All Roads Lead to Rome.. man Catholic Churches

I met C in Assisi last year, right before Holy Week, during UNIV. I feel like she chose to be my roommate because there were no other rooms left.  

To be honest, I didn’t get the sense she was particularly thrilled about that.

She wasn’t rude. Not at all. Just… not warm. Not expressive. Not the kind of person who greets you with immediate warmth. I remember trying to talk to her, trying to read her, trying to figure out where I stood. And I couldn’t.

I’m used to people who are easy to read, who meet you halfway with a clear display of emotion.

She didn’t do that.

So I filled in the blanks myself.

“She doesn’t like me. We’re just going to coexist in this room.”

It wasn’t dramatic. There wasn’t a single defining moment. But I remember listening to her share about her conversion story, about her family, about the quiet ways the Lord had worked in her life. And somehow, in that space, something softened. Our friendship began to take root, gently, almost unnoticed.

A year later, I found myself planning a trip to London. I reached out to her, casually, just asking to meet up for a meal and maybe recommendations. Places to visit. Maybe an Opus Dei center I could drop by.

She responded by inviting me to stay with her.

I remember feeling very (pleasantly!) surprised.

But I said yes.

When I arrived, I was struck first by the place itself. So many rooms. So many lives being lived for God under one roof. I remember thinking, “the Lord is SO good.” He gathers people in ways I never would have imagined.

I was surprised by many small things to follow. Little things that made me realize C’s care for me. I am someone who loves loudly. I express affection easily, visibly. And somewhere along the way, I think I began to associate love with that kind of expression.

C didn’t suddenly become outwardly expressive. She didn’t turn into the kind of person I naturally understand.

Instead, she stayed exactly who she is.

And somehow, that’s what undid me.

She wrote “welcome” on a sign at my door in my native language.

I heard from her friends that she was so excited for me to visit, something that I can’t really imagine her saying directly to me.

She invited me to a Catholic young adult event that she was organizing, not out of obligation, but because she genuinely thought I would enjoy it.

One day, she knocked on my door to call me for lunch.

I had completely lost track of time, buried in work, disconnected from everything around me. And there she was, gently interrupting me.

It was such a small thing. So small. Yet, so good. 

And I don’t even think she knew how much it meant.

She loves in ways that don’t announce themselves.

There’s no performance. No intensity. No need to be recognized.

Just quiet, steady attention.

And I realized I’ve been measuring love by how much I can feel it immediately.

By how obvious it is.

By how closely it matches the way I express it.

And if it doesn’t look like that, I question it. Or worse, I miss it completely.

I thought she didn’t like me.

But the truth is, she was loving me the whole time.

I just didn’t know how to recognize it.

How many times have I done that to other people?

How many times have I decided someone was distant, or cold, or uninterested, when in reality they were loving me in a language I don’t naturally speak?

C didn’t just host me.

She revealed something in me.

How quick I am to assume.
How quick I am to judge.
How narrow my understanding of love can be.

And still, the Lord used her.

To feed me (physically, ha!), yes. I would have skipped meals if she hadn’t come knocking.

But more than that, to soften something in me.

To expand my heart.

To teach me that love doesn’t have to be loud to be real.

That sometimes, the quietest love is the most intentional.

And maybe even the most faithful.

Maybe it speaks in many languages.

Some loud.

Some quiet.

Thanks for reading. God bless!