Last Days in Assisi

Asher Kaufman, at 18, set out on June 28, 2025 for a yearlong trip to help spread the Children's Rosary in Europe and Africa. He spent the months of July, August and the first two weeks in September in France. He went on to visit Belgium, Uganda, Rwanda, Kenya, Tanzania, Madagascar, South Africa, Cameroon, The Democratic Republic of the Congo, Angola, Lesotho, Mozambique, Botswana, Namibia and Italy. This most recent post highlights his last days in Italy. Asher has a love of history which animates this post. 

This is to be last post from Italy before I set off to Germany, and in it I will detail the last few excursions and events that occurred before the conclusion of my classes in Assisi.

On the day after my return from Cascia, realizing that I still had yet to pay a visit to San Damiano, the church St. Francis had heard the call to rebuild, I pointed myself in that direction.

It was only about a twenty-minute walk away from where I was staying, below the town itself. I, in my ignorance, had assumed that the Church was only memorable because it served to inspire Francis in his mission, but I soon found out that it also functioned as the place where St. Clare and her sisters lived for much of her later life as well as the location where the famous Canticle of the Creatures was written.

The chapel of the Church where I spent some time in prayer is small but packs much Franciscan history into the little space. At the back is the little crevice in the wall where St. Francis would store the money that he had begged for on the street for the repair of the Church. Throughout the apse are images from the life of St. Francis, including when he was disowned by his father and when Jesus on the Crucifix spoke to him. In that very chapel, too, is where St. Clare and the sisters venerated St. Francis’s body after his death in 1226.

As one walks past the altar of the chapel, one passes through a doorway into the compound and finds oneself inside the oratory. It was in here that the sisters would pray together, and the reconstruction faithfully shows the wooden benches and stalls. It was truly a humble existence.

Further on lies her dormitory where St. Clare slept on a straw mat and where she died in 1253. St. Clare was blessed to have received the Papal approbation for her Rule merely two weeks before she died.

St. Clare serves as a powerful inspiration regarding her willingness to give up the riches of the world every bit as much as St. Francis. She left her father’s house while she was still a teen to seek St. Francis’s help in establishing a community of sisters to follow a rule similar to what he was building with the men. It was likely much harder for a young woman of her age, vehemently opposed by her family, to go out into the ecclesial world by herself and attempt to found an order. One can imagine that were she to fail or become discredited, a future in marriage or entering an already established convent would be effectively closed off to her. She would become an outcast in society, and it was this very risk that she was running in addition to the comfortable lifestyle and honors. What a holy woman.

I wish to speak a bit also about the Canticle of the Creatures because this text is quite significant for the development of Italian literature. One must remember that in the thirteenth century, almost all texts in western Europe would have been written in Latin and that Italian as a standardized language did not exist. It would be Dante who, writing as a Florentine his stunning Divina Commedia, would set the standard as Florentine Italian. However, during St. Francis’s life, the Commedia was almost a hundred years in the future, and Dante was not born yet. Therefore, it is this short poem that is the first to be written in the locally spoken Italian. Since it is so short, I wish to copy it here below as it is a beautiful and profound reflection on man’s relationship with the natural world around him, created by God and giving glory to Him.

Altissimu, onnipotente, bon Signore, tue so’ le laude, la gloria e l’honore et onne benedictione.

Ad te solo, Altissimo, se konfano, et nullu homo ène dignu te mentovare.

Laudato sie, mi’ Signore, cum tucte le tue creature, spetialmente messor lo frate sole, lo qual’è iorno, et allumini noi per lui. Et ellu è bellu e radiante cum grande splendore: de te, Altissimo, porta significatione.

Laudato si’, mi’ Signore, per sora luna e le stelle: in celu l’ài formate clarite et pretiose et belle.

Laudato si’, mi’ Signore, per frate vento et per aere et nubilo et sereno et onne tempo, per lo quale a le tue creature dài sustentamento.

