Years ago, I picked up a small painting at an estate or yard
sale. I am not even sure where I found
it, or how long ago. I just know that
for many years I found the image of this age-old church soothing. Rich water colors brought the ruin to
life. I could imagine myself walking
down the quiet dirt road under that luxurious lazy blue sky and discovering
this place as if it were simply there awaiting my arrival.
Yesterday, I found that church. The mud walls were crumbling. The roof was long gone and shafts of sunlight
bounced off the ceramic tiled floors and empty walls. Barely a shell, this church magnificently
held its beauty, its understated simplicity.
The interior was mostly open,
with pieces of walls marking the location of the former nave, alter, and
chapels. Empty pedestals stood in each
corner, ready and waiting to humbly serve again, to bear the weight and honor
of cherished religious idols. Crypts
remained in tact, Portuguese and Latin script barely decipherable, causing me
to wonder whom it was that was laid to rest in this distinguished location.
I spent a few morning hours inside this church, climbing the
worn stone stairs to look out at the ocean.
Three women lay sleeping in the churchyard, where efforts were being
made to revive what once was a beautiful garden. Were these women simply looking for a shady
and quiet place to rest or had they designated themselves as protectors or
servants to this church? The lives and
stories connected to this place, throughout hundreds of years, intrigued me as
much as the church itself.
And my life is one of those connections, small as it may be. Had I selected this painting, so many years
ago, preparing for today’s encounter?
Was I somehow aware that one day I would stumble upon the actual place? The church in my painting was not as far along
in its disrepair as this one, but instantly recognizable. Quite
probable is that this particular style of church was a common design of
southern Europe, of a certain historical period, and inspired many a
painting. But having spent years as a
patron of this church, through viewing the painting hung on my walls, an
intimate relationship had been formed, and now consummated upon my visit.
I feel joy and solace walking about this place, sitting in
the courtyard, the same feelings that the painting offered me over the years.
Later that afternoon I took a local transport ferry with no particular
destination in mind. Along with bags of
cement, rice, a few bicycles and crates of chickens, I wanted only to see the
shoreline and enjoy the afternoon breezes.
The church was the only thing of beauty, an anachronism, encroached by
warehouses and other nondescript apartment buildings. There the relic stood, solitary and sure of
itself, as it has for hundreds of years.
I am not sure what has become of that painting. When I was preparing for my life in the Peace
Corps, I sold my home and most of my belongings. An exercise in detachment, I parted with many
beloved items. But, packed away in a
shed, hidden somewhere in the hills of New Hampshire, are the remainders of my
most cherished items. Hopefully that
painting is there amongst souvenirs, photos and keepsakes. Either way, I have the actual place to return
to over the next two years, providing me with comfort and the reminder of the
wonder that is life.
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