The Eyes of David

Can fear and trust be present at the same time? Can trust exist in the presence of fear? I think this is a question I have been asking for the past year, and today (September 4th), the Lord answered the question in His own unique way-- through the eyes of David.

After walking around the Florentine Duomo, ascending the 270 foot bell tower, and admiring Ghibertti's Baptistry doors, we made our way to the Accademia where Michaelangelo's David stands. Rick Steeves, our "traveling companion," in his travel guide to Florence and Tuscany suggested that we make reservations for entrance into the museum. Thankfully, though, we found only a small line and were able to enter without a problem.

I had read about Michaelangelo's David, had seen small replicas and photos, but nothing had captured the magnitude of this piece of art. As a music major, I did not have to take the required Arts in Concert course that offered a brief overview of music and visual arts so I was not aquainted with the story of the artist. (I have since picked up Irving Stone's the Agony and the Ecstasy, and am devouring it). However, even with my lack of knowledge about the subject, the Lord chose this medium to speak to me.



Upon viewing this enormous statue and briefly reading Rick's words about the disgarded marble which was used, I found myself captivated by his eyes. I could not stop looking at his eyes. To me, his eyes captured the confidence in his God as he stands and faces Goliath. Though the caption on the block, suggested the sculpture portrayed the shepherd boy after slaying Goliath, many art historians believe it to be the moment facing the giant. I agree with this interpretation-- the look in his eyes suggests trust in the presence of great fear. I pulled my journal out and began scribbling, "His eyes. I can't stop looking at his eyes."

The artist also sculpted him naked. Understanding now that Michaelangelo preferred sculpting the human body nude rather than with the distractions of drapery and clothing, I recognize his preference. But I also view his choice to be one of a posture of humility and vulnerability. Nakedness is a kind of complete vulnerability, yet David stands with such confidence. Two contradictions exist: Trust and fear, vulnerability and confidence.

As I stood staring at his eyes, tears began streaming down my face. Isn't this what God has been trying to say? The same confidence facing the unknown, that same strength and beauty, and naked vulnerability... the trust in his eyes; not in self, but in his God; not in his slingshot or his own strength, but in the power given to him from above.. Isn't this what ruthless trust is all about? Sculpted from a rejected, imperfect piece of marble that no one wanted, with only a vision in his mind, Michaelangelo sculpted fourteen feet of beautiful marble into the representation of trust in the presence of fear. Not the weapon in his hand, nothing that he could do could bring down that giant. He ruthlessly trusted in God alone. My prayer is that as I return to complete uncertainty and an unknown path before me, my eyes will demonstrate and reflect the same trust in my God in the presence of fear like those captured in the eyes of David.

Ice Cream Grandpa

My little sister once wrote a paper on Avery DeLuca, our "ice cream grandpa." Today (3 September), as our train came to a stop in Italy, I was overwhelmed with emotion and found myself missing him. All around me, I could hear families chattering in Italian, and a sweet, old, Italian couple arguing playfully. I watched the Italian man and something struck me, bringing tears to my eyes as I thought about so many memories with Grandpa DeLuca.

Ever since I was young, I have dreamed of coming to Italy-- to see the heritage of this incredible man. Grandpa D, as we affectionately called him had a love for people. He would go for a walk and return with stories of mothers, children, young people he had met. He never hesitated to strike up a conversation with anyone, and he loved... oh how he loved! When we would visit, getting ice cream was always the next thing on the schedule after dinner. And though, we lived several thousand miles away in Colorado, he always sent "ice cream" money for mom and dad to take us out.

I'd like to think I am a lot like him, or have taken on many of his Italian characteristiscs... maybe... his artistic/Italian temperament, his love for people, his sense of adventure... maybe... I definitely have taken on his love for ice cream. Maybe that is what has brought me back to Italy so many years later and why unexpectedly, I have found myself emotional as we cross the border. Maybe I want to discover this part of my heritage-- Afterall, I am proud to be Italian (like my grandfather) even if it is only a small percentage preserved in my last name.

Steps Towards Surrender

I love how everything in France centers around events and people, not time. Last night, Summer was suppose to have a meeting at 5-- it did not start until 7:15. In the states, the meeting would have been cancelled since something would have followed for either party. It is like in Under the Tuscan Sun when the Italian man spends the whole day with the main character. At the end of the day, she asks him, "Didn't you have plans today? Things to do?" His reply is, "When you find something good, you follow it, hold onto it until it lets you go." I do not think I am called to this place, but I do love it and want to hold onto these moments forever.

Why are we so preoccupied with time in the states? Why do we fill our days so full that there is hardly room to breathe? I think sometimes I run into good things, but I am so preoccupied by my watch that I miss them or let them slip by without noticing. One of my prayers on this journey has been for divine appointments and an attentiveness to the Lord's leading and guiding my steps. Maybe disgarding the clock is often one of the first steps towards surrender.

My Lie

I lied. Today I made up a story about loving a man back in Boston. Forgive me, but I think it was a better option than trying to turn the sketchy French man down. It started out as an innocent conversation. Sitting in the Jardin de Luxembourg, he asked me the time and I politely told him wrongly-- forgetting to use military time. He asked where I was from and we briefly chatted. Then he asked me if I was in love. I emphatically said, "YES!" He asked me if I had ever cheated on my love and I said, "no." He suggested that my "love" had been with other women. I said, "No. He would never!" After asking one more time if I cheat, he realized this blonde Americaine was not going to give him what he wanted, he rudely walked away saying nothing. I find myself thankful for the lie-- what if I had told him the truth?!