Laudato si’, mi’ Signore, per sor’aqua, la quale è multo utile et humile et pretiosa et casta.

Laudato si’, mi’ Signore, per frate focu, per lo quale ennallumini la nocte: ed ello è bello et iocundo et robustoso et forte.

Laudato si’, mi’ Signore, per sora nostra matre terra, la quale ne sustenta et governa, et produce diversi fructi con coloriti flori et herba.

Laudato si’, mi’ Signore, per quelli ke perdonano per lo tuo amore et sostengo infirmitate et tribulatione.

Beati quelli ke ’l sosterrano in pace, ka da te, Altissimo, sirano incoronati.

Laudato si’, mi’ Signore, per sora nostra morte corporale, da la quale nullu homo vivente pò skappare: guai a·cquelli ke morrano ne le peccata mortali; beati quelli ke trovarà ne le tue sanctissime voluntati, ka la morte secunda no ’l farrà male.

Laudate e benedicete mi’ Signore et rengratiate e serviateli cum grande humilitate.

As you might observe, the Italian is of course not the same as modern Italian, but it is nevertheless quite comprehensible. What strikes me perhaps the most is the understanding of creation as inherently pointing back to its Creator and the profound gratitude that pervades it. It reminds me of the verse that says one must be “as a little child” to enter the kingdom of Heaven. And indeed, it is most often children who are thoughtful and observant enough to say at prayer, “Thank you God for my father” or “Thank you for the stars” or “Thank you for the trees.” As we grow older, we begin to take these things for granted as though they exist because of some necessity. But they do not; they are a loving God’s gift to his children, and we would do well to follow Francis’s example and give thanks.

The first eight strophes were the original ones, and thus initially, the poem ended with the thanks for Mother Earth. However, at a later period when he was attempting to settle a dispute between the mayor and the bishop of the local city. He felt deeply grieved that the two could not make it up with one another but continually bickered over their differences. Therefore, he sent a brother to sing the second-to-last bit about repentance. The very last strophe comes from when Francis was about to die, and that was when he added the verse on Sister Death.

The whole poem has a beautiful unity to it, and I am reminded of the words of T.S. Eliot regarding poetry, “Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.” I find that St. Francis’s poem, far from delving into any particular emotion of his, soars far above him and encompasses the very essence of nature itself, that is its divine reflection of the Almighty.

Another point that sticks in my mind from the last few days was a meeting I had with Msgr. Anthony Figueiredo of the Diocese of Assisi. We had originally met Msgr. Figueiredo back in 2025 by video call, and he had told me about the language academy in Assisi and the Casa Papa Giovanni where I was staying. He was originally ordained in the NeoCatechumenal Way but now is incardinated into the Diocese of Assisi. He is a very kind and gentle man and was very good to help me with my stay in Assisi.

Fr. Figueiredo introduced to me to a British friend of his named Gwen. Both of them are very involved in promoting devotion to Saint Carlo Acutis; in fact, they would be traveling to Australia and New Zealand to bring his relics to parish communities and the youth in that part of the world.

Gwen had moved to Assisi about eight years ago and had for the month of May begun a daily Rosary in English at the Church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva which I have spoken about in an earlier post.

Because she was traveling to Ireland with Fr. Figueiredo for a few days, she asked me to help fill in to lead the Rosary, which I happily did. I was very honored that she had asked me to do this.

My classes finished on Friday, and soon it was time to move on again. It had been a lovely time in Assisi, and I was thankful for all that God had given to me there.

I wish to close with some words from St. Francis which are inscribed on one of the arches leading into Assisi, words which he uttered in a prayer just before his death while facing the city from a valley not far away. I believe these words convey what is so very special about Assisi. He said:

“May the Lord bless you

Holy City faithful to God

Because through you

Many souls shall be saved

And in you many servants

Of the Most High will dwell

And from you many

Shall be chosen

For the Eternal Kingdom.”

