On Thursday morning Maurice and I headed to la Bruna to do some errands.  As we passed La Bruna’s fortress-church I noticed its door was open so we stopped in for a look.  A half-dozen people were at work dusting, vacuuming, polishing, taking a drill to the hem of Mary’s gown, chatting.  “Buongiorno!” said a smiling young man.  “Buongiorno!” I replied.  I looked like such a tourist with my orchid rain jacket and camera in hand.  Another man waved toward the balcony and said something.  I looked.  He waved again and smiled.  I should go up to the balcony?  Si, si.  I climbed the curving wrought iron staircase, barely wide enough for me and so spare of frame that I felt like I was hanging in midair.  An ancient organ took up most of the small balcony and there was music sitting on the wall so I suppose it is still used (it occurred to me later that I should have asked to play it).  I went back downstairs, looked around and sat in a pew.  The balcony man came over and handed me a card with a picture of Mary and Jesus (the one painted at the front of their church) and a prayer on the back.  Soon Maurice wandered in.  Naturally he wanted to talk to the workers, meaning he wanted me to talk to the workers.  I don’t make small talk in English, much less Italian.  “Pulito,” I said, looking at the Mary statue, tall and shining.  “Per una festa?”  Between all of us and the young guy they brought over who knew about three words of English, we understood they were preparing for the upcoming celebration of their Madonna della Bruna on Monday night, with the service at 9 pm (!) and a short procession through town with the statue at 9:45 pm.  There would be food to buy outside and we were invited.  Sounded like fun.  Maurice put it right in his phone to remind us. 

At 8:45 on Monday night all was quiet outside the church in La Bruna.  We had seen something being set up on the small piazza when we passed through the day before but now it was empty and wet with rain.  The church doors were open, though–the whole great big doors, not just the ordinary-sized ones cut into them that are usually used–and people were gathering.  A clarinet player was hanging around the piazza, and after a while another appeared, and then a French horn player.  Good, we thought; looked like the makings of a procession.  At 9:00 five minutes of vigorous bell-ringing commenced.  A loudspeaker was carried across the parking lot and set in front of the church.  We retreated to our car to wait, listening to amplified singing and the voice of the priest from the service inside.  From a house across the street with candles lit in its upstairs windows, a man emerged and lit torches along the sidewalk.  A woman at the end of the square opened her upstairs window and set several candles on the sill.  Animation picked up on the piazza:  kids running, a boy with a sax playing scales, mothers pushing strollers, a growing crowd outside the church door.  At 9:45 we got out of the car.  We definitely weren’t going to look inconspicuous but maybe we could find a spot and blend into the background.

the Banda Musicale Santa Cecilia, finally assembling

A sizable number of instrumentalists were milling around but it didn’t look like they were assembling to play any time soon.  Groups of friends chatted while a couple kids on bikes tore up and down the piazza.  Two police cars pulled up.  Ten o’clock and still the congregants sang and prayed through the loudspeaker.  And then there must have been a cue, because the multigenerational band massed into formation.  Candles were passed out among the bystanders and lit.  The police cars drove away.  The crowd drew closer.  We kept looking toward the church doors.  Finally, in a little flurry of movement, the lovely Madonna della Bruna that we had met a few days before appeared, wobbling her way through the doorway, borne aloft by a cadre of strong but unevenly-heighted men.  Mary listed seriously; there was a stop as the bearers were rearranged (one of them was the balcony man who had invited us).  The band began to play and the procession began:  the crucifer and a crew of acolytes, then the congregation and all the outdoor hangers-on with the loudspeaker lifted high on a pole in their midst, then the priest, then the Madonna, and at last the band falling in behind her.  The whole procession made its way slowly right in our direction.  This was a good thing, because besides wanting the privilege of dipping, be it ever so slightly, into Umbrian village life and seeing the faith lived out in another culture, we also had a secondary motive for being there (and Maurice says don’t blame this on him).

starting the procession (the Madonna is just exiting the church)

Shortly before we left for Italy I had stopped in to see my excellent chiropractor (http://chiropractic-first.com).  It was patient appreciation week and everyone got a T-shirt.  Since Dr. Andrew is a fun guy, he also had a contest under way.  Participants could submit photos of themselves wearing the T-shirt doing interesting things or in interesting places, with the winners getting free adjustments.  I packed my new T-shirt and was on the lookout for exactly the right place to wear it.  When I learned about the Madonna della Bruna I thought, “How many Chiropractic First T-shirts will be in a small Umbrian town at its Madonna procession?”  So when the cortege headed our way, Maurice had his phone in hand and I was ready.  The congregation marched, the band played, candles flickered, Mary swayed, I turned around and Maurice clicked.

The procession moved down the narrow piazza and up the side street.  The police cars had blocked traffic at the main road and the walk turned again, continuing in the street past the lit torches and over the bridge.  We took a shortcut across a little park and met up with the Madonna, her wood creaking, her bearers straining.  The priest was now saying the rosary through the loudspeaker, and the congregation knew its part.  We walked on the sidewalk next to Mary for a while; this may not have been kosher, as everyone else stayed in their original order.  Soon the congregation broke into hearty singing.  The procession turned down a side street and Maurice thought we should leave; it was a more solemn occasion than we had expected and perhaps we were looking to the faithful like invading barbarians.  But it was encouraging to once again see life in the church, to witness the commitment and faith of brothers and sisters in the body of Christ.  And we had been invited.