Touched by a Saint

 
The assembly room of our military chapel on Caserma Ederle in Vicenza teemed with people. Several women wearing cheerleader-smiles approached me. “Kathy, want to go with us to a conference in Rome…?”
 
Most people would have jumped at the chance. Here we were stationed in northern Italy, less than a day’s journey from Rome, and I had never been there. Still, with two little ones and my husband commanding an airborne unit, our days were already busy.  At that point in my life, I'd relegated religion to a few hours a week—meal and bedtime prayers with kids, and then church on Sundays.
 
No, I wasn’t ready for Rome!
 
Or, so I thought. But, in a matter of days. funding, travel arrangements, and care for our children miraculously fell in place.  My husband even encouraged my opportunity. With no excuses left, coerced into going, I (along with several women from our chapel) boarded a train for Rome.
                                                                        …

I slipped into St. Peter’s Basilica, just before closing.  Despite its immense size, the interior seemed unusually empty with a quiet sacredness that was almost tangible.  The rays of the late afternoon sun reached through the Holy Spirit window and warmed my face.

Like a tiny child, caught alone in the spotlight on a vast stage, I stood small against the majestic basilica. A single strong beam of light pierced through the shadows, illuminating my body, falling in a circle around my feet. Transfixed by what mere words could not convey, I stared at the Holy Spirit window. It was only a window. But the light that bathed and embraced me, melted something inside. Emotion welled up and tricked down my cheeks.

Reluctantly, with a guard motioning me toward the door, I turned to leave.  In the distance Michelangelo’s Pieta silently spoke volumes about love and pain.  Deep within me, a strange unexplainable feeling stirred. 
 
That strange feeling stirred again as I funneled through the cordoned-off security area for a Wednesday morning papal audience. 

The crowd in front of Nervi’s colossal reinforced-concrete auditorium was large—lines long.  All around me people vied for position. Not me. I had come not as a pilgrim but as a spectator. I continued quietly, unsure what I was feeling—mostly unworthy. 
 
Inside the arched building, a sea of faces and hands crowded me, pressing me where I did not want to go. So many desperately wanted to be seen and touched.  I was not one of them. I had neither  desire nor impetus to leap over others simply to see or be seen.  Having never witnessed a papal audience, I expected the pontiff to nod his head at those clamoring to be recognized. I figured he'd bless the assembled crowd, possibly touching a few closest to him. But, this was Pope John Paul II, who longed to connect with the people as much as they longed to connect with him.
 
People longed for contact with this magnetic leader. The more they reached and grabbed, the more I stood disparate and aloof, embarrassed by, and for the crowd. This was a man, a simple humble man—charismatic Vicar of Christ, yes—but none-the-less a man. (I had always hated seeing people throw themselves at rock stars, politicians and sports figures, at TV celebrities or anyone.  I believed people were people the world over and had dignity, whether in important positions of leadership, or begging in the streets.)
 
In my spectator stance, I contentedly watched from a distance. What was it about this man that drew such throngs to him? I mused, never considering that John Paul II, as he made his way down the aisle, could stop in front of me. But suddenly, there he was.

(It was as if God said to him, “This one's a skeptic. You need to get through the scar-tissue covering her heart, and let her experience My love.”)
 
As the someday saint took my hand to his and gently held my face, something happened that, even now, I struggle to convey. Time stood still as his smiling eyes lovingly looked into mine. I felt transparent as if he could see everything—everything I’d tried to push down deep. And yet, I understood what Mary Magdalene must have felt when lifted from the dirt and harshness of life and given a fresh start.
 
This holy pontiff had had no pretense in him. He had stopped not to take but to give, and despite my skepticism, to affirm my dignity as beloved daughter. It’s hard to understand how a divine touch can heal scars that were hidden where no one else dared to look. As I felt the Spirit of God permeating this man’s warm gentleness and fatherly touch, I no longer wanted to watch from afar. —Not when God was so near. It was only a moment in time. But so beautiful was his peace and God’s presence in him that I saw not the man, but God through the man. —As if God, Himself, was holding my hand in His. 
 
John Paul II continued down the aisle but left me with so much more than a memory.  Truly, the most amazing aspect of having been touched by a saint was not that I met him, but that in him I met God.
  The Stranger
 
During the papal audience I had been seated more on the peripheral of our conference group, Now, several ladies from Vicenza gathered.
 