To see all of Asher's dispatches from his journey, click HERE

Visit to Pisa

Asher Kaufman, at 18, set out on June 28, 2025 for a yearlong trip to help spread the Children's Rosary in Europe and Africa. He spent the months of July, August and the first two weeks in September in France. He went on to visit Belgium, Uganda, Rwanda, Kenya, Tanzania, Madagascar, South Africa, Cameroon, The Democratic Republic of the Congo, Angola, Lesotho, Mozambique, Botswana, Namibia and Italy. This most recent post highlights his arrival in Germany. Asher has a love of history which animates this post. Today is also the 1 year anniversary of the day he set out on this trip.

On the Sunday that followed my Florentine adventure, having sated my desire for excursions, I stayed in and contemplated the rainy weather from my room. I was, moreover, becoming quite sick and could do with a bit of rest. I stayed in bed and listened to an audiobook.

By Tuesday I was feeling a little better and was badly in need of a haircut, having received my last such trimming in the Congo. Indeed, it was less of a trimming and more of a mowing since I had received the typical African buzz once finds on the continent. This had enabled me to continue on for a couple of months without another haircut.

One of my Italian teachers recommended a barber down in Santa Maria degli Angeli, the commune just below Assisi, and considering that I had not had much opportunity to see that area, I decided to go there. After the cut, I realized I had just enough time to attend Mass at the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli and make it back to the Casa Papa Giovanni in time for dinner. This basilica is a very important one, and so I reflected that this was as good a time as any to see it.

In fact, the Basilica is a later addition, having been built in a Mannerist style which became popular in Italy as a kind of interim between the Renaissance and Baroque periods. It is a grand structure that completely encloses the Porziuncola, a small ninth-century chapel that was in pitifully bad condition at the time when Francis first heard the call to “rebuild [His] Church.” In addition to San Damiano, he worked to rebuild the Porziuncola, and the little chapel always remained dear to him throughout his life. This was so much the case that in 1216, he obtained in a vision with Our Lord the grace of complete remission of sins and temporal punishment for anyone who visits the Porziuncola with sincere repentance. Pope Honorarius III ratified this, and in the years after St. Francis’s death, the little chapel became so inadequate to house the throngs of pilgrims who came to make good on that grace that the large basilica was built.

St. Francis also came here to die at the end of his life, a fitting emblem of his characteristic simplicity and poverty.

I am embarrassed to say that I was quite ignorant of all of this history, thinking only that it was a remarkably large church that I had stumbled upon and that it had an evening Mass. I saw the Porziuncola inside but did not go in, I think because there were so many people there. It was only later that I realized its great significance, and the next time I went back, I went in.

For the rest of that week, the classes continued as normal. We had a tour on Wednesday that included San Rufino, the site where St. Francis was baptized.

That next weekend was, much as the last one, unplanned up until the last second. After some uncertainty, it became clear that it would make the most sense for me to go to Pisa, not just to see the Leaning Tower but also to see a nun, Sr. Ajayi, with whom we had been in contact with a few years back who was from Pisa.

After my morning classes ended on Friday, I quickly booked a train ticket as well as a last minute hotel room and was on my way. It turned out that I was on the exact same train with a lovely Ecuadorian couple that I had gotten to know over the last couple of days. They were originally from Ecuador but moved to Spain a few years ago since they had retired.

Upon reaching Pisa, on my way to my hotel, I walked past the famous leaning tower and the quite beautiful Pisa Cathedral. The hotel was quite close to the tower and was a charming little place with its wood-paneled walls and carpeted steps. The next morning, I met Sr. Ajayi who kindly took me to her residence, and we discussed how she might go about instituting the Children’s Rosary in her local, which she and her fellow sisters run. I gave her many Italian books and flyers that Stefan Borneis from Germany so kindly sent me. She is a really quite winsome person, and I was glad I had decided to go to Pisa for the weekend.

