Thursday, July 19, 2012

The Pieta


"What is a Pieta?" Leasie asks as we sit around the living room with our big Michelangelo book open on our laps.

"A Pieta, meaning pity, is a piece of art that captures the moment when Mary is holding Christ's body after he has died on the cross." The words catch in my throat as they leave my mouth; the emotion of the them reaches my heart. We move to the office where I pull up pictures of the Pieta on the laptop. And there, surrounded by my clutter of papers, bookshelves, and art supplies, we have a tender moment. 

This was months ago. All the way back in February. And from that moment, I have looked forward to seeing the Pieta at the Vatican more than any other site on our trip.


On Tuesday of our Rome week, we pay for a tour of the Vatican hoping to "avoid the lines" as advertised. We meet our Rome Walks tour guide, Valeria, across the street from the Vatican museum entrance. She is pleasant, informative, and patient with the five children. She is also extremely pregnant, and by the end of the tour I can tell she is exhausted from the heat, crowds, and walking. She also has a strange habit of snorting in place of a laugh - a bit distracting, but very memorable.

The Vatican is shoulder-to-shoulder crowded. We enter the museum at the same time as huge groups from a cruise ship - ugh. I do my best to keep CJ entertained (stickers, fruit roll, lolly pop), but after an hour of riding in the stroller, basically looking at the people's legs, she is cranky and uncomfortable. At one point, she hops out of her stroller and starts hiding behind some statues. A horrible picture flashes in my mind of a statue tumbling over, crashing in domino affect onto the next statue.

After that, my husband and I take turns holding her. She falls asleep in one of the statue rooms, and I utter a silent Hurray!

I have to request to see the Rafael rooms, and am glad I did. They are much less crowded. The older kids enjoy the School of Athens painting. And I enjoy imagining Rafael and Michelangelo peeking in on each others' progress.

Unfortunately, the Sistine Chapel is incredibly crowded. The whispers of thousands of people remind me of wind on a stormy day. The barking of the guards to "be quiet!" and "no pictures!" makes it difficult to have a peaceful moment. So while I appreciate seeing Michelangelo's painted ceiling, it is not a soul-moving experience.

However, I know the Pieta is still to come. And I am hopeful.

Leasie is the first to spot the statue. She tugs on my arm just as we enter St. Peter's Basilica and points to the right. There in a small alcove protected behind a glass wall is the Pieta. 
 
We make our way through the crowd until we are as close as we can get. I am struck by the gleam of the polished marble. Of the folds of Mary's fabric, so fluid with movement. I remember reading that Michelangelo's Pieta is a departure from traditional Pietas in that instead of focusing on the pain and gruesomeness of the crucifixion (normally depicted with blood and looks of terror on the subjects' faces), he has created a moment of peace. There is no blood. The wounds on Jesus' hands are so small, they can barely be seen. And instead of appearing stricken, Mary's face holds an expression of peace mingled with sadness.

Mary is cradling Jesus, just as she must have done when he was a small boy. And I for a few minutes, I forget that it is a masterpiece, even that it is a statue, and I commune with the holiness of Mary's heart-wrenching motherly moment. This moment when His work was finished. And Mary, who had kept all things in her heart, could hold Him.

Tears stream down my face freely as I lean over my own children. We exchange hushed comments and observations. This experience of seeing Michelangelo's masterpiece captured in stone is eclipsed only by witnessing the reaction of my children at seeing such a tender sight. Both Leasie and Meya are moved to tears. And I am grateful beyond words to have traveled thousands of miles if for nothing but to share this moment with them.

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