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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

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The post Creole Chaos & Grace: Part Four – Wandering Assisi 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

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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

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The Pilgrimage Began Before We Ever Left the Ground

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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

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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.

Discover the powerful legacy of Marie Thérèse Coincoin and the Metoyer family, whose resilience, faith, and vision helped shape Creole culture along Louisiana’s Cane River.

Marie Thérèse Coincoin is one of the most remarkable, and often misunderstood, figures in Louisiana Creole history.

Her story is not simple.

It is layered with contradiction, resilience, strategy, faith, and survival within a system that was never designed for her to succeed.

And yet—she did.

Who Was Marie Thérèse Coincoin?

Marie Thérèse Coincoin was born around 1742 into slavery at the colonial outpost of Natchitoches, in the household of Louis Juchereau de St. Denis.

She was the daughter of François and Marie Françoise, and one of eleven children. As a young girl, she and her sister were trained in healing practices, nursing, and pharmacology, skills that would later support her economic independence.

In early adulthood, Coincoin was placed with French merchant Claude Thomas Pierre Métoyer. Their relationship, formed within the realities of the colonial system, lasted nearly two decades and resulted in ten children.

Over time, Métoyer purchased Coincoin and several of their children and granted them freedom.

That moment changed everything.

Freedom, Strategy, and Economic Power

Freedom did not mean ease—but Coincoin used it with remarkable intention.

She began building a life through multiple income streams:

• tobacco farming
• cattle raising
• trapping and processing animal goods
• producing medicinal remedies
• trading pelts, oil, and indigo products in regional markets

She was not just surviving.

She was strategically building wealth.

Under Spanish colonial rule, when land grant policies were more flexible, Coincoin secured land along the Red River, including a tract known as the Grand Coast. She later expanded her holdings, including cattle operations in the piney woods west of her homestead.

By the early 1800s, she was:

• a landowner
• a taxpayer
• a businesswoman
• and a central figure in a growing Creole community

The Reality of Slaveholding

One of the most difficult and important truths to understand is this:

Like many free people of color in colonial Louisiana, Coincoin did acquire enslaved people.

Historical research, particularly by Elizabeth Shown Mills, indicates that many of those enslaved were family members or close relations, and in several cases, Coincoin worked to secure their freedom over time.

This does not remove the moral weight of slavery.

But it does reflect the complex and constrained choices that free people of color had to navigate within that system.

Her life must be understood in full context of the time and circumstances; no simple task as perspective has been list to time and changing influences and experiences of modern living.

The Metoyer Family & the Creation of Isle Brevelle

Coincoin’s legacy did not end with her.

It multiplied.

It took root in her children who carried forward not just what she built, but how she built it: with strategy, faith, and an unwavering commitment to family.

One of the most well-known figures is Louis Métoyer, who was granted over 900 acres of land along Cane River. On that land, he established what would become Melrose Plantation, though much of the physical structure we see today was developed later by his descendants. His work helped solidify the Metoyer presence along the river and anchor their economic influence in the region.

But to truly understand the heart of Isle Brevelle, you also have to understand another son:

Nicolas Augustin Métoyer.

Born in 1768, Nicolas was the son of Claude Thomas Pierre Métoyer and Marie Thérèse Coincoin. He was granted his freedom in 1792, the same year he married Marie Agnès Poissot, and just a few years later, in 1795, he became the founder of the Isle Brevelle community of gens de couleur libres.

And this is where the story deepens.

Nicolas was not just a landowner. He was a builder of community.

Through agriculture and landholding, he amassed significant wealth, enough to both borrow from and lend to white planters in the region. That level of economic influence was rare for a man of color at that time and speaks to both his business acumen and the foundation laid before him.

Like many in that community, he was also a slaveholder, another reminder of the complex and often uncomfortable realities of that era. Historical records indicate that many of the enslaved individuals on Isle Brevelle were eventually freed, and Nicolas himself played a role in those manumissions. This does not simplify the history, but it does provide important context for understanding the choices made within that system.

As patriarch of the Metoyer family and master of Yucca Plantation, Nicolas helped shape not only land ownership, but identity, continuity, and belonging.

