Page 44 of Gelato at the Villa (Suitcase Sisters #2)

Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.

We took our time, watching boats skim across the water and listening to the lulling accent of the four people at the table behind us who were speaking French. The sun was prevailing over the flocks of clouds that frolicked in their field of blue. I was glad I had worn my sweater, though.

Neither of us had room for dessert, even though I’m sure anything we tried would have been as delicious as the rest of our meal.

We walked through the small garden connected to the outdoor dining area and found a gate that opened to cement steps.

The steps led down to a rowboat bobbing in the lake water.

I felt like we had stumbled into a place that combined the peaceful haven of the villa with the appealing lure of water at your doorstep from Venice.

“Aha!” Claire said. “This is what I want to try to sketch.” She had come prepared and took a seat on a bench in the sunshine, pulling out her journal and pencils.

“I’m going to explore around town a little,” I told her.

“Have fun,” Claire said over her shoulder. “And please try to avoid all impostors of famous Renaissance artists.”

I put my hand on my hip. “I’d almost forgotten about him.”

“That’s why you have me in your life.” Claire turned and gave me a grin. “You can count on me never to forget that moment on your behalf.”

I shook my head. “What would I do without you, my friend?”

“I don’t plan on you ever having to find out,” she said.

I left her to her creativity and stopped at the front desk, where I collected all the information I needed about the chapels in the area.

The desk clerk convinced me that the one at the top of the hill, known as Chiesa di San Martino, was the best church to visit.

He referred to it as the “Little Sistine Chapel” because of the frescoes painted on the ceiling.

Even though it was possible to take a pathway up the hill and walk through the village to the chapel, I thought it would be best to see if Claire wanted to go later because driving there would be easier.

I headed for the spot along the road where we’d enjoyed the late-night entertainment and was glad to see that the banner had weathered the rainy night.

I stopped in a small shop that had an assortment of this and that, the way a thrift store would at home.

I found a small pottery creamer that had the word “Bellagio” hand-painted on the side.

It looked like a souvenir from a century ago, and I knew it wanted to come home with me.

I spotted two small glass vases that reminded me of the pieces we’d seen in shop windows in Venice and Florence that were labeled “Murano Glass.” If these blue vases had originated in Murano, I was certain they were a fraction of their value in this shop.

I bought both, knowing I would let Claire have first pick of which one she wanted.

When I returned to the grassy area, she was finishing up what had turned out to be a good sketch of the lake and the rowboat.

“For us,” I said, showing her the blue vases. “Which one do you like?”

She chose the smaller one, which was so like her. I told Claire about the church we could drive to at the top of the hill, and she was up for the adventure. We made sure we had what we needed before walking back to where our little scoot-about car was parked.

Claire took the narrow road slowly as we wound up the hill.

I had to get out and direct her as she squeezed into a narrow parking space next to a large van.

How the van had made it up the steep and winding road, I couldn’t imagine.

But then, a lot of skilled drivers had negotiated narrow spots when we were in Florence.

“Is there a map or signs for the church?” Claire asked.

“I don’t think so. The hotel clerk said we walk through the village to the chapel. Maybe it will be easy to spot because it’s uphill.”

We took what we thought was the main thoroughfare for walking into the town and discovered that the pathway was made of small pebbles with grass sprouting up between the cracks.

The houses were mostly two stories with chipped paint in orange and yellow.

Many of them had front doors painted bright colors, such as lapis blue, cherry red, or emerald.

Clay pots with mixes of pansies and violets popped up everywhere on stone walls and by pebble-filled steps that led to another level of houses.

The experience was incredible. We saw only two people: a woman holding the hand of a young boy as they headed under an archway. They seemed to barely notice us.

Our combined efforts got us to the front of the church. We heard singing coming from inside. I recognized the worship song but didn’t recognize the language. It didn’t sound like Italian.

Claire went over to the rock wall around the edge of the flat property to take pictures.

I paused long enough to gaze with her. I realized that I had walked right up to the wall and wasn’t standing three feet back.

The expansive view made me feel a little wobbly, but I wasn’t fearful as I would have been in the past.

“Look at you,” Claire said. “No fear, girl. I’m impressed.

This was a good call. I can soak up this beautiful view, and you can explore another church, complete with a choir.

” Her slightly flippant tone changed, and she looked at me with clear eyes.

“I miss music like that.” Her voice lowered.

“That was one of the only things I loved about going to church and being in a choir. Music like that isn’t like other music, is it? ”

“It’s worship music,” I said. “It’s expressing love in a simple but beautiful way.”

Claire nodded. I was thrilled that she agreed with me and didn’t turn away when I was trying to express my spiritual view on something. I thought of other things to say, but the singing stopped, and I couldn’t contain my curiosity. I went over to the open door to peek inside.

To my surprise, the choir was a group of teenagers. They were exiting, so I quickly stepped out of the way. The teens gravitated to the wall for photos, and one of them struck up a conversation with Claire. She nodded and took their phones one at a time to take some group photos of them.

A middle-aged couple stepped outside. I guessed they were the leaders, and that they all were the group with the van.

The woman looked at me and said something in what I guessed was German. When I didn’t respond, she tried again in English.

“Do you have coins?” she asked.

“Coins?”

Claire had joined me and heard the question. In a sharp voice she said, “Don’t tell me you’re soliciting funds.”

