On our recent visit to Pompeii, my wife and I found ourselves retracing familiar ground. We had already been there once before, back in 2011, but this time felt different. As our guide spoke of the ruins beneath our feet, of stones, ash, and stories unearthed from silence, my heart listened more deeply. I began to sense that what we were seeing wasn’t only history being revealed, but a parable of the soul.

Just as archaeologists patiently uncover what time has hidden, so too does God invite us to a gentle excavation of the heart, to dig beneath the surface of our daily lives and rediscover what He has planted there.

We had hoped to visit the Shrine of the Madonna di Pompeii. The MSSP community, of which we are lay members, has always held a deep devotion to her. It was on her feast day that Giuseppe De Piro, the society founder, received his calling. I also carried with me my mother’s simple request: to light a candle in her name. I wanted to honor that.

But the schedule was tight, and the visit to the church wasn’t possible. At first, I felt disappointed. Yet as we walked among the ruins, I realized that grace was already at work. God had prepared another kind of sanctuary, not of marble and candles, but of dust, silence, and memory. Among the broken walls and faded frescoes, prayer took a quieter shape. The sacred was not absent; it was simply hidden, waiting to be found.

Photos taken during our visit in 2011.

As we listened to how the archaeologists slowly unearthed Pompeii, I thought of how the Holy Spirit works within us. He does not rush. He moves slowly, tenderly, revealing what we have buried under fear, pain, or forgetfulness.

Sometimes I realize my own heart is covered in the ash of old fears, unspoken grief, and forgotten dreams. But when I allow myself to look deeper, to stay present with what I find rather than turning away, I begin to uncover traces of my own forgotten streets. The alleys of my story. The foundations of who I truly am: His image!

Photos taken during our visit.

This inner excavation is not glamorous work. It is humble and holy, a returning to the truth of who we are in Christ.

One of the most moving moments of the visit was learning about the plaster casts; the hollow spaces where bodies once lay, preserved by ash until someone thought to fill them with plaster. In doing so, the archaeologists gave form once more to what had been lost: faces, gestures, even moments of fear or tenderness frozen in time.

That image stayed with me.

I began to see those voids as symbols of the empty spaces within myself: the memories, wounds, and experiences I’ve tried to bury under layers of busyness or denial. Sometimes, also joyful ones!

When I allow grace to “fill” them, through prayer, remembrance, or tears, they begin to take shape again, not as monuments to pain but as vessels of mercy.

Through God’s gentle hand, even my emptiness can become a place of revelation.

As we walked through the remnants of ordinary life, ovens with bread still inside, coins left untouched, faded murals, I was struck by how human it all was. Each detail whispered: We were here.

Photos taken during our visit.

Our souls, too, hold fragments of our own story, small, imperfect, yet precious to God. Healing, I realized, is not about starting anew, but remembering who we are in His eyes. Like Pompeii, our lives may bear scars of tragedy, but they also testify to endurance.

Even in silence, life speaks. Even in loss, love remains.

When we left Pompeii, I understood that our visit to the Madonna’s shrine had not been denied, it had been transformed. The candle my mother asked for had been lit in another way: in the quiet realization that God’s light can burn even among ruins.

Faith is not confined to sacred walls; it flickers wherever the human heart dares to hope again.

Digging into what lies buried within us is not destruction, but it is resurrection. Each time we touch our inner ruins with love, we discover that beneath the ash, Christ is already there, waiting to bring life out of what seemed lost.

For even now, beneath all that feels broken, the Risen Lord whispers:
“Behold, I make all things new.” (Revelation 21:5)