Page 44 of The Artist and the Muse

Even after she’d agreed to the consequences of being the mother of Jesus: almost being divorced by Joseph and living a life of suffering. Even after she’d nurtured Him, raised Him, and no doubt grieved when she saw His agony. Still, she accepted the loss of her son.

It was a loss I could not imagine bearing, yet Michelangelo depicted her bearing it with more grace than most people could bear a much lesser grief.

If she could suffer all that and still have peace, perhaps I could finally find peace after all I had gone through. If she could accept God’s will, maybe I could, too.

We moved on to the other artworks: the chair of St. Peter. I almost had the urge to kneel briefly in front of thePietabefore reminding myself that I was no longer in a Catholic church and didn’t have to bend the knee in front of the altar whenever I passed by it.

Still, perhaps my father had been onto something. Not that worshipping an image or a sculpture was the best way to go, but that having the representation of God there could be helpful. That we weren’t merely spirits made up of abstract ideas, worshipping a God of spirit only, but that we were also flesh and blood. And the God Christians believed had come down in human form.

I still wasn’t sure if I was fully ready to submit my life to Christ like Pastor Tony had talked about. It was one thing to believe that God existed; it was another thing for that to affect how I lived. But being in Italy and engulfed in beautiful artwork inspired by the Bible didn’t deter me from that path, either.

We followed the tour guide toward St. Peter’s Chair, looking at the incredible stained glass window behind it, which had a dove to depict the Holy Spirit. The golden oval of stained glass with the dove centred in the middle was flanked by gilded decorations and sculptures of angels. However, the dark bronze chair itself looked almost small and unassuming amidst all the gilding and ornamentation around it. It was supported by four statues of men I couldn’t recognize.

“The chair of St. Peter represents the seat of the pope, and the four statues around it are the four doctors of the Church…” the tour guide said, launching into an explanation of the various features of the chair. “The chair is meant to show the unity of the church, and the chair itself is less than five feet tall.”

“What is it made of?” one of the students asked.

“Originally, it was made of wood, but as that decayed over time, it was encased in marble. The statues are made of bronze.”

As I kept one ear on the tour guide’s explanation, filing away the information for later, I kept my eye on the students.One, two, three, four…Wait a moment.

Where was Georgia?

Chapter Twenty: Georgia Philips

While everyone was looking at the chair of St. Peter, I went looking for the grottoes I had read about before our visit here. There were numerous tombs of famous people at the Basilica, including various popes and royalty. However, as I reached into my belt bag to find my phone and look for the virtual map I had downloaded, my fingers brushed against paper. Sergio’s letter.

I had transferred it from my Birkin to the belt bag before leaving for vacation, but still hadn't opened it. I figured I had kept it for a reason, so I might as well read it now that I had brought it all the way to Italy. Unfolding the paper, I took a deep breath and read it.

Dear Georgia,

I know there is nothing I could say or do to undo the hurt and pain I have caused you with my actions.

When I met you and we first agreed to have a relationship for publicity, I was young and foolish. To be forthright with you, until that point in my life, I had always had short, casual relationships that were moreabout physical pleasure for me. The women would get what they wanted from our relationship, usually money or status, before we parted ways.

I thought, quite mistakenly, that this was how things would go between us. That we could use each other for publicity and easily throw each other away without any hurt or pain. However, I was blinded by my pride.

Although I realize we were never in love, we had an agreement that I did not honour. I should have ended things in a more dignified manner. I love my wife and she is everything to me, and when we met I lost all common sense. I knew I would do anything to be with her, but I should have ended my relationship with you more gracefully.

Georgia, though nothing can excuse my behaviour toward you, I hope you understand my reasoning. During my time in Italy, I encountered a priest who showed me how wrong I had been, not only in how I acted towards you but in how I behaved in my whole life. I only returned to New York to settle my debts and make amends.

I understand if you do not want to forgive me. The way I ended our contract was hurtful, to say the least. However, I pray there may be some kind of peace between us.

Sincerely,

Sergio Cavalli

As I read over the letter, I realized I’d never forgiven Sergio. Bitterness had formed a knot in my chest, encasing my heart in ice.

I’d always beaten myself up for allowing him into my life. I’d considered myself a failure in the romance department, insisting somewhere in my mind that I was responsible for how he had treated me. That if only I had been more beautiful, more interesting, or more intelligent, he wouldn’t have replaced me so easily.

Reading his letter seemed to slough off a layer of too-tight skin off me, like a snake molting into its new form. I couldlet go of that shame. Maybe I wasn’t ready to forgive him yet, but… perhaps I could stop withholding grace from myself.

I thought of thePieta. The Virgin Mary had suffered some of the worst things imaginable in losing her child. Yet she had known it would all happen. I remembered hearing the Christmas Gospel readings at church when I was a child, saying that Mary had heard how Jesus would cause the falling and rising of many in Israel.

She had known the anguish that would descend upon her son. Yet she had raised him and loved him anyway. She’d even cradled him in her arms after his death. She hadn’t railed against God for what had happened to him. Hadn’t shaken her fist and asked why, at least not in any way mentioned in the Bible.

She’d simply held him in her grief, with tender resignation to the will of God.

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