Gypsies, Hurricanes, and the Pain of Loss: Confronting Chaos in Rome (Part 2)

We are at breakfast on our third day in Rome. We just saw the famous fountain and took our pictures.

I'm starting to stack up my blessings and count them as I spend my days shopping, walking around Rome seeing the monuments, and eating lasagna while my family scrambles, watching the weather report every 30 minutes, trying to find gas, secure the gallery, and put sandbags around the perimeter to stave off flooding.

I have a few of my own challenges to work through—like the hotel not accepting my cards because the names don’t match my passport, and Johanna waiting all day to get her passport from the embassy because there are over 100 people who are also robbed by gypsies. I’m working with the airlines to find alternative flights because the airports are closed in Florida.

Although I’m grateful I’m not in Florida dealing with the hurricane prep, I still mourn the loss of my things and have yet to find any clothes that feel like me in this foreign city. The style here is very modern, minimal, and mostly winter wear. I'm more colorful, with patterns, embellishments, and spring/summer attire. So I settle on some very basic clothes from H&M just to get by.

The couple sitting next to us are American, and their breakfast panini loaded with avocado looks better than what I ordered. “Where are you from?” I ask.

“Houston. What about you?” she answers.

“We are both from Sarasota, Florida.” I wait for it.

“Oh no! There’s a hurricane coming,” she says.

“Yeah, we were robbed by gypsies, and her passport was stolen, so now we’ve missed our flights and are sort of stuck here until they can reroute us, but our family made it back home and is securing things,” I explain.

“Will they evacuate? They say it will be the worst hurricane in 100 years,” she warns.

“They want to evacuate, but they are late to the party and can’t find gas. They say it’s kind of a ghost town there.”

“I have a ladies’ group back in Houston, and we are prayer warriors. We will all pray for you and get this hurricane to die down,” she tells me with confidence.

“Wow! Yes! Thank you, I appreciate that. We need it.”

We pay our bill, say goodbye, and start walking to a new shopping district. I feel determined to find some clothing treasures from Rome to start my new collection. I'm on the hunt for a unique coat, some colorful artsy clothes, and, of course, shoes.

We are following Maps to Desigual, a Spanish fashion label where I have found good stuff in the past. It’s a long walk, but we get there, and I am not disappointed. I find several shirts, jeans, and dresses, all brandishing the colors and patterns I like.

Johanna is ready to rest, and I want to drop off my loot, so we start walking back to the hotel. We have to reroute a multitude of times because the streets are blocked by secret service and police for someone important. We have no idea what is happening, but it all feels ominous in light of the world’s strongest hurricane barreling towards our homes. I’m trying not to feel so negative and sink into apocalyptic vibes, but that temptation is always present.

We get to the hotel, and it starts to rain. I sit on the bed and feel determined not to wallow in the hotel watching the news. Johanna doesn’t want to go out again, so I have to face my fears and brave the streets alone. I strap my phone to my body and leave the hotel with a mission.

Emboldened with a start to a new collection of treasures, I look on Maps for Gallo watercolor and see they have a distributor in Rome. It’s less than a mile away!

I stop at a nearby shop and buy an umbrella/weapon and set my feet to go. I walk alone through the wet, rainy streets of Rome, feeling empowered. I imagined this moment at the hotel before John left, and it felt terrifying, like gypsies would be lurking around every corner, ready to pounce. I imagined being lost, running through dark streets haunted by the ghosts of Nero. Instead, the warm rain casts a romantic old-world moodiness that transports me into an ancient world. I walk like a gladiator, ready to face the lions of my fears.

Finding Comfort in Creativity

I feel at home inside the art supply store and stay for over an hour choosing new pens, pencils, a watercolor block, brushes, and—yes—the Gallo watercolors. I buy a new set for both me and John because his was stolen as well. All feels right with my soul, with a bag full of art supplies and the ability to create again. I want to buy a journal and fountain pen to replace the ones I lost. I map out stationery stores and bookstores all throughout the city on my phone. I walk all afternoon, visiting bookstores and seeing a ton of the city. I realize I rarely do things by myself and this memory will be mine alone.

I go back to the hotel and find Johanna rested and ready to go out for dinner. We decide our last dinner in Italy will be pizza and beer. We stay close to the hotel because our rescheduled flight is set for 8 a.m. the next morning. Johanna and I compare notes on what we found online about the hurricane. Some reports show that it is starting to turn south from Tampa, which means it could directly hit Sarasota or possibly further south. It is now a Category 5 hurricane and is reported to be one of the most powerful ever recorded. We both try our best not to panic, and we know that other than prayer, we are powerless to do anything.

