves.

Over time, I’ve come to understand that identity is not shaped by ancestry alone.

It is also shaped by relationship.

Who claims you.
Who teaches you.
Who embraces you.

And sometimes, who doesn’t.

A Personal Reflection

This conversation has never been purely academic for me.

I know what it feels like to be asked, “What are you?”, as though the answer should be simple, immediate, and easily categorized.

But when your history is layered, that question doesn’t land lightly.

It carries expectation. Assumption. Sometimes judgment.

What I’ve learned over time is this:

Clarity doesn’t always come from choosing one part of your identity over another.

Sometimes it comes from accepting the fullness of it, even when it doesn’t fit neatly into someone else’s framework.

Creole Identity Today

Today, Creole identity continues to evolve.

For some, it is rooted in genealogy and ancestry.
For others, in cultural practice—food, language, faith, and tradition.
For others, in the historical experience of free people of color and the communities they built.

And for many, it is all of those things at once.

That complexity doesn’t weaken the identity.

It defines it.

Why This Still Matters

This isn’t just about defining a word.

It’s about understanding the forces that shaped our families—and by extension, ourselves.

When you begin to see how history, policy, culture, and community intersect, you start to make sense of things that may have once felt fragmented.

And that understanding can be grounding.

So After All That…What Is Creole?

All I can give you is what I have landed on as my definition of Creole through lived expreince, chatting with other Creoles and reading A LOT of other “opinons” :

Creole is not a race. It is a cultural identity shaped by heritage, language, faith, family, and community, formed where multiple worlds meet, overlap, and evolve. It continues to grow as we deepen our understanding of our history and actively shape our future.

❤️ From Me to You

If you’ve ever felt like your identity didn’t fit neatly into a box…

That doesn’t mean you’re unclear.

It means your story is layered.

And that layering? That depth?

That’s not something to simplify.

It’s something to understand—and carry with intention.

Until next time, cousin,

take care of yourself, take care of your people, and keep living the Bella Creole Life.

With love and intention,
Cici

Please Note: This is my perspective, shaped by my family, my experiences, and what I’ve come to understand along the way. I encourage you to dig into your own roots, ask questions, do the research, and come to your own conclusions. There is beauty in discovering your story for yourself.

The post What Does It Mean to Be Louisiana Creole? appeared first on Bellacreolelife.

Every now and then, something shifts, not in a loud way, but in a way that feels like growth.

Now is one of those moments.

Bella Creole Life has always been about preserving our Louisiana Creole culture, telling our stories, and creating a space where we can connect across generations. And if this work is going to last, if it’s going to matter long-term, it can’t just be my voice.

It has to become our voice.

That’s why I’m so excited to share that my nephews, Drew and Ian,  are officially joining me as part of the Bella Creole Life voices. Drew will be my primary collaborator, with Ian popping in now and again.

You may start hearing them in social media content, sharing their perspectives, their questions, their curiosity, and their understanding of what it means to be Creole today.

And I’ll be honest, that part matters.

Because this isn’t just about looking back.

It’s about making sure the next generation understands what they’re carrying forward.

My goal is to get back to the podcast soon, and when I do, they’ll be right there with me. Asking questions. Challenging ideas. Adding their voices to the conversation in a way that reflects where we are now.

Because culture doesn’t survive by staying still.

It survives when it’s lived, questioned, shared, and passed on.

So today feels like a step in that direction.

A small one, but an important one.

Welcome to the next generation of Creoles working to understand, carry, and preserve our culture.

Welcome, Drew and Ian. Cici is so excited to go on this journey of discovery with you and so proud of your interest in our culture. 🤍

❤️ From Me to You

This is what it looks like when culture continues.

Not just remembered, but lived.

Until next time, cousin—

take care of yourself, take care of your people, and keep living the Bella Creole Life.

With love and intention,
Cici

Check out Bella Creole Life on:

Like, Follow and Share to spread the culture and the conversation.

The post Welcoming the Next Generation appeared first on Bellacreolelife.