However, the weekend was not yet completed, and the next day, Sunday, having a free afternoon on my hands, I decided to take a stroll up to Eremi delle Carceri, a very high site elevated over Assisi. It was where St. Francis would go to meditate in some caves with his fellow brothers. The hike up there was certainly no walk in the park as it was about an hour and a half of pure climbing, but once I arrived, I found a lovely complex with hiking trails, a chapel, and the small structures in which St. Francis slept and said his hours with his brothers.

I was particularly struck by St. Francis’s bed which was in actual fact simply a rock, smoothed down by the many years of his body lying on it. It was really a powerful witness to me that this man would sleep for weeks on end on this slab of rock with minimal covering in the nighttime cold on the top of the mountain that I can imagine was brutal. As I side note, I think when one learns enough about St. Francis, it becomes clear that he was a man who cared almost impossibly little about his own comfort. Even the basic pleasures that I think every human looks forward to—a full meal, a cozy bed, warm clothes in winter, an elegant set of clothes—all of these he systematically denied himself for decades. It was a place that would definitely have been worth a second visit even just because of the extensive network of trails that were marked for hiking on. Though I must say, these paths were unexpectedly challenging; I remember coming upon one patch alongside a long slope that was quite muddy and pockmarked with long marks from others having lost their grip in the same spot. I am happy to report the same did not happen to me.

Instead, I managed to pick my way gingerly through the rough trails and visit each of the little caves where Francis and his brothers had prayed. I have included a picture of the cave just below where I poked my head in. People had left little objects of devotion behind, but no one would dare spend much time in there, I think. I myself hardly wished to crawl into the small, dank space. It is remarkable how the brothers would do so for hours on end for days at a stretch.

That evening, I walked back home by the scenic route and was back in time for dinner at the Casa Papa Giovanni.
To see all of Asher's dispatches from his journey click HERE

Arrival in Assisi

Asher Kaufman, at 18, set out on June 28 for a yearlong trip to help spread the Children's Rosary in Europe and Africa. He spent the months of July, August and the first two weeks in September in France. He arrived in Uganda on September 15. From Uganda he traveled by car to Rwanda on September 28. After a week in Rwanda there was once more a return for more travel in Uganda. On October 11 he arrived in Tanzania and on October 26 traveled to Kenya. A visit for three weeks to Madagascar followed on November 7 and then South Africa. He spent several weeks in Cameroon and then the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). Angola, South Africa and Mozambique followed. There was a relatively short journey through Botswana, Namibia and Lesotho. This dispatch chronicles his departure from South Africa a short visit to Paris and arrival in Assisi, Italy. 

As I sat at Johannesburg O.R. Tambo airport and awaited the start of the boarding process at the gate, I reflected on my time in Africa which had lasted for nearly six months. I had been to eastern, central, and southern Africa. I had spent more time in this continent than I have in any other excepting my own. It had been a beautiful and adventurous experience, one I was profoundly grateful for. I had spent time in small villages and cities; in mountains and plains; in deserts and forests; in parishes and schools.

When I first embarked on this African trip from Paris back in September, I did not even know the full scope of the countries that I would be visiting. That is to say, many of the countries simply were added along the way. For instance, I did not know I would be going to Mozambique until a few weeks before I arrived there. Obtaining visas and figuring out transport had not always been easy, but with my guardian angel’s help, I managed. Going to many countries in Africa gives you an experience that is a bit difficult to understand until once you are actually there yourself. Many things one hears about from afar: the safaris, the villages, the colorful clothing and intricate dancing. Many other things serve as ready deterrents for anyone actually planning a trip: the malaria, the inadequate road infrastructure, the lack of public transit (in some places), the poverty, the wildlife, healthcare services. And as you might expect, the true experience lies somewhere in the middle. It is true that the pace of life, the diet, the ways of getting around are all things that require getting used to. However, it is also the case that none of these will impede anyone’s having a memorable and very authentic experience. Meeting real people, staying with them, eating at their table, visiting their churches and communities were all some of my favorite parts, and of course none of those involve simply following a guidebook and staying at a hotel. In fact, I only spent a half of one day on safari during those six months (it was at Queen Elizabeth Park in Uganda). When Fr. Cleophus in Kenya remarked on how it was such a pity that we would not be visiting the Tsavo Park on this visit of mine, I remarked that I had come to see children, not animals.

