30. Chapter Twenty-Five George Devereaux
Chapter Twenty-Five: George Devereaux
E nding the trip felt bittersweet. On one hand, I was looking forward to finishing out the semester of teaching at NYU, which I’d enjoyed more than I’d expected. Teaching others about art history encouraged me to learn more about my craft.
While I was excited to end the course, leaving Italy felt like leaving Georgia all over again. This was the place where I’d originally fallen in love with her. I made a mental note to have my paintings shipped from my studio in Italy to New York. Fortunately, no one had found out about our dinner date last night, though I was still feeling paranoid about the dean finding out. As we ate our final breakfast in the hotel’s dining room, the students were chattering away cheerfully. Georgia spoke to Jamie, one of the students I didn’t know that well. Hunter was talking with two American tourists also staying at the hotel about some video game I’d never played .
We stored our luggage at the hotel and then went out for one last tourist attraction: the Capitoline museum. Buoyed by the cappuccino I’d had at breakfast and the lively Italian music from buskers around us, I felt the constant stress and pessimism that had cloaked me for so long melting away. Perhaps it was because I’d spent my morning with Georgia, but I felt relaxed and at ease.
We walked through the heavy double doors. Then we strolled down a seemingly endless ramp to reach the museum’s displays and were rewarded with a dizzying array of exhibitions: Egyptian hieroglyphs and mummies; Roman marble busts; and Greek pottery. Tall, arched windows allowed the sunshine to dance across the signs and artwork, while frescoes of cherubs painted the walls and vaulted ceilings.
The museum was truly a work of beauty. It still took my breath away to think that pieces of such magnificent glory could have been made by mere human beings. I didn’t doubt for a moment that God had reached down to guide their hands while they painted or sculpted their creations. The artists had been co-creators with God, the Artist and Author of all. The thought made me smile more than it would have a decade ago.
We started with the Capitoline museum’s picture gallery. One of the first paintings I saw was Tiziano’s Baptism of Christ. In it, John the Baptist held a chalice over Christ’s head, while angelic cherubs watched from the crowds. Both men were clad in what looked like loincloths; John knelt on the riverbank while Jesus was standing in the river. Another grey-haired man was slightly in the foreground, his face turned toward Jesus.
A closer look at the placard beneath the painting told me the grey-haired man was the artist’s patron, Giovanni Ram. But that didn’t explain the curiosity the painting evoked in me .
“Why was Jesus baptized?” I mused aloud. In all my years of church attendance and errant study, I’d never learned the answer to that one. Didn’t sinners require baptism for their sins and impurities? Yet here was the supposedly sinless Messiah being baptized. And by John, who’d even stated that he was the one who required baptism from Jesus.
Hunter was quick to respond. “Do you actually want an answer to that question?”
“I’m quite serious about it, yes.” I chuckled at his reply. “Do you get a lot of rhetorical questions about the baptism of Christ?”
“He was baptized not to repent of his sins, but to show those around him that he was beginning his ministry. Even though He himself never sinned, He identified with sinners. The Bible tells us we die and are crucified with Christ and are raised to life with Him. In the same way, He was baptized as we are, to symbolize us dying to sin and being raised to new life.”
I thought of my own baptism; there were pictures of both me and Katerina in white baptismal gowns as squirming babies. Though I’d been confirmed into the Catholic church, I’d never considered it my home. Staring at the painting of Christ’s baptism, I couldn’t help but wonder what that had been like for Him.
That He, without a single sin—neither needing to be baptized by our standards, nor to be washed clean of anything—had done it anyway. Had suffered for us, had undergone the punishments we should have.
And yet, after all that, He had still forgiven us. After suffering for our sins, He had still managed to forgive us for them and then to call us to forgive those who sinned against us.
That grace, that mercy, was unfathomable to me.
Yet somehow, it was real.
** *
On the flight back, I sat next to Hunter, while Georgia was sitting with Jamie.
“What was your favourite part of the trip?” I asked Hunter.
He launched into a description of his time at the Capitoline museum, one of the most comprehensive museums of Italian history, I nodded and chimed in. Meanwhile, my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Georgia, and I barely heard his question after he was finished answering.
“What about you, George?”
I paused, considering my response, and settled on the truth, as much as I could tell of it. “It was nice to get away from how crazy life has been and remind myself of what really matters. Great art has a way of grounding you in time and reminding you of how insignificant you are—yet also making you feel like you’re part of something far greater than yourself.”
“Sort of like God,” Hunter said. “We may feel humble and small in His presence, but He’s invited us to be part of His greater plan.”
I pondered his words. Often, I felt like I’d spent my whole life trying to be someone great. Trying to attain fame. Trying to be the person I thought my father would be proud of—trying to prove I was good enough for him and for others, maybe even for myself..
But what if I didn’t have to be? What if God was enough for me—what if I didn't need to become someone great, but to accept who He wanted me to be?
These thoughts stuck with me as I got off the plane after a nine-hour flight. We all parted ways, exchanging phone numbers and goodbyes before heading off to the customs line and baggage claim. I was walking to the baggage carousel when I heard footsteps behind me.
“Wait!” Georgia, rolling her suitcase behind her, sprinted toward me. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright. “I’ll come with you.”
“I have to go back to work,” I said, checking my phone calendar. My nerves tightened as I thought someone might see us—even though the students were gone, I worried that someone might come back and see us together. “I was just going to drop off my stuff at my apartment before heading to the university for a meeting soon.”
My temples throbbed at the thought of facing the dean, or maybe at the reminder of how little sleep I’d had. Still, the meeting was on my calendar and I unfortunately still had to attend.
“Oh.” She frowned. “Well, come to my place tomorrow morning? We could have brunch.”
“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow, and I’ll call you tonight. Okay?” I wish I could have kissed her, or held her hand, but we were still in public. And I was still her teacher.
She nodded. “See you tomorrow, George.”