Celebrating the Faith, Family, Food, and Fun That Shape Us—Together

I grew up in the insular Creole community of Cane River in North Louisiana, in the small town of Cloutierville. Pride in my Creole heritage was instilled in me from the time I was a child. Our culture wasn’t something we learned about in books—it was the way we lived. Sundays meant church bells calling us to worship, long tables filled with family and food, and music and laughter spilling from porches where stories were told and retold.

Over time, I came to see that Creole culture thrives in many places—some communities close-knit and deeply rooted, others far-flung but connected by the same values: Faith, Family, Food, and Fun. We are a people who work hard, pray deeply, and celebrate life with joy and generosity.

So, What Does “Creole” Mean?

The word Creole has been used in different ways over the centuries—and sometimes misunderstood. Historically in Louisiana, Creole referred to people born in the colony (as opposed to Europe) during French and Spanish rule, regardless of race, but later came to signify a mix of European, African, and Native American ancestry.
Over time, the term became tangled in issues of colorism, social rank, and class. In some places, it was treated as an exclusive label—one tied to skin tone, hair texture, or economic status—rather than its true meaning. This has led to alienation for some who rightfully belong to the Creole story but were made to feel they didn’t.
But at its core, being Creole is not about race or wealth—it’s about ethnic identity, heritage, and culture. It’s about the traditions you were raised with, the languages you speak or heard in your home, the food you grew up eating, and the values and ways of life passed down through generations. Creole is not a color—it’s a way of life.

Why Bella Creole Life Exists

Too often, our communities have been separated—not just by geography, but by the old divisions of color, hair texture, social standing, and misunderstandings about who “belongs.” Some have felt excluded, unrecognized, or disconnected from their heritage. That has caused pain and kept us from fully appreciating the beauty of our shared story.

I want Bella Creole Life to be different.

I want this to be a safe space where we come together to share openly, learn from one another, and heal those divisions. A place where we can talk honestly about racial identity, ancestry, the preservation of our language, and the passing down of our culture. A place where we celebrate our successes, lift each other up, and invest in the next generation.

This will be our modern-day “front porch”—a gathering place like the ones our elders knew so well, where news was exchanged, recipes were passed down, advice was offered, and yes, a little gossip kept the conversations lively. But more than that, it will be a space where relationships are forged, community is built, and everyone who loves and values Creole culture has a seat at the table.

Here, you’ll find:

• Community Spotlights – From Cane River to St. Landry, Bayou Teche, and beyond.
• People’s Stories – Honoring the builders, keepers, and dreamers who shaped our heritage.
• Cultural Connections – Events, festivals, and traditions that keep our roots alive.
• Food & Fellowship – Recipes, cooking tips, and culinary history that bring us together.
• Faith & History – The spiritual and historical foundations of our identity.
• Open Conversations – Honest dialogue on identity, inclusion, and what it means to be Creole today.

My hope is that Bella Creole Life becomes more than a website—it becomes a bridge. A way to connect people to people, people to places, and people to experiences that honor our past while building a stronger, more united future.

So, pull up a chair. Share your story. Learn something new. Celebrate your roots. Let’s live the Bella Creole Life—together.

Laissez les bons temps rouler, and welcome to our porch.

From Me to You ❤️

If you’re reading this, I want you to know—you belong here.

Whether you grew up in a tight-knit Creole community or are just now discovering your heritage… whether you’ve always felt connected or you’ve carried the ache of feeling like you didn’t “fit in”… this space is for you.

I’ve seen how divisions—based on skin color, hair texture, class, or simply not knowing enough about your roots—can keep us apart. I’ve also seen the joy that comes when we choose to open the door wide, listen to each other’s stories, and celebrate the beauty of what we share.

This isn’t just about looking back at the past—it’s about reclaiming what’s ours, honoring the people who came before us, and making sure the next generation inherits not just our traditions, but our unity.

So come as you are. Bring your memories, your questions, your recipes, your music, your photographs, your curiosity. Here, we’re not just preserving culture—we’re living it, together.

With love,
Christie

The post Welcome to Bella Creole Life appeared first on Bellacreolelife.