And perhaps his most enduring contribution was not economic.

It was spiritual.

Nicolas donated the land for what would become St. Augustine Catholic Church, completed in 1829. His brother Louis oversaw its construction, and the community contributed its furnishings, making it a true collective effort.

St. Augustine was more than a church.

It was, and still is, a declaration.

It is recognized as one of the first Catholic churches in the United States built by and for free people of color. What began as a mission church grew into the spiritual and cultural center of Isle Brevelle.

And even today, generations later, it remains the heart of Cane River Creole life.

It is where families return.
Where stories are remembered.
Where culture is not just preserved, but lived.

A Community Built on More Than Land

What the Metoyer family established along Cane River was not just a collection of plantations.

It was a community.

A place where:

• land ownership created stability
• faith created unity
• family created continuity
• and culture created identity

Isle Brevelle became one of the most significant communities of free people of color in Louisiana, a place where generations could live, build, worship, and belong.

And that sense of belonging still echoes today.

A Legacy That Still Lives

This history is not distant.

It is living.

Many Creole families today can trace their lineage back to Coincoin and the Metoyer family, and that reach continues to surface in modern genealogy.

For example, on the series Finding Your Roots with Henry Louis Gates Jr., WNBA star Brittney Griner discovered that her maternal ancestry connects to the Balthazar family—whose lineage ties back to the Cane River Creole community established by Coincoin and her descendants.

That is the power of this legacy.

It extends far beyond what we see on the surface.

Why This Story Matters

Marie Thérèse Coincoin’s life reflects something deeply important:

Not just resilience, but intentional, strategic resilience.

She understood the system she was in.
She made decisions that would benefit her children.
She built something that would outlast her.

And through that, she helped create a community that still exists today.

Explore More & Continue the Journey

If you want to go deeper into this history, here are trusted places to begin:

• The Cane River Creole National Historical Park
• The Melrose Plantation
• The Creole Heritage Center
• Research by Elizabeth Shown Mills

And of course, continue exploring stories, tools, and family connections at BellaCreoleLife.com, where we are working to make these histories more accessible, personal, and connected.

❤️ From Me to You

When you hear stories like Coincoin’s, it can feel distant—like history that belongs to someone else.

But it doesn’t.

There is a strong chance that her story connects to yours in ways you haven’t fully uncovered yet.

So take the time.

Ask questions.
Trace your roots.
Sit with your elders.

Because what you will find is not just history.

You will find yourself.

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

The post The Legacy of Marie Thérèse Coincoin & the Metoyer Family of Cane River appeared first on Bellacreolelife.

St. Joseph’s Altars & Masking Mardi Gras Indians

Every year on March 19th, something special happens in New Orleans.

It is a day where faith, culture, and community come together in ways that feel both sacred and celebratory. A day where tables overflow with food, streets come alive with movement and color, and traditions passed down through generations are brought forward once again.

But I’ll be honest.

This was not something I grew up with.

A Tradition I Found Later in Life

Growing up in North Louisiana, my Creole experience was rooted in church, family, and community, but the traditions of St. Joseph’s Day altars and Masking Mardi Gras Indians on St. Joseph’s Night were not part of my childhood.

It wasn’t until I moved to New Orleans that I encountered these traditions for the first time.

And when I did, something in me connected immediately.

Not because they were familiar, but because they felt like they belonged to me anyway.

The Beauty of St. Joseph’s Altars

St. Joseph’s Day is celebrated on March 19th in honor of St. Joseph, the patron saint of fathers, families, and workers.

The tradition of the altars was brought to Louisiana by Sicilian immigrants in the late 1800s, who prayed to St. Joseph during a devastating drought in Sicily. When their prayers were answered, they promised to honor him with elaborate altars filled with food and offerings.

That promise lives on today.

The altars are breathtaking.

Tables layered with, fresh breads and baked goods, fruits and vegetables, cookies shaped into religious symbols, intricate displays of devotion and gratitude.

But what makes them truly special is not just their beauty.

It’s the spirit behind them.

These altars are built to feed the community, to welcome strangers, and to give thanks. Homes and churches open their doors, inviting people in to share in the abundance.