“You won’t ever want to wash your face,” one of them commented.
 
How could I explain to these ladies the aloof feelings with which I'd arrived? or my thoughts about beggars being just as much people as celebrities? For me those blessed moments with John Paul II had not been about him as public figure or church leader, but about the undeniable presence of God in him. As the women chattered, I nodded my head and quietly answered a few questions. Still, I was ready to go home. Having traveled far from the routine that had lulled me into complacency, I was ready to take my fresh start home. 
We were waiting for the crowd to disperse when a stranger approached me.  “Can you meet me here, tomorrow?”

 “No.”

I looked at this guy incredulously. Why would an Italian man, a stranger, ask me to meet him there the next day?
 
“I think I got a nice photograph of you with Pope John Paul II.”
 
“Oh?” I softened my tone, but shook my head.  “I leave Rome tomorrow to travel home.”   
 
“I can meet you here early in the morning before you leave.”
 
I shook my head again. “No, I’m attending a conference and our last session is in the morning. Even if I had time, I would have no way to get here.”    
 
“Where are you staying?”
 
Normally I wouldn’t have shared that information with a stranger, but knowing I was with a group and we were leaving the next day, I mentioned the hotel, said “goodbye” and “thank you, anyway” .
 
That next morning I found the short well-dressed stranger sitting in the lobby of my hotel.  He was old enough to have been my father.  I probably would have walked past unaware had the man not been searching every face that passed. He held a large manila envelope in his hand and jumped from his seat when he recognized me.
 
I was still taken aback that this stranger had sought and found me. From out of the envelope he pulled several photographs taken of me and Pope John Paul II in the previous day’s audience.  True to his word, the photographer showed me the special moment he had captured in print. He even included a picture taken by another photographer. (Being unaccustomed to papal audiences, I had no idea that there were shops outside the Vatican where pilgrims (or spectators) could see proofs and order prints from the Wednesday audiences.)  Obviously, this stranger knew my naivety when he went out of his way to hand-deliver photos that I would have otherwise missed. I don’t remember the man asking me for money. (I’m sure I had to have thanked him, but certainly not profusely enough for his extraordinary efforts.)  None-the-less the man pressed the envelope into my hands and was gone. Only his precious photos remained.   I’ve cherished those photos for many reasons. Even though I never had “a Saul to Paul, blinded and knocked off my feet, conversion,” I have been blessed with an accumulation of special moments through the years. God’s touch through John Paul II, was one such moment and an important one at that.

Seventeen years later, I realized my blessings were still unfolding.  
John Paul II lay dying when he called for his faithful friend and worker, Arturo Mari.
 
That same week halfway across the world, I sat watching a documentary on life inside the Vatican. The documentary, complete with Swiss Guard and papal-worker interviews, left me unknowingly sharing in the dying pope’s sentiments as he spoke final words to Mari.
 
The film featured a variety of employees, each offering unique insight. One Vatican worker interviewed said that it would have been impossible to have worked so closely with John Paul II for so many years and not have had his life changed for good. I heard the emotion in this man’s voice, the sincerity and affection with which he spoke of the Holy Father. Mesmerized, I looked into this man’s eyes as he went on to describe his work as John Paul II’s personal photographer.   Seventeen years and one month had passed, but even before I heard his name, I suddenly realized the rest of the story—it was him! 
 
I ran down the hall, grabbed one of the sacred photos and turned it over. For the first time I read that label with complete understanding.    
John Paul II’s personal photographer, Arturo Mari, was the one who went out of his way to bring me those precious photos. That day he captured God through the Holy Pontiff breaking into my heart.
 
Pope John Paul II’s final words to this faithful photographer are the ones I echo, now.
“Grazie, Arturo. Grazie!”
 
Thank you, Arturo. Thank you!  Without your persistence and faithfulness, I would have been tempted to doubt my memory of that blessed moment.  Instead, your photo sits on my desk reminding me of your selfless action and the difference each of us can make when we dare to walk where our Lord leads.  Grazie, Arturo. Grazie!
 
Certainly, you and I, Signor Mari, have been touched by a saint. For me it was—one touch which has lasted a lifetime. For you a lifetime—touched—not only by Pope John Paul II and Pope John XXIII but by many other saints who have changed our lives for good.
 
Yes, truly the most amazing aspect of being touched by a saint is not that we’ve met him, but that in him we’ve met God .