Miracle in Mantua

I went to Mantua to see the castle where Isabella D’Este lived in the 15th Century. In an era when women of the nobility were pawns married off to seal political alliances, the Duke of Ferrara married Isabella’s sisters to the Duke of Milan and the King of Naples. Isabella was given to a lesser nobility, the Marquis of Mantua. She was one of the most remarkable women of the Italian Renaissance.

It was not a happy marriage. Fortunately, her husband was a soldier who hired himself and his men out to other princes. While he was off fighting for Venice, Isabella pursued her intellectual interests. She corresponded with all the great minds of her day. In one letter she wrote to her brother-in-law, the Duke of Milan, saying she heard about a portrait of his mistress. Would he please send it to her so that she could admire Leonardo’s work?

The castle at Mantua is a fortress built in the Middle Ages. For me it had to wait one more day. I had the problem with my car. The air-conditioner, which had been “fixed” in Athens, was still pumping out cold air, and I could not turn it off.

At Mantua I checked into a hotel and then took the car to be washed. After driving through Yugoslavia, the BMW was filthy. Leaving the car in the hands of an obliging Italian, I walked across the street and into a small, very old and undistinguished Catholic Church. The interior was dark and gloomy, the walls covered with huge paintings, so grimy with age that I could barely make out the martyrdoms of the saints.

I knelt with my knees on the hard wooden kneeler and prayed, “Dear Lord, please listen to this Protestant prayer. Will you please send me someone who speaks English and can help me get this BMW fixed? I know it is not hurting the car for the air-conditioner to be running all the time, but it is using lots of gas and I’m almost out of money. All I want is someone who speaks English. Won’t you do that?”

I walked back across the street and asked the car-wash attendant, “Que parle inglis?” He understood my feeble Italian. With hand and arm gestures, he indicated that I was to go next door and climb the stairs.

God answered my prayer.

On the second-floor I entered an export company and was ushered into the office of one of the most charming and helpful men I’ve ever met. Mohammed Terkawi was a Muslim who learned English in high school in Damascus.

God was telling me that we are all his children.

In the next blog I’ll tell my adventure in Italy with my Muslim friend. Oh, yes, and my visit to Isabella D’Este’s castle.