“Good evening, ladies and gentleman. We will now begin the boarding process,” came the voice over the loudspeaker. We queued up, boarded, were seated, took off, and watched as Africa slid away into the impenetrable darkness below.

About eleven and a half hours later, the plane coasted to a smooth landing at Charles de Gaulle International Airport in Paris. I deplaned, went through passport control (which has now become completely automated for visa-free passports) and collected my bags. In the process of trying to find the proper exit for the rideshare rides, I ran into more than one person who ended up asking me for directions on where to go. The Paris airport is actually one where one needs to be careful because it is easier than one may think to get baited by some seemingly helpful gentleman into being taken to a less-frequented area of the airport where you are offered a ride for wildly above the government-fixed taxi fare to downtown. There is a well-organized gang that operates this racket. They have baiters to ask people if they need a taxi and then pretend to take them to one, drivers who pose as the taxi drivers, and lookouts who keep their eyes peeled for airport police or security agents so that the men can scatter at the first sign of trouble. They depend on your being disoriented from a long flight, not knowing the local language (i.e., just speaking English), and failing to notice the signage around you. The first time I was in the Paris with my mother at the airport I was led by one of these baiters down onto a different floor entirely to a parking lot completely devoid of people where he left me with a driver who told us the ride would cost €150. In fact, the government fixes the price of taxis at €56 or €65 from CDG to downtown, depending on which side of the river you are going to. A Parisian taxi driver I talked to described the men I spoke of above as the “mafia” and said they could even become dangerous. One way to know the difference between a legitimate taxi and a fake one, the taxi driver told me, is that a real taxi driver will never approach you and ask you if you want a ride.

“It’s bad taste,” he said. Anywhere else, I would have dismissed that as violating the capitalist principle of going after the profit, but in a place like France with its book length set of society manners, I can believe it.

Not wanting to fall in with any of these men, however, I booked an Uber from my phone. Nevertheless, I still managed to end up on the wrong floor (through my own fault, though). Thankfully, the Uber driver was kind enough to wait the three minutes needed for me to charge down the stairs to the correct floor.

Soon I was on my way. The driver and I made some small talk along the way; he was not originally an Uber driver, having only done the job for four months. His real job, he told me, was working for a company that produced plane meals. Skychefs or GateGourmet, I don’t remember which.

When we pulled up in front of the parish, I called Fr. Duloisy.

“Hello, Asher,” he said.

“Hello, Father,” I replied in French. “I’ve just arrived.”

“Why, then, Asher, just come in. You know the code,” he responded as though I had only just returned from a quick walk to the bakery for some croissants and coffee.

It was true. I did know the code and somehow had not forgotten it in all the months that had passed since my last visit. As I came down the steps into the presbytery (yes, it is down the steps and not up; it’s a strange 1960s construction), I really did feel almost as though no time had gone by since my days at the Foyer Jean Bosco when I would commute down to the parish to serve Masses on the weekends. The same group of tourists languidly awaiting in disorderly fashion in front of the church the arrival of their tour guide. The same traffic noisily traversing the traffic circle in front of the house. The same crisp early morning air that I grew to love about Paris. I breathed a deep breath of satisfaction. I was, if not exactly home, at least on familiar ground.

Fr. Duloisy brought me back to reality.

“Will you serve the Mass?” he asked.

I looked at my watch. The 9:00 a.m. Mass was in about twenty minutes. I had not showered or changed, but at least I was wearing a collared shirt and slacks. At Mass, I saw the old Saturday morning regulars I had known, still strong in their daily Mass attendance.

