The Road to Assisi

The Road to Assisi

Written by Theodora Filis

I was warned not to drive to Assisi. "Take the train," Father Max had said over the phone. "It’s quicker. More peaceful. Trust me, you’ll thank me." But I didn’t listen. Perhaps it was the call of independence, or maybe the romantic illusion of an Italian road trip weaving through the countryside, windows down, music on, cypress trees flashing by. 

I left Rome early, hoping to beat the traffic. I had barely cleared the city limits when the snarl of construction began—dozens of trucks, blinking signs, endless delays. What should have been three hours turned into seven and then some. By the time I rolled into Assisi, the sun was casting gold across the Umbrian hills. Frustration gave way to awe. Rolling vineyards, poppy-strewn fields, and meadows brushed with lavender surrounded the ancient hilltop town like a watercolor come to life. 

I was weary, sticky, and several hours late. Father Max greeted me at the stone entrance to the convent. A tall, gentle man with graying hair and a worn cross around his neck, he simply raised an eyebrow. "I told you not to drive," he said with a knowing smile. He led me through a cool corridor and into a modest guest room with a small window facing the garden. "You’ll find peace here," he said, and left me to rest. 

I had come to Assisi under the umbrella of the United Nations, through my work with the World Health Organization. My mission: to assist a group of nuns—Swedish by institution but Filipino by origin—in transforming their convent garden from conventional farming methods to organic practices. It was a small piece of a larger global initiative, but here, it felt personal. 

The nuns welcomed me with open arms, their kindness as generous as the Umbrian landscape. They were dressed simply, their eyes bright with curiosity and purpose. Despite our cultural and religious differences—they were Roman Catholic, and I am Greek Orthodox—we spoke the same language when it came to soil, seed, and the desire to nourish. 

Every morning, the bell would ring, echoing across the hills and waking the garden to soft light. I would join the sisters among rows of herbs and vegetables, kneeling beside them to test soil, plan beds, and offer guidance on composting, crop rotation, and natural pest deterrents. They showed me their traditional ways—infusions of garlic and vinegar, prayers whispered to basil seedlings—and I offered modern alternatives grounded in earth science and care. 

The work was humble but sacred. One afternoon, while we harvested parsley under the shade of an olive tree, Sister Lucia asked, "Is it true, in your country, people buy food that never spoils?" I nodded, and her eyes widened. "Then what is the point of the blessing if the food has no spirit left in it?"

That night, we shared a simple dinner harvested fresh from the garden—herbed soup, warm bread, eggs gathered from the chicken coop, and milk from the goats. The meal was humble but full of love, laughter, and gratitude. I watched as the lavender twilight wrapped the garden like a shawl. It was easy to believe that miracles lived here, in each leaf, in every smile. 

The Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi stood like a guardian above the town. I visited it alone one morning, strolling through its frescoed halls, overcome by the quiet reverence of the space. Light poured through stained glass and spilled across stone floors where saints once stood. Outside, pilgrims whispered prayers beside wildflowers. I found a bench and sat for a long time, the scent of lavender drifting up from the hills below. 

My time in Assisi passed in this rhythm: work and worship, seed and soul, silence and story. I learned that transformation happens not only in soil, but in spirit. The nuns thanked me for my knowledge, but it was I who left richer, filled with the wisdom of women who tended not only to gardens, but also to hearts. 

When I finally packed my car and headed back to Rome, I looked out over the hills of Umbria—lavender fields glowing in the early sun, olive trees swaying in the breeze—and I understood what Father Max had meant. I had come to Assisi to teach, but I left having been gently, completely changed.

And yes, next time—I’ll take the train.