Icon(ic)

Enthroned Virgin and Child circa 1280 Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC

It's been a few weeks and I'm still pondering things we saw in NY back in October. The Met was, quite frankly, overwhelming and I admit I couldn't absorb very much - the structure alone is awe-inspiring. We spent a lot of time in the exhibit of musical instruments - go figure. And we missed some major works I'd hoped to see. Guess that means another trip before long. Wink. Wink. But there was this one sculpture that was oddly captivating. I walked by a couple of times and read the plaque. It made reference to Psalm 91 about being triumphant over dragons. I did not get that at all - though, looking back I think the throne is squishing a couple of writhing things under there. So I'm sure that's the point for most folks. For me, not so much. I couldn't figure out what it was that was so compelling so I walked away and continued the tour. Before we left I went back and stood in front of the piece again. Took a couple of pictures. The lighting is perfect, the photo above is straight from my ancient iPhone with no editing. And then I saw it. The thing that made me gasp. The thing that has lingered with me these weeks. I've been reluctant to write about it - afraid I cannot properly communicate this moment. But, no longer willing to let it languish in the camera roll, I offer this feeble attempt.

It's called Enthroned Virgin and Child and was created sometime around 1280 - this piece of oak with several layers of paint has survived for over 700 years. That in itself is pretty miraculous. It is believed to have originated in Regensburg, Germany. It is a bit worse for wear, Mary is missing her right hand and there are lots of dings and scrapes. And there's a hole in the middle of her chest. I thought maybe there was an ornament of some sort missing. Then I saw the baby's hand. We do not know who the artist was and there's no way of knowing the intent. But this behold-er saw a mama with a hole where her heart belongs and a baby with a heart in his hand. The baby had her heart. In. His. Hand. And therein lies the truth of motherhood. We hold our babies and they hold us - let that sink in. Oh, the wonder.

Fast forward to this past week. A dear family we've know and loved for decades lost their matriarch. She was a force to be reckoned with, personality as wide as the ocean and faith every bit as deep. The hospital was in the process of discharging her when she fell into the arms of her daughter and took her last breath. That daughter stood at the memorial service with a sweet smile and shining eyes and marveled at the beauty of it all. Her mother's arms were the first to hold her. Her arms were the last to hold her mother. Oh, the wonder.

The season of sensory overload is set in motion, our feet firmly on the Advent path with Christmas in our sights. We've gathered and feasted; shopped and decorated. The calendar is filled to overflowing. And yet, I find myself drawn back to that centuries old hunk of wood - carved by an unknown artist - sitting on a perfectly lit pedestal in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City . The joyous-almost-to-the-point-of-laughing face of that mother, gladly entrusting her heart to the little boy on her lap. And there it is. There is essence of this season and every other season. We stumble through life with holes in our chests. Missing pieces. Dinged and scraped. Painted and re-painted. Made and re-made. Keeping the beasts at bay best we can. But there's this One Little Boy holding on to us. And this one thing we know. He will not let go. Oh, the wonder. Oh. The wonder. Selah.