Afterward, after doing some bush trimming (Fr. Duloisy never shies away from the necessary tasks for the parish), he showed me around some of the newer improvements he had brought about in the parish, including redoing the flooring on the altar in the lower sanctuary, which eliminated the tripping hazards that had almost caused me to fall forward headlong with the tall, silver processional Cross on one Sunday when I served Mass during my last stay. I reminded Fr. Duloisy of this event, which he himself had not forgotten.

That evening, there was the Saturday night Mass. Just before this Mass, I saw Alain, a good friend of Fr. Duloisy’s and also a friend of mine that I had gotten to know well during my last visit. He is a renowned singer who has performed all over the world for a French cultural institute.

The three of us went out to visit a parishioner who had invited us over to see his house in the Bois de Boulogne, a very exclusive and wealthy enclave just west of Paris. This parishioner had an out-of-the-way, unassuming house on a small side street dinner at a quiet restaurant in the seventeenth arrondissement not far from the church. The seventeenth is not much of a tourist area, despite its proximity to the Arc de Triomphe, but it is one of my favorite areas of Paris due to its elegant Haussmanian architecture, charming restaurants, and intimate neighborhood feel. Unlike Montmartre, which is busting at the seams with foreign tourists, the seventeenth is a real Parisian neighborhood, and you can feel it.

The parishioner we went to visit was an artist and had a formidable collection of art that only he knows how he managed to obtain. It included works from his grandfather, small statues from more than one famous sculptor, and paintings that were from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. In the center of the house (which was itself of a wonderfully charming nineteenth century style) was a small courtyard with potted plants that was completely shielded from the street. Really a delightful house.

For dinner, Fr. Duloisy, Alain, and I went to a local restaurant where we had our reunion dinner. It was wonderfully spent, even though Alain had the misfortune to have some meat juice spilled on his evening jacket by a waitress.

The next morning, after an early breakfast, I set off for Assisi where my Italian classes were set to begin the following day. Alain was kind enough to drive me to the airport.

Upon arriving, I was quite literally shocked by the stringent weight and size control measures Air France (of all airlines!) had put in place to make sure no one was bringing anything remotely overweight or oversized on the plane. All of my carry-on luggage had to be under 12 kg, I found out (after I had already sent my very underweight checked bags through). Every passenger had to put his bags on a scale and fit them in a box to make sure they were the right size. After seeing my bag ring up at over 14 kg, I was sent back to the check-in desk where I was told I needed to have the bag checked for 80 euros. Beginning to feel like I was being robbed in broad daylight with my eyes wide open, I decided to see do what I could to avoid this hefty fee. After combing through the bag for anything I could possibly jettison and cramming everything I could in the various pockets of my cargo pants, I was helped by the very nice employees who let me through with a bag that still was most of the way to 13 kg. After passing through the security line, I proceeded to put everything in my pockets back in my bag.

Otherwise, my travel went smoothly. The flight was on time and proceeded without a hitch. At the Florence airport, I was able to easily board the tram that went directly to the Santa Maria Novella train station where I boarded a train bound for Foligno with a stop at Assisi.

That evening, I arrived at the Casa Papa Giovanni, the guesthouse where I am staying for the entire month of May while I take Italian courses here. It was a relief to arrive at this comfortable, centrally located, welcoming place after a couple of long days of travel. I met a very nice young Australian man at dinner, and after dinner he invited me to take a walk with him through the town, where preparations for a medieval festival called the Calendimaggio were in the fever pitch of preparation. I’ll explain more about the Calendimaggio later.

