Divine Restoration

"Thus God knows the world, because He conceived it in His mind, as if from the outside, before it was created, and we do not know its rule, because we live inside it, having found it already made."
"So one can know things by looking at them from the outside!"
"The creations of art, because we retrace in our minds the operations of the artificer. Not the creations of nature, because they are not the work of our minds."1

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I take a step back and admire the creation that is beginning to materialize amid the wood shavings and tools of my modest studio. The slim face and shoulders of the woman can now be easily discerned in the block of wood positioned before me. Her eyes are cast downward in an eternal look of motherly love at the babe that will, in time, be sleeping peacefully in her arms. As I gaze at my unfinished sculpture the faint light of the flickering candles plays on the Madonna's face and for an instant the tender smile lingering on her lips is that of my own mother. This recognition brings a sudden, unexpected, rush of emotion. Visions of my mother come flooding back: crouched in the corner of our tiny shack, arms wrapped around her knees, her dark hair matted and wet with tears, rocking herself in silent agony. Her stifled cries often woke me at night to find my usually strong and iron-willed mother exhausted and broken. It was in these moments that I most hated my father. I had never known him; all I did know I had discovered on my own by eavesdropping on my mother's whispered late-night conversations with my aunt. Over the years I developed a fairly complete picture of what my mother's life was like before I came along. My mother's family had always been very poor-the rejected and shameful of society. My mother lived her entire life in the same pitiful shack I grew up in. At a very young age she felt the need to do something to help bring food to the starving household. Without her family's knowledge, my mother began selling her body to corrupt monks at the Benedictine monastery on the hill overlooking our village in exchange for bits of undesirable meat. My grandfather was the first to discover how the food was finding its way to the family. Despite the love he felt for his daughter and his hatred of what she had become, he did nothing to deter her, knowing that this was a matter of survival. Thus it came about that one night, while on another routine yet deplorable trip to the monastery, my mother fell in love with a young novice. Let's say it was naïve --her heart would never again be this close to her sleeve. She gave herself freely, only to have him desert her and the monastery a short time later. My mother never spoke of my father except in moments of unbearable weakness when, catching a glimpse of me in a certain light, she would exclaim with wonder at my striking resemblance to him. In was on nights following such moments that I would find her unable to fall asleep, softly crying out in shameful misery to a God I no longer believed in. My father had chosen God over my mother. I had resolved at a very early age not to do the same.   But here I am, nonetheless, passionately putting my all into embodying the perfect love between mother and Son. As I begin the meticulous work of carving out the details of the folds of Mary's shawl, I can't help but marvel at the way my life has been so suddenly turned around. A month ago the thought of using my talents to create the Madonna and Child would have seemed to me revolting, and indeed at first it was. If it hadn't been for my master's recent illness, I would have never been entrusted with such an undertaking. As apprentice, I was given no say in the matter and was put right to work. I began with a visit to the church that had commissioned the work. It had been seven years since I had last set foot on holy ground. Memories of my mother's funeral, usually held securely in the deepest recesses of my mind, threatened to overtake me as I walked through the cathedral toward the alcove that would one day house my Madonna.
It was while trying to envision the dimensions of the sculpture that would best complement the atmosphere and proportions of the niche that I felt a sudden warmth spread throughout my body. I was being enveloped in a motherly embrace. I saw before me the wooden figure of a childless mother, arms which once held her most precious Son broken off at the elbows revealing the slight swelling of her lower abdomen. Her left hip protruded as if to provide support for the missing Child. The layers of paint had chipped away over time, leaving the original color of her shawl something of a mystery. Remnants of a deep blue could be seen in one of her kind eyes. Loose curls framed her beautiful face. Although she had lost her son, and with him a part of herself, her expression remained one of profound love and serenity.2   The vision vanished as quickly and unexpectedly as it had appeared, leaving me with an overwhelming sense of peace. Without understanding why, I felt a burning desire to create my sculpture as the Madonna I had experienced made whole, lovingly cradling her Son in her arms.   As I work tirelessly through the night, illuminated only by the soft golden glow of the flickering candles, I once again think of my mother; beautiful and pure again, I know that she no longer suffers.   At times the artist is governed by a force far greater than himself. It was in submitting to this force that I have made peace with my God.

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Works Cited

1Eco, Umberto. Name of the Rose. Harcourt Brace and Company: New York. 1984

2Madonna, 14 Century. Snite Museum of Art. Unknown artist, French, Isle de France. Polychromed and carved on wood. Gift of Mr. Lester and Katherine Wolfe. 1965.010.001