For some, the idea of not putting roots down and staying in one place may seem daunting—even impossible. But for this author, it’s part and parcel of her Franciscan identity and response to God’s call.
In her “First Letter to St. Agnes of Prague,” St. Clare of Assisi writes: “O blessed poverty, who bestows eternal riches on those who love and embrace her! O holy poverty, to those who possess and desire you, God promises the kingdom of heaven and offers, indeed, eternal glory and blessed life! O God-centered poverty, whom the Lord Jesus Christ, who ruled and now rules heaven and earth, who spoke and things were made, condescended to embrace before all else!”
The words itinerant and itinerary come from the same Latin root (iter or itiner, meaning “journey” or “road”). Yet these two very similar sounding words have come to have almost opposite meanings in our current usage—an itinerant is someone who goes from place to place, a wanderer who journeys and meanders, while an itinerary conveys a set route with detailed plans. For nearly three years, I have lived that paradox—as an itinerant without an itinerary. I live on the road, going from place to place, every couple of days or every few weeks, living out of a bag or two.
A Twist in the Path
This was not a planned life, by any means. When I began this journey, I had no idea what I was doing or what it would become. I had no agenda and had not spent any time even thinking about it. I had just finished an intense and exhausting 18 months caring for my ailing father until he passed away. Additionally, with the complications of COVID-19, getting through the funeral was an ordeal, and I was completely worn out, both physically and emotionally. All I could think about was getting away for some rest and rejuvenation.
By then, I had been laid off from my parish job due to the pandemic, and I had very few other responsibilities in the area. So with little thought, I packed a small bag and went to visit some friends out of state. And it was perfect—fun, relaxing, heartwarming, and refreshing. Great, I thought, I need more of this. So from there, I went to see a cousin in another state . . . and then more friends . . . and another cousin . . . and more friends in Seattle . . . then Minnesota, Texas, Chicago, Arizona, Italy, Korea, Slovakia, and so many places in between—big cities, rural states, farm towns, domestic and international, by rivers and beaches and deserts and mountains.
After a few months of these back-to-back trips, people began to ask, “How long are you traveling?” I didn’t really have an answer. “Um . . . I’m not sure.” Another month? Two? But in reality, I had no need to rush back home. And so I just continued on. I stayed with friends, family, and religious communities. In intentional community houses, urban condos, suburban family homes, guest rooms and living rooms, attics and basements, in convents, friaries, priories, and hermitages. And one night—and only one night—in an airport. That is a story for another time. I rode on planes, trains, buses, and cars. I walked. I slept. I laughed. I cooked and I ate. I cried. And I recovered.
Who Am I?
To be clear, I was already a seasoned traveler. Going to these places was not something novel for me. I had long enjoyed (or some would say suffered from) a heavy dose of wanderlust. But the more I moved from place to place, in the particular way that I was doing so, it became clear that it wasn’t about going to different cities or about satisfying that wanderlust. It was something else. It has become what I have come to call a “a wonky life,” something that is certainly not for everyone. It is something I did not know was even for me. It has surprisingly turned out to be a life in which I not only survived such an instability of place, but also one in which I absolutely thrived. This was because it brought a kind of freedom and liberation I had never known.
When I was 8 years old, my family and I landed at San Francisco International Airport, having picked up our entire life back home and plunking ourselves down in an unknown country to start a new reality of liminal life. And like so many immigrant kids, I worked in our family businesses. From the time I was 9 years old until I was laid off from my job during the pandemic, I had worked. I had always worked, and more often than not, I had two or more jobs at a time. As I became an adult, I had lived independently and responsibly, paying my rent, car insurance, groceries, taxes, and so much in school loans. I lived a regular American life.
But suddenly, when the pandemic hit, I was without a job. And having lost my mother to cancer decades ago, when my father passed away, I was suddenly a single person without the usual societal markers of identity—no parents, no job, no kids, no husband, and no mortgage. I found myself questioning my own identity. I had to redefine myself without these usual references, norms, or definitions. I had thought that I knew myself, but I was suddenly unsure. Through my spiritual formation and prayer life, I had long ago learned that I was a beloved child of God, so I knew whose I was. But who was I without those societal tethers?
Strengthening the Tethers
Through my time on the road, my tethers slowly began to come into focus. At every stop in my sojourn, my friends hosted me, greeted me with open arms, and encouraged me to stay longer or to come back soon. Each visit reinforced, reinvigorated, and reaffirmed those relationships, and I left each place stronger and more certain of myself. I was loved, appreciated, and held up for who I was, for my vocation, my itinerant life, and how I was attempting to give myself more wholly and sincerely to the world. My tethers grew stronger and my identity clearer.
I began to deeply understand that I belonged not only to God, but also to those with whom I am in relationships. Family—certainly, that I knew. But there were also friends—far and wide, near and close, religious and lay, gay and straight, and from across the country and world. “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free person, there is not male and female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Gal 3:28).