The woman looked confused.

Claire tried again. “Are you asking us for a donation? For your choir?”

“No,” the man said. “For the box inside. You must insert coins for the lights to stay on.”

“Oh,” Claire said.

“I think we have some coins,” I said.

“Here. For you.” The woman handed Claire three euros.

“You don’t have to...” Claire’s face was turning rosy from embarrassment over her assumption.

“It’s a gift. Please. Receive it.” The woman slipped her arm through her husband’s and politely said, “I hope you have a good worship in the chapel.”

I felt stunned by the transaction. Touches of the eternal seemed to be the theme of our trip.

God kept connecting us with believers. I couldn’t remember anything like that ever happening on trips with my parents.

It rarely happened at home. I felt a shiver thinking that God was doing something. We were on the edge.

I entered the chapel first, feeling reverent and expectant.

I quickly understood the need to turn on a light.

A few windows at the top of the arched ceiling provided enough illumination to look for the coin box but not enough light to see the paintings.

Claire entered the shadowed place of worship and put the money she had just received into the box. The space was transformed.

“Wow” was all we could say.

The colors in the centuries-old frescoes were vivid, and the scenes were dynamic.

The figures appeared to be three-dimensional.

When the hotel clerk called it the “Little Sistine Chapel,” I had wondered if this ceiling would also have an image like the famous reach of God’s finger to touch Adam’s.

Instead, at the center of the cupola in this chapel was a painting of Christ, the triumphant victor, coming in the clouds. The image took my breath away.

I walked toward the altar and took a seat on the pew in the first row, eager to take it all in.

We were surrounded by masterpiece images of timeless stories of redemption.

God’s stories. His love poured out, His victory over sin and death, His people, flawed and funny, all of them invited to the table.

And above the tangle of humanity, Christ, the Lord of all.

Claire sat down next to me. “So, they were a youth choir. Did you catch that?”

“No.”

“They’re from a church in Munich.” She paused before adding, “Is that odd?”

I couldn’t hold back this time. I had to say it.

“Or is that God?”

Claire sat a moment in silence. At the end of a long sigh, she said, “It’s God, isn’t it?”

With a sense of wild hope, I turned to her. “Yes, it’s God.”

In a voice as still as a single raindrop, Claire said, “It’s always been God, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.” I reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. We sat side by side. Silence with Claire never bothered me. I waited.

“You know when you asked about my conversation with Amelia and Gio while you were at the pool, and I said we talked about forgiveness and other mysteries?”

“Yes.” I let go of her hand and turned so I could see her fully revealed face.

“I asked Amelia and Gio why they thought bad things happen to good people. They said the same thing you did. They didn’t know.

But Gio said the only way he could be free to live inside the mystery of never knowing the answer was if he chose to forgive.

Then Amelia said forgiveness was a process and that God’s kindness led her to repentance. ”

“Do you mean led Gio to repentance? You said led her to repentance.”

“No, I meant Amelia. She told me her story. It’s rough. Her mom wasn’t involved in her life at all. That’s why she grew up at the villa and why she learned all her cooking from her nonna.”

“I never would have guessed,” I said. “She’s so whole. So confident.”

“I know. She told me she gave her life to God when she was in England. Then she met Gio, and while they were working on the villa he told her God was renovating her heart and that a big wall needed to come down.”

“A big wall?”

“She needed to forgive her mom for abandoning her. Her unforgiveness of her mom had become like the main load-bearing wall in her life. I get that. Gio told her the cross needed to become the support beam that replaced the wall. I’m still thinking about that.

” Claire looked down at her hands. “I didn’t tell Amelia any of the things I told you, but she seemed to know.

She told me there was someone I needed to forgive.

A wall I needed to tear down.” She wove her fingers together in a position of prayer but seemed stifled, as if she couldn’t form the words she wanted to say. “Grace?” she whispered.

I knew what she was asking. “Yes, I would love to pray with you.”

I looked up at the fresco of Jesus coming in the clouds, ruler of all. I prayed aloud for my friend, asking as I had many times that our heavenly Father would draw her close to Himself. That she would be released from all the pain in her past.

“Lord,” I added, “will you show Claire how to forgive so that she can release those who caused such painful injury to her soul? Tear down the wall. Release her. Set her free so she can start a fresh new chapter in her life. I ask this in Jesus’ name.”

“Yes,” Claire whispered. “Please, God. Amen.”

I tried to read her body language. This moment felt big. This prayer seemed important. Was this the plot shift I’d longed to see happen in her life?

She gave me a wavering smile. “Thank you. You said exactly what I wanted to say, but I wanted to watch an expert do it.”

I wasn’t sure I was an expert at praying, but I understood what she meant. She’d searched for a cooking class when we began planning this trip because she wanted an expert to teach her how to make true Italian pasta.

Claire sat up straight and pressed her palms flat on her knees. “Lots to process. But this feels like a first step.”

“It’s a beautiful first step.” I gave her a chummy nudge and indicated she should look up.

She followed my gaze and took in the epic painting of Christ, vibrant and victorious, descending from the heavens, coming to make all things right.

“One day,” I said. “Until then . . .” As soon as I said “then,” the meter box by the door clicked and all the lights went off, hiding all the gorgeous paintings of the old-as-time stories and leaving us in the dense shadows.

“Subtle,” Claire said.