It is faith in action.

Learning the Tradition Through Friendship

I didn’t find this tradition on my own.

It was shared with me.

My dear friend Opal Joyner introduced me to St. Joseph’s altars years ago. She took me from church to church, showing me the beauty of each altar, explaining the meaning behind the symbols, and eventually bringing me into private homes where families opened their doors to share their altars with others.

I remember being struck by how personal it felt.

How intentional.

How full of love.

And yes, she also taught me one of the more playful traditions of the altars.

Unmarried women could take a lemon from the altar, without being seen, and ask St. Joseph to help them find a husband.

Let’s just say…

I still have my lemons.

They’re over 15 years old now, completely mummified, and I’m still waiting on St. Joseph to come through. 😂

But even that small tradition speaks to something bigger:

Hope. Faith. Possibility.

St. Joseph’s Night & the Masking Mardi Gras Indians

As the sun sets on March 19th, another tradition comes alive.

Masking Mardi Gras Indians take to the streets.

This is not a performance.

This is culture in motion.

Dressed in incredibly elaborate, hand-sewn suits adorned with beads, feathers, and intricate designs, members of different tribes gather, chant, dance, and move through neighborhoods.

It is deeply rooted in African and Native American traditions, reflecting histories of resistance, resilience, and community.

The energy is electric.

The streets fill with, drum beats, chants, call-and-response songs, flashes of light illuminating suits in the night

It feels sacred.

It feels ancestral.

It feels alive.

A Culture That Lives at the Intersection

What struck me most as I experienced these traditions was how they came from different cultural roots, yet existed side by side. Sicilian Catholic devotion, African spiritual traditions, Native American influences.

And somehow, in New Orleans, they blended into something unique..

And that’s when it clicked for me.

As a Creole woman, with French, Spanish, African, Native, Italian, and Irish ancestry flowing through my veins, this was my culture too.

Not one piece.

All of it.

Creole culture has never been about fitting into one box.

It has always been about connection, blending, and becoming.

Carrying the Tradition Forward

Even now, years later, I still honor this tradition.

My friend Opal passed away in 2010, but every year on St. Joseph’s Day, I think of her.

And I bring a fava bean to her resting place.

In Sicilian tradition, fava beans are considered symbols of good luck, abundance, and survival, known for growing even in poor conditions.

To me, that symbolism runs deep.

Because that is who we are as a people.

We endure.
We adapt.
We grow, even in difficult conditions.

And we carry forward the traditions that were shared with us.

Why This Matters

St. Joseph’s Day and St. Joseph’s Night are more than traditions.

They are reminders.

That culture is meant to be shared.
That faith is meant to be lived.
That community is meant to be experienced.

And that we are not bound by, color, class, or circumstance.

We are connected by something deeper.

From Me to You ❤️

If you’ve never experienced a St. Joseph’s altar or seen the Mardi Gras Indians on St. Joseph’s Night, I encourage you to go.

Go with an open heart.

Go ready to learn.

Go ready to connect.

Because sometimes the traditions we didn’t grow up with…
are still part of who we are.

And sometimes all it takes is one person, like Opal was for me, to open that door.

A Moment to Reflect

What tradition have you discovered later in life that made you feel more connected to who you are?

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

2026 St. Joseph Altars – Archdiocese of New Orleans – New Orleans, LA

Takin’ It To The Streets | WWOZ New Orleans 90.7 FM (St. Joseph Night Mardi Gras Indians)

The post March 19th: Faith, Culture, and the Traditions That Call Us Together appeared first on Bellacreolelife.

Recently, I had the opportunity to gather with family to celebrate the life of my great aunt, Angeline Rachal Turner, whom we lovingly called Aunt Monie.

Her name carries history. She was named after my great-grandmother, another Angeline in our family line, and like many of the women in our family, she carried that name with quiet strength, deep faith, and devotion to family.

Aunt Monie was born in Cloutierville, Louisiana, later lived in Shreveport, and eventually made her home in Baton Rouge. Like so many families, ours spread across different cities and different paths as people pursued opportunity, built families, and created lives of their own. Distance, both physical and the natural evolution of life, meant that I didn’t know Aunt Monie as deeply as I wish I had.