That night, I buy a ticket from Philadelphia to Phoenix to go help Dafni with her move to Florida, since all the airports in Tampa and Sarasota are closed.

Our flight from Rome to London is smooth. I sit in my seat and start to draw some things I plan on painting in watercolor later. Once I start drawing, I have an incredible urge to draw Florida and the hurricane in my journal. I hear God say, “Before something happens on the earth, it must first be spoken, sung, written, or painted.” I start to draw the state of Florida and then the hurricane, and I draw it hitting the Everglades. I pray that the hurricane will be driven into the mouth of Leviathan. I imagine it hitting alligators and turning weak. It feels like such an odd thing and such a weird experience.

 Art and Prayer

At the next gate in London, while we wait to board our flight to Philadelphia, I call Dimitra to see how she is doing. The hurricane is due to hit in the next 12 hours. It hasn’t weakened or turned as far south as we hoped. It is still barreling full force toward Sarasota.

“I had a weird experience on the plane, where I felt compelled to draw the hurricane going straight for the alligators in the Everglades. I was praying that it would go straight into the mouth of Leviathan,” I tell Dimitra. I tell her I felt God told me to draw it.

“What?! That’s crazy! I just read Valerie Vogel’s post online where she said SHE felt compelled to draw the hurricane and she sent it straight to hell! She made this drawing of it all and posted it online! I think I even saw alligators in the water!” Dimitra is amazed.

“Whoa! That is so cool. I thought I was going a little nuts. I’m going to look it up and see what she drew,” I say.

After I hang up, the man sitting next to me asks if I am a “weather intercessor.”

“A what? I don’t think so. I just felt like God told me to draw the hurricane and send it to the mouth of Leviathan, and then my daughter just told me that she saw another artist we know online do the same thing!”

Right then, the man starts praying out loud with me, all about the hurricane, and commanding it back out to sea. He prays that the wall will crumble and it will be made weak and powerless.

I feel so loved and cared for by God and his loving people—first, the couple from Houston praying for us, and now this man in London. I have received hundreds of messages from people all over the world telling me they are praying and thinking of us.

I speak with John, and he and Dino are trying to evacuate once they secure the gallery and our home. They can’t leave because they used up all their gas moving the art, and the gas is gone. Everyone has already evacuated, and John says Sarasota is empty. He was supposed to fly out to Phoenix and help Dafni drive the U-Haul to Florida. Now the airports are closed, and he is stuck.

I sit on the plane thinking about my family and my animals and really hope our prayers will be answered. A delay is announced, and we wait. My family is stuck in Sarasota awaiting the hurricane, and I’m stuck on a plane watching the minutes tick by. The delay turns into hours, and we are still on the plane, not moving. I calculate that I will now miss my flight to Phoenix and have to cancel it. After five hours on the plane, they finally announce that our flight is canceled and we will have to deplane. A rep is waiting for us outside with our hotel and meal vouchers. They say there is something wrong with the wing of the plane.

I’m thankful they didn’t try to fly us with a broken wing, but we are exhausted and disappointed to still be stuck in London. It takes a couple of hours to get our luggage, and we follow the herd to the shuttle, then sit with our fellow stranded passengers in the hotel lobby while rooms are assigned. I tell Johanna, “I hate stuff like this where you don’t matter to anyone and you don’t have any choice. You just have to follow the crowd and do what you’re told. It makes me feel trapped and controlled. I hate it.”

It is 8 p.m. when we finally get to our room, and we are starving. Back down in the lobby with our meal voucher, we are herded into a special room away from the normal restaurant, where they offer a buffet for all of the stranded comped travelers. I say, “No way! I don’t think we are going to like this ‘Golden Corral’ buffet. I bet they will feed us dry, bland meat and mushy peas. I’m not doing it.” Johanna sits at a table while I survey the gross-looking buffet of canned beets, dry-looking chicken, mushy veggies, and carrot cake. It’s like the contents of a TV dinner served in tin trays.

I walk over to the restaurant and look at the menu. Burgers, chicken sandwiches, French fries, fish and chips, chicken wings, and a whole menu of normal bar food. This seems much better for our hungry souls. I go back to get Johanna, and as we walk back to the restaurant, several hotel staff stop us to tell us, “Ma’am, this is where you eat in this dining room. This buffet is for British air travelers. You can’t go to the restaurant.”

“I can’t go to the restaurant? You are forcing me to eat the free food!? I don’t want to eat the free food. I want to pay for my food and eat at the restaurant,” I protest.

