I’ve saved the best til last - my last full day in Florence. The day is overcast, a little damp and grey. But it doesn’t matter; I’m heading inside. And I saw the outside in full sunshine just yesterday.

Santa Croce. Where Helena Bonham Carter - sorry, Lucy Honeychurch was overwhelmed without her Baedeker, which Judi Dench - oops - Miss Lavish and the much missed Maggie Smith/Charlotte have confiscated. I too have no Baedeker. But I’m not concerned. I have the rest of the day to wander, ponder, and pray.

But first, I sit. I’ve been allowed in without paying a fee - my Italian is now sufficient to be able to say that I am ‘religiosi,’ a religious worker, una cappellana (NOT a capellino, as I first described myself to someone - that’s a small hat, not a chaplain). And I take my ticket and I slide into a pew almost opposite the tourist entrance door, which is on the north side of the vast edifice. It’s the largest Franciscan church in the world, a cavernous tall building with huge monuments, paintings - and some famous frescoes by Giotto depicting the life of Francis of Assisi, although they are still under wraps being renovated, as they were both times I was here last year.

As I sit, surveying the glorious east end, I feel a nudge to beseech God to make this space special somehow, to meet with me, to show me something of Himself or of my relationship with Him - which isn’t the best it could be, if I’m honest. I’ve been in Florence nearly four weeks, it’s been a glorious time and yet, and yet - there has been no epiphany, no resurrection moment, no being drunk on the Spirit, or anything transformative. Still just little old me, toddling around, enjoying being in Florence, but wondering why the Lord should have gently pushed me in this direction and made it possible for me to come. It’s my last day, Lord, I breathe. Come quickly if you’re going to!

Nothing happens, nothing changes, and off I go to peer up at effigies and monuments and memorials - Dante, Michelangelo, Galileo, Rossini and others. Dante isn’t buried here - he died still in exile and Florence must have regretted not having him back before he died: he looks so resigned to his exile and one of his muses is totally dejected,

and Galileo gazes for eternity upon eternity.

Wandering up the south aisle, I notice a votive candlestand is seemingly randomly placed and has a number of lit candles. Curious, I gaze up at the wall monument above it. It is by Donatello, of the Annunciation by the Angel to the Virgin Mary, carved life size in full relief, on a grey stone and highlighted in gold. Something about it catches my eye. I gaze and gaze, standing there and noticing. Seeing the angel kneeling pleadingly. Seeing Mary not at all sure - half turned towards the angel, half turned away, wondering perhaps if she can really be asked to sacrifice so much. To sacrifice her social standing, good reputation, virginity even. Her betrothal and marriage, her family’s reputation too. Her heart.

For Mary’s hand is on her heart, not her stomach as in so many Annunciation depictions. Is her heart breaking already with the thought of what lies ahead?

As I stand and gaze, others come to look too, and I drift off, to look at other full-of-wonder things. The gorgeous sacristy with the Cross, devastated in the floods of November 1966, rescued and restored as much as possible, still representing what Florence lost in those dreadful days.

I walk through Medici chapels, the bookshop, the refectory. Something insists I return to the Annunciation. I go and gaze again. Step back, step forward, take a photo or three. What is it about this depiction?

I find myself inwardly crying out to Mary. Show me how to do this, I plead. Show me how to be willing to make sacrifices for the good of others, to be obedient to the calling of the Lord. Please show me, because it’s too costly, and I can’t do it. Make me willing to be willing. Please help me.

And as I stand there, a strange feeling comes over me. A lump rises in my throat. My body warms, tingles. A wave of what feels like nostalgia sweeps over me. Tears leak into my eyes.

Time passes. Or does it?

I’m willing to be willing, I think.

Whatever it costs.

I’m willing.

I think.

And as a sign of my openness to what I think the Lord desires of me, I light one of the quite large votive candles, my hands trembling, my eyesight blurred. This is my solemn vow, I think. I’m willing to be willing Lord. Just need you to help me. And I’m not sure whether I’m communicating with Mary or God the Father or Jesus the Son. And does it really matter? My heart-wrenchingly huge prayer has been called forth from deep within me, unsought and unprepared.

I place my candle right at the front, a little apart, and rest in the fullness of the moment as I watch its flame. And I realised that I had perhaps prayed the best prayer - show me something of you, Lord God. Show me something to deepen my relationship with you. I’d prayed it with intentionality and meaning when I first sat down in the church. And here it is being answered. I’m to be willing to be willing. AM willing to be willing, no matter what the cost. Because I know what the Lord is asking of me, and I know it will be costly. But I also know it will be a blessing, to me and to others. It’s deeply personal and I’m not able to share it with you, dear reader, right now. But I know this is the answer to that prayer when I came into Santa Croce. One of the best prayers I’ve ever prayed, perhaps.

There’s still the two cloisters, the Medici Chapel, and the refectory with its marvellous paintings of the Tree of Life and of The Last Supper. I potter around, but I’ve been here before and right now nothing else can hold my attention. I find myself climbing the stone stairs back to the main church, pushing past all the people exiting into the cloisters, returning to Donatello’s carving. There are people standing there of course. I have to stand to one side. But when I look up, Mary seems to be returning my gaze. We can do this, she seems to say; we can do it if we do whatever He tells us. (John 2:5)

My candle is bravely burning. Reluctantly I leave both Mary and candle, my heart as John Wesley once described his, strangely warmed, and knowing what He is asking me to do.

I discover later that one of the photos I took is slightly wonky. But I think it’s the one I’ll pin above my desk, to remind me. Life is definitely wonky sometimes; I need reminding to be willing to be willing.

Is it worth it? Maybe, maybe not; but HE is worthy.