But gatherings like this remind us that family bonds exist even when life has taken us in different directions.

Walking Into a Room Full of My People

Her service was held at Gordon Feltus Lazard Cathedral COGIC in Baton Rouge, a beautifully simple church that felt deeply familiar to me. As soon as I walked inside, I couldn’t help but think of my own family church back home in Cloutierville, St. John the Baptist Catholic Church.

Different denomination.
Different place.

Yet the same spirit.

The music was soulful and powerful, lifting the entire service into something that felt less like mourning and more like a celebration of a life devoted to faith and family.

But what struck me most was the room itself.

The sanctuary was filled with family, many people whose names I did not yet know well, but whose faces felt strangely familiar. When I walked through the doors, something in my spirit recognized them.

It’s hard to explain.

Even though I didn’t know everyone by name or story, my heart knew something deeper:

These are my people.

Maybe it was the resemblance in faces.
Maybe it was the shared blood we carry.
Maybe it was Aunt Monie’s spirit reminding us that family matters.

Whatever it was, the feeling was unmistakable, strange and wonderful at the same time.

Seeing Legacy in the Next Generation

One of the most emotional moments came when I saw her granddaughter, also named Angeline.

She looked so much like her grandmother.

The grief on her face was raw and real, the grief of losing not only a grandmother, but clearly a close companion and friend. Watching her brought me back to the deep feelings I had when I lost my Papa T’Fra, and my heart immediately filled with empathy for what she was experiencing.

During the sermon, the minister spoke about how Aunt Monie had been “loosed from her earthly bounds.”

No longer limited by the frailties of the physical body.
Now rejoicing fully in the glory of her Lord.

But what stayed with me most was what he said next.

He spoke about how her legacy continues through those she leaves behind. Looking out across the family gathered in that sanctuary, he pointed out how strong the family resemblance is, how her granddaughter Angeline reflects her so clearly, and how those same family traits can be seen throughout the room.

I looked around.

And he was right.

In the faces of cousins and aunts, in the expressions and mannerisms of people gathered there, I could see echoes of those who have passed before us.

It was a powerful reminder that our ancestors continue to live through us.

We are their living embodiment on this earth.

Their traits.
Their stories.
Their lessons.

A Journey That Felt Like Going Home

After the service, the procession to the cemetery took us along quiet country roads.

As we drove, I found myself noticing how familiar the landscape felt. The winding roads, the fields, the stillness of the countryside—it reminded me so much of the roads around Cloutierville, where our family story began.

In that moment, I realized something beautiful.

Even though Aunt Monie had lived many miles away from where she started, the journey to her final resting place felt strangely like coming home.

There was something deeply poetic about that.

Words at the Graveside

At the graveside, the minister shared something that stayed with me.

He reminded us that the best way to honor someone we love is not only through mourning, but through how we live after they are gone.

To honor Aunt Monie, he said, we must continue to be a family.
We must continue to uphold the traditions that shaped us.
We must continue telling the stories and passing forward the values that defined her life.

That is how legacy lives on.

The Quiet Strength of Aunt Monie

Even though I didn’t know my Aunt Monie as well as I wish I had, I learned so much about her that day.

I learned that she was a devoted member of her church, deeply committed to her faith and community. That part didn’t surprise me, everything I knew about her suggested a woman anchored in faith.

Over and over again, people spoke about her quiet kindness, her compassion, and her nurturing spirit.

What made me smile most was hearing about the tenderness with which she cared for those around her.

That is a trait I deeply admire and aspire to model.

Family Is Everything

That gathering reminded me of something simple but profound:

Family is everything.

Our families are rarely simple. In Creole families especially, we come in many forms.

We have different skin tones.
Different beliefs.
Different religious traditions.
Different experiences.

Some of us identify as White.
Some identify as Black.
Some simply identify as Creole.

But beneath all those differences, we still carry the same blood, the same ancestry, and the same traditions.

We do not all have to be best friends or spend every evening together.