Lost in Paris!

Ever since I visited the city with Summer in November, I've wanted to get lost in Paris--literally and figuratively-- To stop on the steps and watch the people walk by talking, laughing and snapping photographs. Today, as I sit on the steps of Sacre Coeur, I watch them admire the stone walls behind me. What do these walls say?

Throughout this trip, I find myself constantly blogging in my head--trying to capture each moment in words. This morining Maria Isabelle and I sang together in French and English--she correcting me and I her... I love that music in worship is universal.

Even now I sit listening to a man play violin; the Beattles, Let It Be, Memory from Cats and some sort of polka. This is Paris! No wonder it captures the heart and soul so easily. When I decided on this journey, I considered writing a book--me? write a book?! What would I write? But the romanticism of Paris, the people, even the pigeons force words to my hand. No wonder so many artists were inspired here. Is it the language? the sights? the history? What is it about Paris that inspires the mind and heart to write, to compose, to paint??

I don't feel alone in Paris. Though I barely speak the language, I find myself surrounded by so many faces-- Humanity... maybe there is something raw here that does not exist in the states. Something accepting of humanity, of life, of love, of loss... So often in the states, we try to disguise and prolong these things. I want to live each moment to its fullest-- to be captured by sights and sounds around me, aware of our numbered days. I want to love the people around me so much it hurts; to see them as God sees them regardless of language spoken, tone of skin or the place one calls home .

Paris is similar to Boston in some ways. People coming and going unaware of those around them--listening to MP3 players, reading newspapers, minding their own business. Maybe it is about a city. I find a solitude in it that is refreshing. Maybe I am meant to visit cities like Paris, hike mountains, pray in cathedrals, and travel the world! Je ne sais pa! and I don't need to...

Ooh la la! My feet are tired, but my heart is full. I've barely spoken a word all day and it has been wonderful. Now as the sun thinks about setting, I find myself in the Jardin de Luxembourg sitting like any Parisien at the end of a long day's work--soaking up the sun and just watching or reading or talking with friends. I wanted to get lost in Paris and I did...

"Don't Worry, Be Happy"

A beautiful, clear jazz voice singing, "Don't Worry, Be Happy," is not what I expected to encounter on my journey here in Paris-- neither did I expect to have the experience of a French-African wedding, but both were great surprises and boy do the French know how to celebrate!


I have attended as well as participated in many weddings throughout my life. I think it comes with my age, my work with college students and well... just that time of life. Just this summer, I sang for a wedding in Maine (congratulations Hannah and Brett) and was honored to stand as a maid-of-honor in Chicago (congratulations Anna and Jeremy). Weddings in the states are beautiful. The bride is always a princess and the flowers, decorations, and food is amazing. The difference is the time. The service of this French-African wedding began at 4:30 pm and I think we crawled into bed at around 4:00 am (which I was told was an early night for a French wedding and did not include the legal contract at the town hall).

In France, couples are married legally by the government prior to the religious service (if there is one). Unlike the states, A priest or pastor cannot pronouce a couple husband and wife only a governmental official can, so the service is a time of worship and dedication of the couple to one another and to God with friends and family standing as witnesses. This wedding was between a French man and a woman from the Ivory Coast in Africa- both beautiful and both musicians. This couple was gracious enough to let me attend their day as a friend of Summer's. Infact, my nametag read, "L'amie de Summer, Americaine."

The day was full of a variety of styles of music. The service included everything from, My Father's House--sung in English, to Lord , Your are More Precious than Silver-- translated into French, to African, hand-clapping, rhythmic, dancing music of praise to God. The evening reception included several jazz selections, including, "Don't Worry, Be Happy," sung by a very talented jazz vocalist, the humorous retelling of the groom's life, and a rendition of stomp as friends and family banged out various rhythms on pots, pans, ladders, glasses, etc... And then, there was the dancing...

We danced the evening away to French techno, African sounds, American oldies, Salsa selections and much, much more. Hands clapping, bodies jumping and hands waving, guests were completely absorbed into one large, syncronized dance. I concluded that rhythm and dance are universal languages bringing smiles and laughs to people of all tongues and nations and easily disregarding langage barriers. And, I found myself having many, "I am in France at a French wedding moments"-- laughing hysterically at myself on the dance floor.

Having been warned in advance of the length of French weddings, I was disappointed at 3:30 when our hosts said it was time to go. Finishing by dancing to Great Balls of Fire, I dragged myself off the dance floor. Maybe someday I will get the honor of attending another French wedding and an excuse (as if I need one) to return to Paris!

Lost in Translation...

Having studied Spanish during highschool and college, I have found myself with very little foundation for French. Although, I am thankful for my fluent, French-speaking friend and my new French friends who are gracious enough to speak English, I am in France and I find myself frustrated at not being able to speak the language.

I have found myself fascinated by language and communication during this visit. True, I never studied linguistics, but I love people and loving people requires communication-- not always language but always communication. I am learning to listen, watch and laugh at myself often. Today, while visiting an elderly home, a woman there asked me in French, "What I did for work?"-- my anwer brought great laughter-- having just been talking about the dates of my journey, I answered, "August 14th" thinking she was asking for my arrival date. Later with Summer, we sorted it out and had a very good laugh. Just one of many, many funny French language or lack there-of moments.