“Ma’am, you will have to pay there!” they warn angrily. They really want me to eat the gross free buffet food.

We leave their clutches and walk briskly past the entrance of the free food dining room and over to the restaurant. A very nice man meets us with menus and shows us to a table. Finally, freedom. Finally, we have a little of our power back. I order a giant fried chicken sandwich burger with onion rings, jalapeños, and a big British beer. We eat our dinner happily while we take turns fighting with British Airways to get a new flight out the next day. It takes almost an hour, but we eventually win ourselves some flights, now into Washington, D.C.

I change my flight to Phoenix to now leave from Washington, D.C., and check the storm. The hurricane will hit just as we wake up the next morning. It is now a category 4, and the eye is heading straight for Sarasota. I wonder if I can sleep. I continue to pray with nearly every breath.

 The Weight of Waiting

I wake up before my alarm and grab my phone. I pore through all of the news and see that the hurricane has made landfall on beautiful Siesta Key and is over Sarasota at that moment. John writes to me that he found gas at the last moment, and he and Dino left that afternoon to drive north to Destin before heading to Phoenix. Dimitra, Jake, and Zion went to a friend’s house in Tampa who has storm shutters and a whole-house generator.

I have a video on my phone of Dimitra telling us they are safe and not to worry. It’s 10 p.m. in Florida, and I hope John made it out. Johanna and I have to get ready, shuttle back to the airport, go through security yet again, and find our gate. We sit in the lounge for a couple of hours waiting, trying to find news about the hurricane. Several travelers around us are searching for news as well. I just keep seeing the same news cycle of the crying meteorologist who broke down on television.

Everywhere in London, the news covers the hurricane 24/7 but instead of reporting if there is damage, just loops footage of fear and impending doom. No one seems to have answers. We board our flight still not knowing what happened. As soon as we board, it’s announced that the Wi-Fi isn’t working, and this flight will not have any. My heart sinks, realizing it will be another nine hours before I can hear from my family.

Once we are in the air, I take out all of my watercolors and create a little art studio for myself on the plane. I put my head down and make a goal to paint the whole flight without stopping. I start with a landscape from a photo I took in Italy. I find a podcast series about AI technology with the in-flight entertainment, put the headphones on, and check out into paint world. Nine hours later, I have several watercolor paintings finished, and I remain calm and anchored.

I feel peace and tranquility and somehow know all will be well. The moment the wheels touch the ground in Washington, D.C., I take out my phone and reconnect. I see a million messages and go straight to our family chat on Telegram.

Dimitra posted that the hurricane split into two and weakened immediately upon impact. The cell wall broke, and the water didn’t surge but the opposite—the water emptied and got sucked out to sea. There is no damage to the gallery or flooding. Our homes have very little damage—mostly just fallen tree limbs and a mess outside. Everyone is safe, and John and Dino made it to Destin for the night.

I am amazed to hear that the cell wall of the eye broke down and the water surge was sucked out to sea. I remember Valerie’s drawing and my drawing that the storm would be sent into Leviathan’s mouth. I remember the man in London who prayed for the wall of the storm to break down. I remember the multitudes praying and know that we just lived through a modern-day miracle!

Miracles in Motion

I walked the streets of Rome, the very epicenter of religious power; I slept a night in London, the epicenter of financial power; and now I am in Washington, D.C., the epicenter of political power. But compared to every one of these worldly powers, there is one power stronger: God of the universe, who made all things, the One who can quiet a storm or send it out to sea.

This God, in all his power, still chooses us to collaborate with him. He gives us the power of art. The power of prayer. The power of unity of intent and desire. Through our drawings and declarations, he wields his might.

It is at this very moment I realize in the last five days, I was robbed, and all that I have was stolen from me. I lost my journal, my history with God, three years of sources and ideas, my best shoes, jewelry, and my Wonder Woman cape. I was left to feel powerless and full of fear. I was shuffled about from airport to airport at the whim and good will of the airlines.

But with that drawing of Florida, I gained my power back. I ate a dinner I paid for, painted for nine hours, and God came through. God is my true Wonder Woman cape and the power behind my pen. The power inside my keyboard and the one who breaks a hurricane in two.

I lost all of my sources, but God will show me what to paint next. I know that whatever he tells me to paint will set something on the earth into motion. It will make a thing manifest that would otherwise never be. We have miracles living at the end of our brush, and no thief or force of destruction can take that away from us.

In Him, we live and move and have our being.

Have you ever experienced a moment where prayer or faith gave you peace during a crisis?

Share your story in the comments below!