It was raining in Assisi that day. Fog wrapped the valley, and heavy clouds pressed down on the town. Everything seemed to contradict the travel brochures. Even the Giottos and Lorenzettis couldn't help, and art lovers, bundled in thick coats, wandered here and there like people who'd been deceived.
Perhaps I was one of them—a strange figure lost on streets unusually empty of tourists. The smiling town of the guidebooks had given way to sadness and bitterness. This Assisi no longer recognized itself.
I had forgotten that Assisi is above all the city where St. Francis was born, where he lived, where he encountered Christ. Every wall, every street, every square heard the cries of Francis as a child, his laughter as a youth, his songs, his shouts.
Those same streets, those same columns later saw him sitting motionless, transfixed by the presence of God. They saw him appear with a face hollowed by fasting and mortification, the object of the crowd's jeers and his father's stern demands. They saw him finally preach the love of God, poverty, humility.
We too are called to this encounter. For this reason, without doubt, the most important step is to let ourselves be soaked in the atmosphere of these streets, these squares where Francis sang, smiled, prayed. We are invited to meet Francis. We will see him; we will hear him at every step. He waits for us.
Pierre Debergé, 1978