On the occasion of his 1987 visit to Los Angeles, my school sent a bus of students to see him along his motorcade route. Only fifth grades and up got to go. I was in first grade. My brother, who was only in fourth grade, got to go because he was accompanied by my sister.
For the 1993 World Youth Day, the youth group we participated in sent a bus of teenagers to Denver. Only those over 15 were allowed to go. I was 12. My brother turned 15 a mere two months before the event. Once again, I was denied the opportunity because I was too young, while my brother just barely snuck in.
I remember in 1987, when I was told that I wouldn't be able to go with my school, I cried to my Mom that I wanted to see the pope. "Well, when you're grown up, you can take a trip to Rome and see him," she offered in consolation.
"Yeah, but it's going to be a different pope then! I want to see this pope!" I'm not quite sure why, at the age of six, I had such a love of JPII.
Fast forward to 2001. I'm in Austria for a semester, and astoundingly, Blessed John Paul the Great is still the pontiff. I remember one day, upon learning that our scheduled trip to Rome and Assisi would include an audience with the pope, how overjoyed I was. I sat in my room, nearly in tears, that I was finally going to receive my childhood wish and see the pope! I remembered back to the 1987 visit to Los Angeles, and the 1993 World Youth Day, and even my mom's advice. "When you're grown up, you can go to Rome yourself." I was grown up, and I was going to Rome!
Fast forward to the Rome/Assisi pilgrimage and, as it turns out, the regular Wednesday papal audience was cancelled that week, because the Pope was going to be on retreat.
*Sniff*
But wait! There was hope! On Sunday of that week, Blessed John Paul the Great would be leading the noon Angelus from the balcony of the papal apartment. Of course, we had only just arrived in Rome the previous evening, and we had a tour of St. Paul-outside-the-walls, the Coliseum, Imperial Palace, and Roman Forum that morning, which ended at about 11:45, but if we hopped on the crowded Roman metro, sped across the city, and sprinted the half-mile from the metro station to the Vatican, we might just make it.
You better believe I ran. It's amazing how quickly one can move, even while carrying a full backpack, when one is motivated.
Yay! I got to see the Pope in person! And I even received the papal blessing (as did my rosary)! My childhood wish had been fulfilled! He had only been a speck in a distant window, but I could go home now, satisfied.... Mostly.
* * *
About this time, I began to notice about myself what everyone around me took for granted. I distinctly remember on one of our tours in Rome how I would always rush to the front of the group, cut in front of other people. I always had to be in front. I remember during the tour that my friends were strolling along in the back, enjoying themselves, telling stories and laughing. I wanted to be with them, but I just couldn't be bothered to walk that slowly. It was then that I realized what my mother had known for ages.
I was just too gosh-darn impatient.
Lent had just begun, and I was looking for a penance besides simply giving stuff up. So, there in Rome, that week, I resolved that for Lent I would be patient. I would slow down and enjoy the ride. I would stop to make sure those around me came before me. I would put myself last.
* * *
The rest of the trip was eventful, but not in a way that's particularly relevant to our tale here, so we'll skip ahead a few weeks, after we'd returned to our home in the Karthause, in Gaming, Austria. For Easter, we would have five days off from classes, and everyone was planning what they would be doing. I was thinking of just spending it in Vienna, Saltzburg, or just staying in Gaming, without any further ambitions. However, another of the students, an acquaintance of mine, but not a close friend, asked me if I'd like to come to Rome with him. He had connections to the Legionaries of Christ, and was planning a trip to stay with them. My reputation as "the beacon of all light amidst the darkness" and master trip planner (I could read train schedules) had spread around the small campus, and he asked if I would like to help plan, and lead a group of men, so we could accommodate those with different class schedules and had to leave later. I jumped at the chance.
We left after classes on Wednesday of Holy Week, arrived in Rome on the morning of Holy Thursday, and checked in to the seminary of the Legionaries in Rome. Thursday was spent in a silent retreat, with mass celebrated by a Cardinal at the seminary that evening.
