Rome has long been my favorite city in the world. There is an air of antiquity, a pride in staying true to the glory of its past empire and its contributions to Western civilization. But this antiquity isn’t just enshrined in some climate-controlled museum. It’s everywhere: in the crumbling stucco walls of nearly every building, the labyrinthine streets, the imposing perimeter walls of the Vatican. Rome is an embodiment of history, and I was swept up in it. You can tell the city was literally crumbling under the weight of honoring its past at the expense of modernity. And I liked it, the beautiful rebelliousness toward the relentless pace of culture.
What would be considered tourist attractions in other cities are mere cubbyholes in Rome. I can easily find my way around the city and back by taking note of the historic landmarks all over town. The Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Vatican, Trevi Fountain, the Circus Maximus, St. Peter’s Basilica, the Piazza di Spagna, the Tiber River that runs throughout the city, various museums, statues—the list is never-ending. I found that as long as I took mental note of these things as I walked, I could always find my way back.
Since I’d been to Rome before, I knew it was a place where I could let the city lead me, if that makes sense. I didn’t need an itinerary, just a sense of adventure. Maybe that’s why, in planning for this project, I decided not to plan any interviews in Rome. It seemed to be the perfect place for spontaneity, as if somehow the city would lead me to the right people and the right conversations to capture for the club.
When I’d last visited Rome with Keith, several years ago, we’d gone to a café in the middle of the afternoon to enjoy a couple of small desserts and cappuccinos. People in Rome will stand in long lines for their perfect cup of afternoon espresso. And when I say perfect, I mean it. Italian espresso is a point of national pride, with golden-brown crema layered over a robust pull of caffeine served hurriedly in demitasse cups. Most people we saw didn’t even sit down to sip; they just threw it back and immediately placed the miniature mug back on the espresso machine.
This time, though I hadn’t scheduled any formal interviews, I sensed my café would be the perfect spot to bump into someone. I even prayed God would send me the perfect person to interview. I was never concerned God wouldn’t answer my prayer, because He always answers my prayers. Sometimes the answer is no or not now, but more often than not, His answer is yes. When Keith and I were first married, he noticed this about my prayers. He’d even ask me to pray for something because he said God always answers my prayers, no matter how wacky and far-fetched they sounded. Now that I was in Rome and asking God to take me to the right people, I had great expectations.
Following my late afternoon arrival, I hopped into a cab and headed straight for the hotel. I opted to stay outside of the city because the hotel rates were cheaper, and it would be easy for me to get into the city each day using the hotel’s bus. After checking in and taking my luggage to the room, I realized it was dinnertime, and I hadn’t yet eaten, so I headed downstairs to the restaurant.
Once inside, I noticed two middle-aged women sitting at the bar, eating some bread, dipping chips in some sort of sauce, and sipping on champagne. On high alert for God’s answer to my prayer, I wondered if these could be the women. I pulled up a seat next to them and ordered a pizza Margherita.
“Anything else?” the bartender asked.
“I’ll have a glass of what they’re drinking.” I was easily in earshot, and I suspected my order would likely get them talking, and it did.
“Hi. I’m Cindy, and this is Barbara,” the woman sitting closest to me said with a slight Southern drawl. “Where are you from?”
“Los Angeles. And you?”
“LaFayette, Louisiana.”
It’s not uncommon to run into fellow Americans at the world’s most heavily traveled tourist destinations. It brings both a comfort and a frustration. Though I would likely never see those women again in my entire life, we all of the sudden felt like fellow sojourners close enough to be neighbors. But there is also a bit of a buzz kill, too, like you’d rather be fully immersed and pretend you’re the only one of your kind in a foreign land. But I still had high hopes with these women—maybe they were carrying worthwhile marriage secrets.
“So, why are you in Rome?” Cindy asked.
“I’m here working on a book about marriage. I’m traveling all over the world to learn the secrets of great marriages.” That response always got some sort of reaction from people, and Cindy’s face piqued with interest. “Do you have any good secrets to share?” I asked, “Oh, and have you been happily married more than twenty-five years?”
“Um, well, I’ve been married for more than twenty-five years, but I would say my marriage is just okay.” While she was talking, Barbara got up and said she was going to check on something; I didn’t quite hear what. In the meantime, Cindy and I continued talking about my project and how interested she was in learning the secrets of great marriages.
After fifteen minutes or so, Barbara returned, and wherever she went, she must have found some thoughts on the subject. “You know what I think is the secret?” she announced as she climbed into her seat and got situated. “Luck.”
Okay, not quite the answer I was expecting.
“Luck plays a large part,” she told me before informing me that she was on her third marriage and was “muddling through it.” Her sister, on the other hand, had been married for more than thirty years and absolutely adored her husband and being married. Her sister was dealt a good hand in marriage, she concluded, and she was dealt a bad hand—three times.
