The big potato

"I bet you'll have an audience with the Pope," said Mom, scanning the itinerary.

"Mom, that's not how it works. Do you have any idea how many Catholics there are in the world?"

"They're probably hoping to surprise you. I mean it would fit right in to your course, right? The Pope is a Jesuit. Why else would they take you to Rome?"

"Because it's ROME, Ma. Not everyone has been there. We're just going to see Rome. You know, the Vatican, St. Peter's, the Sistine chapel - we're going to stand in line like normal tourists and see all the stuff you're supposed to see. THAT's how it fits into the course."

I give her grief for it, but I've always appreciated my mom's indomitable "Well, why NOT my kid?" optimism.

Our wake-up call is a punishing 6:45am, and that doesn't allow time for breakfast. We are supposed to attend Mass at St. Peter's basilica and then return to the hotel to eat. By now I should know better than to depend on the proposed meal schedule. My comrades have already teased me for squirreling away "bus butter" and "purse pizza." 

Hypoglycemia is a real thing, people. I looked it up. 

Our Roman guide, Rudy, returns from the gates of St Peter's square with a helpless shrug. "The church is closed." Our American leader, a

Jesuit priest, isn't shrugging. He looks appalled. "There is an audience," Rudy explains. "Special audience, so they have changed the routine. That's how it is with this Pope, you never know."

After MUCH standing around and failure to accept the reality of the church being closed, we end up in a metal carrel behind a bunch of nuns. Rudy is making new friends, getting the lay of the land. Turns out all these people - the nuns, the civilians (I count four languages), the men dressed up kind of like nuns (no idea, and I didn't ask. By this time I was just wishing I'd thought to bring a pocket pretzel or some backpack brioche) - have tickets for the special audience. We're not getting in to the church.

Just when I'm about to make Marc google hypoglycemia so I can show it to our leader and say "It's a real thing," we decide to cut our losses and return to the hotel. "You can stop by here at 9:20am, at the edge of the square," Rudy offers. "He will come out onto the platform in the distance there, maybe you will see him."

The square is closed and guarded when we return but I stride toward the guards with all the confidence that comes from standing next to Kendra, a beautiful blonde with a disarming smile. We are so getting past these guards. We offer the contents of our purses for search, and the guards look quizzically at me, holding up my undereye concealer wand. "HYPOGLYCEMIA IS A REAL THING," I want to shout. It gives me those high-fashion heroin eyes.

The ticket holders are gathered beneath the platform.  Marc, Brian, Sean and Noel made it through before the gates were closed; we find them easily by scanning the crowd for Mount Brian. We wait in the sun as a Cardinal announces the names of all the groups who have made a pilgrimage to be here today. Cheers erupt from the Indiana youth choir. The Portuguese are more dignified when their name is called. Up on the dais, every pregnant pause only produces another Cardinal, to repeat the litany in Spanish, then in French.

At either side of the square, where the arches meet the ancient walls, two enormous video monitors come to life. There is a shift in the crowd; people are scanning. The video screen shows the Pope in his carriage rolling along, waving, grasping hands. It looks like any image I've seen on tv but I realize he must be HERE, somewhere. I don't know which way to look so I watch the crowd; it gets a little momentum as people begin to spot him and start turning, larger and larger groups all looking in one direction. 

My friends start jumping up and down. I hear the vehicle before I see him; he's nineteen yards to my left and rolling fast this way. To my astonishment, he's going to pass right by us. None of us even use the zoom lens on our cameras. 

What began as a series of delays and disappointments has been transformed like the Eucharist into a close encounter with something soul-stirring. The moment the Jesuit Pope passes me, I say a prayer for what I want most: for my student, Andrew, not to have cancer anymore. I pray that he will be liberated from ever having to worry about it coming back. I pray that he'll get to play soccer again. Please, God, let it be Andrew's life and not his death that becomes a testament to the power of prayer. 

I stood in the spot that Rudy suggested for us, that Brian located, that Kendra secured, that only grace could have created. No one pushed me; no one jostled each other at all. I raised my arm and reached out. 

I didn't earn that audience with the Pope. I think God just sent me there to hold the camera.

Don't look at him; look at the nun.