Dear Will:

Dana and I were about 10 days into a two-week trip through Italy, with rain threatening to ruin our second day in Cinque Terre. Improvising, we decided to take an unscheduled side-trip to Porto Venere, a small hamlet set on a finger of land poking out into the Mediterranean. Along with its more-famous neighbors that make up the “five lands” of Cinque Terre, Porto Venere has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site. There are islands nearby and some old buildings. That’s about all we knew. 

Following a 45-minute train ride, a 15-minute slosh to the bus stop (got lost a couple of times), and a 35-minute ride on a local bus, Dana and I looked around and found that there wasn’t a whole lot going on in Porto Venere. But unlike the villages of Cinque Terre we had visited the previous day, Porto Venere was not overrun by tourists sent ashore from a nearby cruise ship. We loved it immediately. 

We made our way to the old church perched on a rocky outcropping at the edge of town. The Church of St. Peter, we learned, had been consecrated in 1198 (!). It’s a simple edifice, with a plain stone interior almost devoid of ornamentation. The main sanctuary contains simple pews and but one crucifix, and that cloudy day it was dimly lit only by natural light and a few candles left by previous visitors. Music from a single harp floated through its barren walls. It was so quiet and peaceful inside that small chapel that we were enveloped with a sense of reverence. I knew in an instant I had found the church where I would want to worship if I were a local Roman Catholic.

If you’ve spent time in Italy, you might find that a curious choice. During our visit we saw (along with hundreds of others) some of the most famous, magnificent spiritual sanctuaries in the world: the Florence Cathedral, with all of its gothic opulence; the massive St. Peter’s Basilica at the Vatican; the Sistine Chapel, the beauty of which is overwhelming; not to mention several other less-famous but also impressive churches that seem to arise on every corner of every town in Italy. All were beautiful and awe-inspiring, but for all their grandeur and artistry, none of them made me feel connected to God like that small church atop the rocks in Porto Venere. Entering the Church of St. Peter—away from the crowds and the spectacle—was like coming home.

The experience brought to mind a story told by Elder Robert E. Wells in which he describes the embarrassment he felt as a missionary bringing a sophisticated, cultured, well-educated woman to church for the first time. The services were held in an old building under the direction of inexperienced local volunteers. It was a bit of a sloppy mess from start to finish:

On the way home, one of the missionaries began to reflect his embarrassment. He explained: “Please excuse our present building. Some day we will build a lovely new chapel here.” Then he added: “Please excuse our new leaders. We have a lay priesthood, so we take turns conducting, and the new leaders are still learning how to conduct services.” He was just about to give another excuse when Sister Herta Mellor turned to him and said somewhat sternly: “Elder, don’t you apologize! It must have been like this at the time of Christ!”

When I heard that talk (in Spanish), delivered in Elder Wells’ signature baritone, it spoke to my heart. I myself was a missionary—serving at the time in Barrio 15, a small unit of our church near downtown Montevideo, Uruguay. Our tiny congregation met each week in a small, four-room building across the street from a cemetery. In that makeshift chapel we had to rearrange the furniture between meetings. It had broken glass and a wall that was slowly crumbling. Its roof leaked with enthusiasm any time it rained. But, oh! how I loved Barrio 15.

The people of that congregation were humble, faithful, and full of love—unimpressive, and yet the very embodiment of what you might refer to as “the pure love of Christ.” Though I was a foreigner, they embraced me (often literally) as one of their own, showering me with so much love and affection that I would happily have remained in Barrio 15 for the full length of my two-year mission. When it came time for me to move on to my next assignment, I rose before the congregation to say good-bye, but words failed. I stood, I stammered, and then I sobbed like a baby.

So yes, I know something of humble sanctuaries. Thus, when Dana and I discovered the busker whose harp accompanied our visit to the Church of St. Peter, we gladly added a few coins to his hat. To thank him for speaking to our hearts. For helping us connect memories and emotions across the years. For filling us once again with the love of God.

PW

_{Interior Sanctuary Image: © Achim Tomae/Getty Images}