After getting a very good night of sleep, the next morning, it was time for my first Italian lesson. I was actually quite excited to begin formally learning a language I had long admired from a distance, so to speak. The instruction, even for us beginners, was from the first moments, completely in Italian. The teachers made it known that they would not be willing to use English at all in their classes, even if just for translation purposes (e.g. “What’s ‘cup’ in Italian?”). Instead they we were obliged to stumble about with these strange new words, often resorting to a kind of clumsy sign language, or some badly disguised Spanish. But within a couple of days the wisdom of their approach began to show itself.
Without recourse to an English crutch, our minds began to latch on to some Italian phrases, especially those needed for inquiring after more. We had to rely on our rapidly increasing Italian vocabulary to make our way through the lessons, and the whole experience felt rather like a stranded sailor who, after much flailing and useless kicking, finally begins to grasp about the edges of the rocks and then, slowly but surely, hauls himself up onto dry land.

Learning a language is really not a very linear process, and there are often days that feel very good and others (like when one is sick) when the last thing you want to do is fight your way through the unbroken snowdrift of an unfamiliar language with its foreign pronunciation. Some words or concepts only require one lesson and stick immediately while others require many reiterations and mistakes before they begin to stick, but in the end, seeing yourself go from a clueless babe to a conversant participant in a language is such a beautiful experience, it is hard to compare it to any other. One realizes that one has not only unlocked random workbook sentences and phrases but a whole world of places and books. It is enchanting, really, and often you will find yourself wanting to read a book in this foreign language, no matter its subject, for no other reason than the sheer enjoyment of reading and understanding thoughts and sentences in words and syntax other than your own. I have often felt that it is rather like what one would feel like if one were to open a trap door and enter another world, full of its own places and people, all different from our own.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Of course, as I said, before the euphoria comes many days and weeks and often months and years of arduous toil in the desert of workbook sentences and phrases, verb conjugations, vocabulary memorization, and all the other banal tasks involved with taking on a new language.

This indeed was the work to which I was now consigned to spend a month engaged. There were only three of us starting the course on the same day, and we were all beginners. One of my classmates is a Tanzanian nun named Sr. Agnes, and the other is an Irish scholar named Catherine.

Having been signed up for the super intensive course, I had afternoon one-on-one lessons in addition to the morning classes with the others. One day a week I was given with no afternoon lesson so that I might have some free time to walk about and explore.

One of the great benefits of taking classes while being here is that the entire surroundings serve as a classroom. When one steps foot into town, reads a history plaque, orders food in a restaurant, attends a Mass, converses with strangers, reads a book in the guesthouse library, it is constant immersion in Italian.

Being in Assisi is also a wonderful place for exposure on history and beautiful architecture, so I have found it to be a very pleasing place to be for a month while one is learning Italian. My different discoveries around town and in the region will be the subject of my next dispatch.

To see all of Asher's dispatches from his journey click HERE

First Children's Rosary in Italy to Meet on the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe!

 

We have exciting news to share. The first Children's Rosary in Italy will hold their first meeting on December 12th: the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. This is a Spanish speaking Children's Rosary in Milan, Italy. The group is in the Parish of the Visitation of the Virgin Mary (Parrochia of Visitazione di Maria Vergine) in the City of Pero Milan which is part of the John Paul II Pastoral Community. The group leader explained that her parish is linked with the parish San Filippo e Giacomo and take the name of Comunità Giovanni Paolo II Pastorale (Pastoral Community translated John Paul II). 

There will also be a new Children's Rosary group meeting for the first time in Canada on the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. The new group is located in the Parish of St John the Evangelist in the town of Morden located in the Province of Manitoba in Canada. They will hold their first meeting at 6:30 PM local time during Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. They plan to meet monthly on the second Tuesday of every month.

We welcome the new Children's Rosary groups and ask for the special blessing of Our Lady of Guadalupe on all the members of the Children's Rosary.

Other Posts You May Enjoy:

Little Hands Rescue Jesus and Mary

Building a World of Peace and Love
EWTN Interview in Spanish about Rosario de Niños

Don't forget to unify prayers with the children during their meetings. A schedule of meetings is present on our website. By clicking "Join in Prayer" you can add your gold flashing light to our View from Heaven map.

For more information about the Children's Rosary visit our website: www.childrensrosary.org
Visite nuestro sitio web en español para obtener más información: www.rosariodeninos.org