Listening to her, I knew she was definitely not the person God had in mind to answer my prayer.
All was not lost, however. It was redeemed the moment my pizza arrived, with its perfectly thin, crispy crust lightly covered in marinara sauce, fresh mozzarella, and vine-ripened tomatoes. It felt like edible Italy.
Cindy and Barbara left the restaurant to rejoin their husbands, and soon after, I headed upstairs for my nightly routine of calling Keith. I was charging myself for the next day and for the hopeful arrival of my unknown happy wife to talk with.
I had two audiobooks on my iPhone when I left Los Angeles, Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert and Abba’s Child by Brennan Manning. Both had been there for quite some time, but I hadn’t gotten around to finishing either of them because of busyness. At one point, I had listened to a small portion of the first chapter of Abba’s Child, but it had moved too slowly for me. Still, one of my dear friends and a founding member of the club had highly recommended it, so I’d kept it on my phone, with a loose commitment to listen. It was more about honoring my friend and having something we could share together than actually enjoying the book (or what I had heard of it thus far).
On the bus ride from my hotel to the Colosseum, having already listened to most of Eat, Pray, Love, I decided to give Abba’s Child another chance. It struck me differently than I remembered from the first time around. With my ear buds in, I listened as Brennan Manning briefly diverted my day from sightseeing. Rome’s splendor whizzed by the bus windows, complete with the occasional Vespa driven with a death wish.
The bus dropped me off near Il Vittoriano, a huge monument made exclusively of white marble, with Corinthian columns lining the top and Italian flags proudly flying on each side. The shape of the building is nearly a semicircle. Atop its arresting presence, on opposite ends, are two bronze statues of horse-drawn chariots commanded by winged riders. In the center of the semicircle is a statue of Victor Emmanuel, the monument’s namesake and the first king to create a unified Italy. This grand architecture also holds an eternal flame at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. As I looked on, I thought about the Roman Forum just a stone’s throw away, and the vestigial flame of Rome it was said to have kept. Thousands of years later, here were the Romans, still keeping their symbols. In a city full of crumbling things, this monumento nazionale (national monument) looked pristine and gleaming. It exuded immense strength.
I could see the Colosseum from where I was, and thought to head that way, but I was on the watershed of committing to my book instead. Plus, the large number of people flocking to it didn’t fit my introspective mood. So I headed in the opposite direction, my day of sightseeing officially trumped by what God was stirring in me through Abba’s Child. For hours I wandered through the town, through old ruins, along the train tracks, and down more streets than I can recount.
Soon, I stopped on a road and began frantically typing into the Notes section of my smartphone. Where does my sense of worth come from? Can I accept that God loves me unconditionally? Why do I always feel this drive to succeed to feel acceptable? Do I really feel forgiven about my past—have I forgiven myself? Why do I put on a facade of strength and impenetrability when all I want is to be humble and vulnerable? I typed as quickly as possible with my two thumbs while standing in the middle of the sidewalk. There were a few people passing by here and there, but this area of town was pretty quiet. I looked around to see if I recognized any of the landmarks but saw nothing except what looked like a pile of ruins ahead.
I began walking up a slight hill, with what looked like a college gym track (except it was in the middle of nowhere) to my left, with athletes running and lifting weights, and through a gate where I paid three euros to enter a large open space with grass, gardens, and only a handful of people.
I had accidentally found one of the more serene spots of Rome, the Baths of Caracalla.
As I walked around those public baths, equal part ancient ruins and absolute beauty and dating back to AD 216, I continued listening to Abba until it was finally time for me to answer some questions I knew God was posing to me. I wasn’t yet sure why or what these questions had to do with my time in Rome. For one, the questions I could hear in my heart were certainly not happy and had nothing to do with marriage. Still, I attempted to answer every question posed, no matter how uncomfortable it made me feel. Some very personal questions, some soul-searching questions. The majority of my time in Rome was spent like this.
I know it seems like a shame to basically ignore such a place. I wanted to tell the city, “It’s not you; it’s me.” Because it was me. I had prayed about this journey months before it began and asked God to cover it with His blessing and protection. I should’ve known better than to pray like that. I was learning that “blessing” came to mean gut-wrenching soul-searching. And it wasn’t comfortable.
Meanwhile, I kept my eyes peeled for my surprise interviewee. I hadn’t found her yet, which was no surprise because of how far I had gone into myself and my own thoughts.
Then it dawned on me. God wasn’t sending another woman my way in Rome.
He had sent me myself to discover what I’d left undone to have an even greater marriage. It was a fitting detour for my journey.