Every ornate carving, every beautiful brushstroke, every carefully selected detail is so superb that I could spend the entire day simply enjoying the splendor of it. Even the light, the way it pours through strategically placed glass in the ceiling of the dome, seems to shine in exactly the right way, the sun itself a part of the artistry.
Believed to be the house of the tomb of Saint Peter, one of Jesus’ twelve apostles, the Basilica has long been considered one of the holiest locations in all the city, if not all the world. And while I would never have considered myself to be a religious person (at least not after the death of my father), even I am not immune to the piety of the place. In fact, I’m moved to tears by it more than once as we tour the hallowed halls.
Earlier, when we arrived at the base of the wide, graceful sweep of stairs that led to the Basilica, Nate, standing silently at my side, reached down and laced his fingers with mine. It wasn’t a casual gesture, not as any onlooker would suspect. It was a slow twining of his fingers, his life, his hopes, and his fears, with mine. He was comforting and drawing comfort, supporting and receiving support. We are two halves of one whole, in it together until the bitter end, whenever that might be and whatever it might bring.
The moment we entered the church, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief and rightness. I could practically feel the prayers of countless generations humming through the air as one long, peaceful vibration. I stood quietly at the entrance, letting the tranquility of it wash over me. I needed something from this place; I just didn’t know what. Healing from my disease? Absolution from my deceit? A miracle for my child? Something I couldn’t name and didn’t understand?
Maybe.
Maybe one of those.
Maybe all of them.
Neither Nate nor I spoke as we made our way to see some of the most revered sights on the planet—Bernini’s Chair of St. Peter with its crown of golden angels, the long nave with its intricately arched ceiling, the Pieta by Michelangelo with its heartbreaking depiction of Mary holding the body of her dead son, Jesus.
The last spoke to me like no other. Life, now more than ever, had taken on a sacredness that I’ve never known before. Maybe it’s that my own existence is drawing to a close. Maybe it’s that I will struggle in my last days to give life to another. Or maybe it’s that I’m contemplating life as it relates to the loss of it. I can’t be sure, but the sight of a woman holding her dead child was nearly my undoing.
Every square inch of the church is bathed in beauty and grace. From the floor, intricately designed and polished to a high shine, to the walls, all adorned with ornate columns and sculptures, the Basilica is grand. Even the ceilings are decorated with gilt stucco and richly framed windows that allow natural light to pour in and illuminate every divine detail to perfection. It has to be one of the most awe-inspiring places on Earth.
Hours later, as we come back through the nave, we reach the area at the south transept cordoned off for those seeking to make confession. Nate squeezes my fingers and whispers, “Let me find the bathrooms before we head over to the Sistine Chapel, k?” He kisses my temple and starts off in the opposite direction. “Be back in a few.”
I nod, perfectly content to just…be. I turn a slow circle, once more taking in the glorious sights laid out before me. I glance at every sculpture, absorb every sound, and commit every detail of Bernini’s Baldachin, arching protectively over the altar, to memory before I make my way toward the velvet ropes that protect those who come to confess from the foot traffic of those who come only to look.
Impulsively, I walk around to a divide in the barrier and head to the first row of seats. I slide through the aisle to a chair in the middle. None of the others are occupied, which I find odd since there had been many people sitting here when we’d passed through the first time, earlier. I glance quickly left and right, at the confessionals sprinkled along each wall, to make sure I’m not going to be evicted. I feel as though I’m wearing my non-Catholic status like a robe, brazenly, for all to see.
When I’m certain I’m not offending anyone (there seems to be no one around to offend), I relax and focus on the painting inset into the wall at the end of the transept. It depicts a grown Jesus holding a child in His arms. I feel a stab of envy. And fear. And something I can’t readily identify.
Tears mist my eyes as I take in the scene.
A gentle voice from near my right shoulder startles me.
“Are you enjoying your tour?”
My head whips around, and I see an older man, a priest standing beside me, two chairs down. He is dressed in the traditional holy vestments, black soutane with thirty-three buttons down the front. Upon his head is a shock of short, graying hair. His eyes are a brilliant blue, and his hands are clasped in front of him as though he has all the time in the world.
And he is taking a minute of it to speak to me.