But we should know one another.
We should acknowledge one another.
We should love one another without condition and preserve the traditions and legacies that brought us here.

Because culture does not survive through separation.

Culture survives through connection.

Moments like this are exactly why I created Bella Creole Life.

This platform is meant to be a force multiplier for connection.

Through storytelling, shared memories, genealogy resources, and cultural preservation, Bella Creole Life can help families reconnect with their roots, even when distance, time, or circumstance has separated them.

My hope is that readers take one simple step after reading this:

Call an elder.
Call the cousin who knows the family history.
Write the stories down.

I’m currently working with my own cousins to create a shared family Google Drive, where we can gather photos and documents so that those images, often discovered years later with the question “Where did this come from?”, are preserved and shared among all of us.

Every family can do this.

And every family should.

In Honor of Aunt Monie

My aunt’s life reminds me that kindness costs nothing but yields immeasurable returns.

That gentleness is not weakness, but a quiet form of strength.

And that legacy is rarely built through grand gestures, but through the small acts of love, compassion, and faith that are practiced consistently over a lifetime.

By that measure, Aunt Monie’s legacy is enormous.

The entire service, from beginning to end, was so spirit-filled that I left feeling not only the weight of loss, but also a deep sense of love and inspiration.

Though I did not know her as well as I wish I had, the service felt as though it honored her beautifully.

And in many ways, it felt like her spirit was present the entire time.

As if she were there, quietly smiling.

A Moment to Reflect

Who in your family holds stories you haven’t heard yet?

Maybe today is the day to ask.

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

The post When Family Calls Us Home appeared first on Bellacreolelife.

By Christie “Cici”  Rachal | Bella Creole Life ✝️💜

There is a special kind of faith that lives in Creole women — a faith that is not loud or showy, not something performed for attention, but something lived, breathed, and carried quietly in the soft cradle of their hands. It is the kind of faith that hovers over a family like a warm shawl, covering each of us in prayers whispered long before we were born.

When I think of what it means to be covered in prayer, I think of the women who shaped my earliest understanding of God, of love, and of spiritual protection. I think of Friday evenings, when the sun began to dip behind the pines and the rhythmic creaking of old wooden pews at St. John the Baptist Catholic Church in Cloutierville signaled the gathering of our elders — men and women, yes, but always spiritually led by the women, the prayer warriors of our community.

I can still see them clearly:
My grandmother Cecile, my Aunt Doris, Cousin Catherine, Ms. Louis, my mama, and my aunts — their soft caramel-colored hands sliding rosary beads carefully, reverently, lovingly. Those beads caught the sanctuary light like tiny droplets of grace. Their voices blended in prayer, steady and sure, stitched with decades of unwavering faith.
As a child, I believed their prayers were magic — real magic — the kind that could heal, protect, transform, and bless. And in many ways, they were. I believed that generations of Creole women in my family had prayed over us, and that those prayers flowed down through time like a spiritual inheritance, covering us still.

The Rosary, the Rhythm of Our Creole Faith

There were no specifically “Creole prayers,” but there were traditions deeply woven into the fiber of our community.
The Rosary was and is one of them.
I always longed to hear the Rosary said in French, the ancestral tongue of my people, but by the time I came along, that practice was fading — pushed aside by efforts to force English as the only language of church and state. Still, even in English, the Rosary felt Creole to me. It was the prayer of our grandmothers, our great-grandmothers, and their mothers before them. It was how Creole women called down protection on their families and anchored our community in God.
And then there was the song — the one that shaped my childhood faith:
“Hear O Lord.”
To this day, the opening notes pull me right back into a wooden pew, feet dangling above the floor, heart wide open and trusting.

Churches That Raised Me

Several churches nurtured my spiritual roots:

⛪ St. John the Baptist — Cloutierville, LA

My family church. My spiritual home.
This is where I learned reverence.
Where I watched my elders pray us through everything — storms, illnesses, heartbreaks, celebrations.
Where Father Harold Imamshah and Father Daniel Corkery taught me the structure and meaning of the Catechism.

