Like almost everyone whose parents, grandparents, or great grandparents came from a different country, Waldensians who now live outside the “Valleys” in the foothills of the Alps west of Turin dream about someday visiting their spiritual – and often ancestral – homeland in the north of Italy. The following report about a recent visit to Italy by Matt Matthews, a co-pastor of the Waldensian Presbyterian Church in Valdese, North Carolina, will appeal to these Waldensians as well as likely to others also.
When we landed in Philadelphia from our recent trip to Italy—after being scrutinized by customs agents, finding the needle in the haystack that is baggage claim, and undergoing scans and pat-downs by security—we dashed through the airport to catch our awaiting flight to Charlotte.
I felt ecstatic to be moving again after the cramped flight. We generated a glad sweat, wending our way on solid ground to our departure gate.
It was six a.m. in Italy when we arrived in Valdese, NC, at midnight. Pulling an all-nighter makes me feel like melting wax in a lava lamp. In the village of Torre Pellice, pictured above at dawn, our homebase for much of our visit, markets were just stirring to life. Locals walked their dogs on ancient, cobbled roads. The cafe below our lodge window would open any minute, patio filling with townsfolk. I could smell coffee, hear their murmured chuckles.
Sheep graze on the field wedged between the highway and the mountain at the easterly end of the village. When I collapsed into my warm bed, I imagined that shepherd climbing out of his pickup truck, traipsing through wet grass to tend his flock.
The Waldensian Heritage Museum in Valdese hosted our ten-day sojourn touring these valleys on the Italian side of the Alps. Spiritual progeny of the church reformer Valdo (‘Waldo’ in English), the Waldenses/Valdes sunk roots there, making their indelible mark on the faith. We 30 pilgrims toured monuments, museums, and churches, concluding our sojourn in Florence.
Upon my return, to use an English slang word, I juddered with exhaustion.
We wonder, in the dark of our brains, if we will survive the vacations we spend so much time planning. This is one reason arriving safely home spells such relief. We made it back. There’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed.
Another reason coming home brings such joy is that we can begin planning our next trip.
Looking ahead, Rachel and I have a family wedding near Boston in May. We have family for whom we pine—a son in D.C., a mother-in-law in Austin, Cousin Tom ensconced in New Mexico’s high desert.
Looking back, the road has been filled with highs and restful, wide places. We’ve brushed elbows with saints in St. Michaels on the Chesapeake Bay, St. Louis, St. Paul, and St. Joseph (MI and IL). Last winter, I stayed in the St. James Hotel in New York. Rachel once rode a rented bicycle across San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge. We’ve stumbled upon St. Matthews on a meandering drive to the beach.
In my travels, usually domestic, I get a kick out of stateside locales sporting foreign names. Paris and London are neighboring towns in rural Arkansas. Virginia is dotted with cities with European counterparts: Norfolk, Portsmouth, Montpelier, Vienna. I may never make it to Switzerland, but I once spent a week writing in the mountains at Little Switzerland, NC.
Elsewhere in North Carolina, signs point to Hot Springs, Boiling Springs, and Cold Springs. We smile encountering hamlets with names like Alligator and nearby Happy Valley.
When you travel, you not only see the wider world, you also see your hometown with fresh eyes. Home looks different from Elkview, Oceanview, Longview, and Mountain View. Absence has a way of making the heart grow fonder. We meet ourselves coming and going.
“The world is a book,” St. Augustine said, “and those who’ve never traveled have only read one page.” This has more to do with closed-mindedness than it does with our odometer or how many ports of entry we have stamped in our passport.
When we eat in somebody else’s ristorante, we see the world through their eyes. Appreciation for these neighbors can’t help but grow. Mark Twain’s words ring true in Blowing Rock, Flat Rock, Sliding Rock, or Round Rock: “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.”
Travel heals.
Though my sojourns are not as extensive as Mr. Twain’s, I can’t wait to hit the road again after this jetlag evaporates. Any journey—on the labyrinth at Grace Episcopal in Morganton or on Italy’s alta velocità—offers sacred insight, if we dare notice.
I’ve noticed this grace in places like Eden and Christ’s Rock, MD, Bethlehem, WV, Spirit Lake, ND, and Chapel Hill. Loving, Hope, Moose, Duck, and Banner Elk. Pilgrimage has taken me through Buck’s Snort, Toad Suck, Cuckoo, and Folly Beach. I’ve channeled people who preceded me, whole nations of them, treading lightly on hallowed ground in places like Peoria, Checota, Nassawadox, and Cherokee.
Emerson is right about the journey mattering more than the destination. Even if we stay home, unless we are emotionally comatose, we’re on a journey becoming our truest selves, stretching the boundaries of frontier without ever leaving our front stoop. This is especially true when we set sail.
One day, I hope I’ll return to Italy. I’ll revisit places like Florence’s Uffizi Museum relishing such paintings as Ugolino Di Nero’s 1310 wonder, Madonna col Bambino. Intricately textured halos frame mother and child in glowing gold. Locked in perfect union, they gaze into each other´s eyes. Jesus grasps Mary’s veil, the artist’s nod to the shroud that will soon cover Mary’s crucified son.
I’d appreciate another Italian lesson from the unrushed scooper at the gelateria in Torre Pellice: Cioccolato. Menta. Un cono. How do you say, “delicious”? I’d like to ask the shepherd if he named his adorable sheep, if he ate lamb. I’d enjoy people-watching on the piazza by the bookstore where Waldenses lingered, hatching plans to emigrate to a place over the ocean they could barely imagine.
Just whispering the name of their New World town would ring the bell of memory. Faces of left-behind kin and old customs engraved in Piedmontese valleys would spring to life. They’d recall Alpine sun lighting their passage from Pomaretto, Prali, and Angrogna, through the din of 800-years of hard history, resilient faith, burnished hope.
Freighted with 100 times the weight of modern jetlag, the first wave of Waldenses arrived in North Carolina in May 1893.
They named their village Valdese.
The author, Matt Matthews, and his wife, Rachel, were members of travel group organized by the Waldensian Heritage Museum in Valdese, North Carolina. Their next visit to the Italy is scheduled for 2026. Space is limited. Everyone is invited.