Through Christ, we are one in our friendship, the holy longings in our hearts, our specificity of creation, with the unbelievably sticky glue that is the Holy Spirit. I believe that these kinds of relationships cannot survive solely on the phone, email, or even Zoom calls. Not solely. They can only be fully nurtured in person, face-to-face, through live interactions of sharing food, conversations, breathing the same air, and affirmations of a common global existence.
Gospel Poverty
Richard Rohr, OFM, once wrote: “Poverty is not just a life of simplicity, humility, restraint, or even lack. Poverty is when we recognize that my self—by itself—is powerless and ineffective. . . . The transformed self, living in union, no longer lives in shame or denial of its weakness, but even lives with rejoicing because it does not need to pretend that it is any more than it actually is—which is now more than enough!”
On the road, contrary to the zeitgeist of video meetings and virtual events, I was living counterculturally. It was certainly a chosen poverty of finances, as I was not living a full-time, professional life with a bimonthly paycheck. Perhaps more importantly, it was also a poverty of housing, as I went where I was welcomed, invited, and given hospitality. I would eat what was generously given and accept the space and company that was offered. There were some fancy homes to be sure, luxurious accommodations, and amazing food.
But more often, I had old friary beds, questionable convent food, small spaces, freezing rooms, creaky floors, and leaking roofs. But I was grateful and surprised by the abundance of hospitality offered. So I followed the mandate (somewhat falsely) attributed to Francis to “preach the Gospel at all times and when necessary use words” by really preaching through my life, witnessing an itinerant and mendicant life completely dependent on others.
Like the theology of monetary poverty, in my poverty of steady housing and home, I have found a tremendous amount of foundational stability, trust, and comfort. I never had to worry about not having a room at the inn. “Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they?” (Mt 6:26). My friends, connections, networks of people, cohorts, and associates—they were all Jesus to me, in caring and feeding me, welcoming me, loving me through hospitality.
This was Gospel poverty. It is absolute, sheer, overflowing wealth. What is more valuable than knowing that if I am somehow unable to feel the love of God in my life, all I need is to spend a day in the loving home of a friend to know that they understand my vocation and this weird countercultural life I am incredibly blessed to have? I am incredibly privileged and I am exorbitantly rich amid this wonky life of a chosen poverty.
Life in Constant Motion
Father Murray Bodo, OFM, writes, “Poverty was never an end in itself, but a means to the indwelling of God and a way of life that makes present the kingdom of God.”
Many people along the way have shared with me their opinions about this particular life I have been living. Some are shocked, some intrigued, some envious. Some roll their eyes. And some are inspired to try a small version of it, someday, somehow. Some have commented on how ingenious, different, and novel an idea like this is. But to be clear, this is not new. I did not invent this life. In fact, it has very clear connections to the early Franciscan movement.
The origins of the Franciscan Third Order group of followers can be traced back to the sixth century. These were ordinary everyday people (known as penitents) who sought ways to be holy in their daily lives and everyday work. This took many forms, including pilgrimages, building and repairing churches, and caring for the needy. The first Franciscans were these penitents, living in Assisi. They were people who lived in the area and who were attracted to the lifestyle and spirituality of Francis, but who could not leave their families and homes to live in community or become mendicants.
Francis began his rule for the friars with this line: “The Rule and Life of the Lesser Brothers is this: to observe the Holy Gospel of Our Lord Jesus Christ.” So, if the main rule is to live the Gospel and to live simply, it means that the most important thing for a Franciscan is to be a good Christian. For me, the most important aspect of being a good Christian is living fully into my individual incarnation, my haecceitas, my specific created identity.
As it turns out, I am particularly good at living this specific identity, my itinerant life, moving constantly, living both from and into this inertia of constantly being in motion, with only a bag of stuff and without much money. From this stripped-down, unplugged, and simple lifestyle, two things became clear: First, poverty (of money, material things, burdens, or control) can bring great freedom. And second, trust (in friends, in my vocation, and in God) can invite opportunity for the spirit to work. In our society, we are so often driven by a fear of one kind or another: fear of not being enough, fear of failure, fear of being judged, fear of scarcity, fear of a lack of control. We are driven by these fears in most of our major decisions. We try to mitigate any potential setbacks and maximize having control.
But through this experience, this itinerancy without an itinerary, I have learned just how generous people can be, if given a chance. So many are willing—and wanting—to share what they have, in hospitality, with food and housing, and with their time. They drove me to airports, train stations, and other people’s homes to hand me off for my next leg of accommodations, packing me snacks, making sure I had water, checking in on my departures and arrivals. God’s generosity, kindness, and pouring of Godself was incarnated in those beautiful humans with whom I have had the privilege of being able to spend every day of these three years.
These are brothers and sisters in Christ with whom I share affection, values, and vision. They are my poverty, my Gospel joy, my Emmanuel, and my love. I am blessed beyond measure, and I live in gratitude.