⛪ St. Augustine — Melrose

A place of summer bible school, songs, Sisterly guidance, and the tender discipline of the Sisters of the Holy Family — Creole women who modeled a life of faith, service, and purpose.
They showed me that devotion came in many forms: as a mother, as a sister, as a woman choosing God above all else.

⛪ Holy Cross Catholic Church — Natchitoches

As a college student, I met Father Sheldon Roy — charismatic, emotionally attuned, a priest who encouraged a personal relationship with the divine. He taught me that Catholicism wasn’t just ritual; it was intimacy, connection, and daily conversation with God.
Each church added another thread to my spiritual tapestry, shaping the woman I would become.

These weren’t just meals—they were lessons in patience, love, teamwork, and pride in who we are.

Faith as a Creole Legacy — Carried Through the Women

Faith, in Creole families, was rarely preached at you.
It was lived in front of you.

• It was in the lighting of candles for safe travels.
• In novenas whispered for sick relatives.
• In prayer cards tucked inside Bibles.
• In rosary beads carried in purses so worn the metal chain polished smooth.
• In grandmothers blessing children with the sign of the cross before bed.
• In mamas praying silently while stirring pots of gumbo or ironing school clothes.
• In great-aunts praying for children who had drifted and grandchildren yet to be born.

The women prayed because they understood something important —
that life is hard, but faith makes it bearable, and prayer makes it powerful.

• Their faith carried families.
• Their prayers carried generations.
• Their devotion carried our culture.

✨ Explore the Faith Page

If you’d like to share:

• Your own faith story
• Your church’s history
• A recurring prayer group (Rosary, charismatic prayer, novenas, Bible studies)

Please visit the Faith page on Bella Creole Life.
You can list your church, add events, and help preserve our spiritual heritage for generations to come.

• Your story matters.
• Your faith matters.
• Your voice belongs in this tapestry.

💖 From Me to You ❤️

If you were raised Creole Catholic — or even if you found faith later in life — you probably know exactly what it feels like to be held up by the prayers of your elders.
To feel the strength of women who prayed you into existence.
To carry their love like armor.

I believe those prayers still linger around us — in our kitchens, in our church halls, in the wind that rustles cane fields, in the hush of old cemeteries, in the songs that shaped our childhood.

If you are struggling, doubting, searching, or needing encouragement, I hope you remember this:
You are somebody’s answered prayer.
And I truly believe the prayers of Creole women never miss their mark.
With love and faith,
Cici

The post The Flavor of Creole LifeCovered in Prayer — The Sacred Work of Creole WomenThe Flavor of Creole Life appeared first on Bellacreolelife.

A lived spirituality braided from Catholic sacrament, African memory, and Native wisdom—rooted in family, music, and place.

Introduction

In Louisiana, Creole faith isn’t just what happens on Sundays—it’s how we celebrate, mourn, heal, cook, sing, and show up for one another. From the colony’s earliest days, French and Spanish Catholic traditions met West and Central African religions and the practices of Native nations. Over time, Creole families blended these currents into a distinctive spirituality that is at once sacramental and communal, mystical and practical, and deeply tied to our land and our ancestors.

“Faith is the memory we carry in our bones—sung, danced, prayed, and passed down.”
— Bella Creole Life

Foundations: Law, Sisters, and Everyday Devotion

Under French—and later Spanish—rule, public life in colonial Louisiana was framed by Catholicism. The 1724 Code Noir mandated baptism in the Roman Catholic faith and established the Church as the colony’s moral foundation, shaping rhythms of worship and rest that endured in Creole communities.

Read more about the Code Noir here: 64 Parishes: “Code Noir of Louisiana”.

In 1727, the Ursuline Sisters arrived in New Orleans and founded what became the oldest continually operating girls’ school in the United States. Their devotion to Our Lady of Prompt Succor grew into a defining part of the city’s spiritual life—invoked for protection during fires, wars, and hurricanes. To this day, families across Louisiana light candles to the Blessed Mother and whisper “Notre Dame de Prompt Secours, hâtez-vous de nous secourir.”

African and Native Continuities: Congo Square, Voodoo, and Healing

Even under enslavement and social constraint, African spiritual memory survived. On Sundays at Congo Square in New Orleans, people gathered to drum, dance, trade, and pray—keeping alive rhythms and cosmologies that would later shape jazz funerals and second lines.

