Everywhere she turned that night, the ancient city revealed a feast of light and beauty.
By Christine Dykstra
Earlier in the day it had rained, and as we made our way over to the Spanish Steps on our first night in Rome, a light mist hovered still, making the black cobblestone streets appear shiny and glass-like. Above us, strings of lights crossed back and forth between the buildings on either side of the street, their gleaming canopy reflecting off the wet cobblestone below.
Piazza di Spagna, at the base of those steps, was alive with its own light. A large Christmas tree in its center stood ablaze in golds and whites. Storefronts were decked with garlands, thick, ornamented, and luminous. Small boughs and stringed lights peeked out of windows throughout the square. It was January 6, Epiphany, something we’d forgotten after more than 24 hours of travel, until we stepped off a plane and back into Christmas. The wise men first saw Christ on Epiphany, so it was fitting that this was the day I began to see something new.
i’ve known Him the whole of my life, but that night, the refraction of lights began shifting and widening my gaze.
We did what seemed wise and good to do with the night: We found a restaurant with outdoor seating, ordered pasta and espressos and an Italian red, and held our hands to the flames of our tableside heaters. We studied arched doorways and black shutters against pastel walls, obelisks and columns pointing heavenward, corner vendors roasting chestnuts over barrels, men and women in long, finely tailored coats and rich leather boots, and the cadence of the languages spoken around us. We ate and drank, looked and listened, taking our fill of it all.
During dinner, or perhaps it was dessert, I looked up and saw what I’d soon see everywhere in Rome: Small gardens spreading across long boxes on window ledges and balconies, and larger gardens covering rooftops, bursts of greenery interrupted by the yellows and oranges of fruit and the pinks and purples of flowers. Here we were, in a city, and yet gardens were everywhere. Everywhere I turned that night, Rome was a feast.
Everywhere, Rome spoke in doxology.
That Sunday, we worshiped in St. Peter’s Basilica, the words of Scripture falling on us in Italian and Latin. All that ancient liturgy reached backward to push us forward. I looked around and thought of the backs that had strained over the installation of marble and travertine, of hands that had shaped what had endured across centuries of time. Architects and artists had labored over the basilica’s design, imagining and reimaging, each one expanding on the work of the ones who came before.
The next morning, we stood in the center of the Sistine Chapel, surrounded by frescos. The room was a sea of faces turned upward, silent before Michelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam” and all the other biblical stories surrounding it. Here it was again, just as in St. Peter’s and on the streets of Rome, the chapel itself a canvas, the grafting of the work of artist after artist into the art of their Creator.
On our last day in Italy, we returned to Rome and to the Piazza di Spagna, wanting to spend our remaining hours walking the streets, taking them in one last time. Large clouds moved overhead, billowing across the late afternoon sky, dropping light rains just as before. We wandered from storefront to storefront, gelatos and cappuccinos in hand, discussing artwork and oils and fabrics that might someday bring us back to this place and this time.
Everywhere, Roman’s beauty was glorious. And as the sky grew dark, Rome itself grew light, the air thick with translucence. God spread radiant across His city that night, the veil so thin black cobblestone reflected gold.
Christine Dykstra works as a writer and editor with a special interest in writing shaped by a theological lens. Her work has appeared in Foreshadow and The Windhover.