The sun was out more often than it was hidden by clouds. Françoise, another, and I set off to visit the nearby Zamoyski Musee. August Zamoyski was a 20th century sculptor of solid figures in bronze and stone. Born into a prestigious family in Poland, he told his parents he wanted to marry a dancer and to do sculpting full-time. They sent the young man off with a no-return ticket, his actions a disgrace to the family name. He stayed true to his passion, writing that art is a way of understanding reality
anchored in the love and creation of God. A footnote: he became a rich man with his art, helping his family, who
had gone on to lose much, to restore the family castle.
We walked on to revisit the Église Russe, the church set on a hilltop, built first in Russia and then transported here piece by piece for
reassembly. The East chapel is reserved
for Orthodox worship; the West chapel is for the Catholics. The main altar is not yet consecrated as a sign that Christian unity is something still awaited. In the Catholic chapel Françoise fussed over some dirt on the small antique rug in front of the altar. The story came out, with a sly giggle or two, that she had been the one to donate it. It seems the open eyes of Christ on the cross were fixed upon a previous, unsuitable rug, and she had wanted something better for him to fix his gaze on.
Walking back up the rough path that only locals know, we saw rays from the late afternoon sun filtering onto the landscape below. “The fingers of God coming down”, was Françoise’s remark. Fingers of God touching us all, yet each touch is different. One person left his fortune and standing to follow the passion of his soul. (And interestingly, it worked out best for all.) Another fussed over the Divine like an especially favorite relative. I hope that I’ll recognize that touch when it comes and then turn to give a high five.