Out of this meeting of worlds arose Louisiana Voodoo, a sacred blend of West and Central African traditions, Catholic saints, psalms, and Native influences. Voodoo was not the opposite of faith; for many Creole families, Sunday Mass and home rituals existed side by side. A rosary could hang beside a spirit altar; holy water and herbal baths coexisted in the same house.

Native peoples—especially the Chitimacha, Choctaw, and Tunica-Biloxi—intermarried with Creole families and shared their understanding of healing and harmony with nature. The enduring traiteur or traiteuse tradition—faith healers who pray in French or English, make the sign of the cross, and use herbal remedies—shows how deeply Native and Catholic beliefs intertwine. Learn more through Louisiana Folklife’s essays on traiteurs and Traiteurs and Their Power of Healing.

Black Catholic Leadership and Creole Parish Life

Creole Catholics of color built institutions that still anchor our faith communities today.
In New Orleans, St. Augustine Catholic Church in Tremé—founded in 1841 by free people of color—became a spiritual home for generations. Its Tomb of the Unknown Slave, dedicated in 2004, honors enslaved people whose names were lost to history.

Further north along Cane River, the St. Augustine Church of Isle Brevelle (1829) remains one of America’s oldest Black Catholic parishes. It was founded by Nicolas Augustin Metoyer, a free man of color and patriarch of a historic Creole community.

Perhaps the most influential religious figure of all was Venerable Henriette DeLille, a Creole woman who, in 1842, founded the Sisters of the Holy Family. Defying racial laws, she educated Black girls, cared for the elderly, and tended the sick. Her cause for sainthood is underway—a powerful testament to Creole women’s leadership in faith.

Catholicism and Voodoo in Conversation

Few stories capture Creole spiritual duality better than that of Marie Laveau, the legendary “Voodoo Queen.” A devout Catholic tied to St. Louis Cathedral, she attended Mass regularly while also leading Voodoo ceremonies that wove Catholic prayers and saint images into African ritual. Her life reminds us that faith in Creole Louisiana was not about choosing one path over another, but about honoring all the threads that made our people whole.

Her contemporary, Père Antoine (Fr. Antonio de Sedella), served as a Capuchin priest at St. Louis Cathedral through wars and revolutions, becoming a folk saint in his own right. Together, their stories show that Creole faith thrived in conversation—not conflict.

What Makes Creole Faith Distinctive

Creole faith is sacramental and communal—baptisms, weddings, and funerals ring with music, food, lace, and laughter.
It is syncretic and resilient—saints and ancestors share space on home altars; second lines carry both joy and grief.
And it is rooted in care—from the quiet healing of traiteurs to the teaching sisters and community helpers who make faith a living service.

A Living Archive — Share Your Story

This story is still being written, and you are part of it.
Share your own Creole faith memories and family stories in the comments or on social media with #BellaCreoleFaith.
Maybe you remember your grandmother’s novena candles, your uncle playing drums on All Saints’ Day, or a healing prayer that was passed down.
Tell us about it—because when we speak our faith, we keep our heritage alive.

From Me to You ❤️

Thank you for walking this road with me. My hope is that these threads—Catholic, African, Native—help us see our people more clearly and love one another more deeply. May the stories you share here strengthen the roots that hold us together.

— Bella

Sources and Further Reading

• 64 Parishes: “Code Noir of Louisiana”
• Our Lady of Prompt Succor – Official History
• 64 Parishes: “Congo Square”
• Louisiana Folklife: “French Louisiana Traiteurs”
• 64 Parishes: “Henriette DeLille” and Sisters of the Holy Family
• St. Augustine (Isle Brevelle) – Parish History and Nicolas Metoyer Story
• St. Augustine (Tremé) – Tomb of the Unknown Slave
• Louisiana Voodoo (overview)
• Marie Laveau at St. Louis Cathedral – New Orleans Historical
• Père Antoine (Antonio de Sedella)
  

The post How Faith Has Shaped Louisiana Creole Culture appeared first on Bellacreolelife.