Then came Good Friday. That afternoon, we left the seminary to attend the Good Friday service in St. Peter's. When our group arrived and entered the basilica, I was about to rush to the front of the group to enter first, as was my habit, when I remembered my Lenten promise. "No," I thought. "It's Good Friday. The day to truly live up to our Lenten penances." So I was patient. I let my brothers--there were about 20 or 30 of us--go ahead of me, and enter first. It was only when I got inside that I saw how the seating arrangement would work.
The way this was going to work was that at the beginning of the service, the Pope was going to process up the center aisle, on a little motorized cart (he was old and frail at this point, and couldn't walk well). There were waist-high walls on the center aisle, so people entered the rows of chairs from the sides. Those who entered the row first got seats on the aisle, right next to where the Pope would pass. Obviously, these seats were most desirable.
So, I patiently filed into the row, after all my other classmates who had come on retreat with us, and was patiently seated on the very, very farthest end from the center aisle, patiently separated by a sea of heads. We had arrived about an hour early, so I had that much time to stew in my patience and meditate exactly on where my patience had gotten me. I enviously looked down the row at the other students who hadn't made stupid Lenten resolutions to be patient. That could have been me. That would have been me. I would have been on the aisle to see the Pope up close and in person, just as I had wanted to since first grade, if I hadn't tried to be so gosh-darn patient!
I think I went through all five stages of grieving while I was there, from "I can't believe I missed my opportunity to see the Pope up close!" to "well, maybe the Pope won't even process down the main aisle. He is old and frail, after all," to "this is all someone else's fault for not seeing how patient I was being and letting me go first," to finally "you know what? I'm here in St. Peter's, with the Pope, for Good Friday. This is a special moment."
About five minutes before the start of the service, one of our Legionary guides came up to me and the student next to me—a very holy young man named Anthony Fiducia—and said "one of the guards has told me that they have two seats, towards the back, on the aisle and has asked if I have two young men who would like to sit there."
So there I was, seated at the back of St. Peter's, four seats away from the center aisle, praising God, and feeling stupid for being so upset that I had tried to be more holy. Of course He had a plan. Of course He would look out for me. As we waited the last few minutes for the service to start, Anthony, as if he was reading my thoughts, remarked "God does good things for those with patience." Amen.
And that's when I took this picture.
I should like to point out that photo is unzoomed.
After the procession, we returned to our seats on the end of the row with our classmates, and I could only feel contentment. But it got better.
Communion was chaotic, this being Rome where they have no concept of that British idea of "the queue". It wouldn't have worked here, anyways, since the center wall prevented you from actually leaving your row. Instead, priests walked up and down the center aisle, distributing communion, and you had to fight your way through your row to the center. It was then that our Legionary guide said "Ok, everyone switch places, so that those on the end of the row can be on the aisle for the exit procession." So Anthony and I, once again, ended up on the aisle.
And that's when I took this picture.
Not pictured: then-Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger (Pope Benedict XVI), who followed immediately behind Blessed John Paul the Great. I tried to take a picture of him, but had over-taxed the flash capacitor on my camera with all the pictures I had been taking, so it was still recharging.
Following the service, we went to the Colosseum for Stations of the Cross, again with the Pope, before returning to the Legionary seminary for much-needed sleep. That night, as we prepared for bed, I meditated on the day's events and realized that in the midst of this was a very important lesson: so long as you do God's will, it does not matter where you end up; that's where God wants you to be. To be a good Christian does not so much mean that you should be preoccupied with where you're going, or with what's going on around you, or with any external events. All that matters is that, in all that we do, we strive to do God's will. Wherever that brings us is exactly where we need to be. No matter what hardships we encounter along the way, God has a plan to bring us through them. It's a lesson that I frequently fail to live up to, but one that I've never forgotten.
* * *
The rest of the trip was glorious. Saturday, we attended the Vigil at St. Peter's. The Legionaries got us in to the section reserved for Diplomats.
Sunday we attended morning mass in St. Peter's square. The Legionaries got us into the section right behind the Cardinals.
It pays to travel Rome with the Legionaries, is what I'm saying here.
But, anyways, on this, the day of the beatification of John Paul the Great, and shortly after the tenth anniversary of my trip to Rome for Easter, I thought I'd share my silly little story of what this Saint meant for me.
Blessed John Paul II, pray for us!
