A papal blessing
Castel Gandolfo, Italy
I AM TAKING a tour to Castel Gandolfo, the summer residence of Pope Benedict XVl. It is July 2011, and I am in Rome for a week. It is hot, sticky, steamy and many places are not air conditioned. Out of breath and sweating, I have been walking all over the Eternal City undeterred, seeing the Coliseum, the Sistine Chapel (he painted this on his BACK?), the catacombs, the Boca de la Veritas. I eat gnocchi and gelato, drink wine that is cheaper than Coca-Cola. I see the city again at night, this ancient city and its incredible history illuminated, glowing, beckoning.
A woman on the tour bus asks me why am I going to see the Pope if I’m not Catholic? Caught off guard, I look at her in surprise. “Because he means so much to millions of people all over the world!” I exclaim. The bus stops at a roadside souvenir shop and our guide suggests this would be a good place to buy things for the Pope to bless. I look around at rosaries, crucifixes, pendants and pins. Raised Protestant, none of this is meaningful to me. I see small gold charms of little angels, cherubs, “putti” in Italian. Perfect for me- not too Catholic, not too religious.
I’m unsure exactly what I’m supposed to do with my putti charm so I ask the guide. “Hold it in your hand and when the Pope says the blessing, say a prayer.” I can do that, I think. I’ve got this.
The courtyard of Castel Gandolfo is small. It is packed with people from all over the world. One man, obviously a trained opera singer, starts singing Ave Maria, the haunting words echoing off the pale pink walls. Someone else jangles a tambourine. I see nuns, priests, old folks, children, all waiting for the Pope. There are maybe 1500 people here. In St. Peter’s Square in Rome, the crowds that gather number 20,000, all hoping for a glimpse of the Pope. Here it is intimate, personal, special.
At last Pope Benedict appears on the small balcony above our heads. The service is in Latin, with a banner of translation scrolling beneath. I clutch my putti tightly, trying to figure out precisely when I should say my prayer. Now? Maybe now? How about now? The translation is confusing.
Suddenly it’s all over and the crowd files out of the courtyard. I forgot to say a prayer! I didn’t understand what was being said! I missed my chance for the Pope to bless my golden putti! Later, back in the States, I tell a Catholic friend about my missed opportunity. “It doesn’t matter,” Julie says. “You were in the presence of the Pope.” I place the little charm in the plastic sleeve of my Delta ID card that I wear around my neck every time I fly. Protection, blessed by the Pope.
Later, I am working Atlanta to Washington DC on a blustery, rainy day. It is extremely turbulent coming in, so turbulent we can’t even serve beverages. Our passengers get off and new ones get on for the flight back to Atlanta, starting with a group of Secret Service agents. One of them asks me in a terrified voice, “How bad was the flight?”
His buddies, the other Secret Service agents, start laughing and mocking him. He’s afraid to fly and he’s very afraid of turbulence, I learn. I think to myself, and this man is allowed to carry a gun?? But I sympathetically answer his questions about the flight. “I’m not going to lie to you. It was pretty bumpy. But it was OK,” I say gently.
I show him the gold charm in my ID badge and tell him, “This was blessed by the Pope.” The Secret Service agent picks up my ID and rubs the charm through the plastic, trying to overcome the panic he feels. He calms down a little bit and we take off for Atlanta.
A year later, to my despair, my little putti charm has fallen out of my ID sleeve. I search everywhere, dump out the contents of my uniform purse, look through my inflight tote bag, but it is gone. Sadly, I tell my friend Julie. “It doesn’t matter,” she says consoling me.
“Someone else will find it and they will have a keepsake blessed by the Pope.”
