I know I'm behind on my thoughts on Rome as a whole, but I wanted to write this up while I was still basking in the glow of St Peter's Basilica and Vatican City. It had an impact on me that I didn't expect, and I had to sit down for a little while to compose myself.
Many of you know that I was raised Catholic, and in fact, was very devout until I was 27 years old. It was the church of my godmother, a woman who taught me true unconditional love. It supported her and loved her and helped her through the most difficult parts of her life. She recognized the power of the church in her life, and shared that joy and love with me. Through our neighborhood church, I found peace in a chaotic life. By saying the rosary, I found calm in the storm of my soul.
And then I lost my son, and the church couldn't help me. I ached on a level I'd never known before and for the first time in my life, the church didn't soothe my soul. In fact, because of the turn it had taken being more angry and more aggressive against women who wanted a choice in how and when and with whom they should have a child, I found that the church felt abrasive against my heart, and I had to walk away. The Catholic church no longer brought me joy; it added to my pain.
For the past 23 years, I've still said my rosary when the need came, though it's been rare. Usually only on the death of a loved one, like my godmother or my friend Brian. I've gone to mass for occasions, not as a balm to my soul. I've been angry and hurt and felt betrayed by the men who drive what the church has become.
A few days ago, I came to Rome, the heart of my former church. One cannot turn a corner without coming across a church with history. One church that I stepped inside had been built inside the ruins of an ancient Roman bath in 600-ish CE! Know how I found this church? I walked up the street. No, seriously.
I've brought those two rosaries I bought in Montserrat to each of these churches and blessed them with the holy water that is in all Catholic churches.
I've knelt in each of these churches and prayed. I've lit candles, bowed my head, and with all of my heart, spoke to Jesus to bring this world back around to what He wanted, to bring His followers back into line with what He'd asked of them.
Several times, I've been brought to tears with the pain that's slowly breaking free of my heart. It's been a very long 23 years, and a lot has happened to close me off from the joy that I felt in the church that I know so well.
So, today... I went to Vatican City. It's so hard to explain to someone who isn't Catholic what this means. It's almost like ... walking into the pearly gates while still alive. There's a palpable air about the space. It vibrates with history, with lore, with joys, with sorrows.
I blessed myself and my rosaries as I did in each church before, and within moments, I felt the tears threaten. This wasn't just any church. This was St. Peter's. This was the church.
The Pope wasn't in attendance, of course, but that hardly mattered. This basilica held all Popes, past, present, and future. This space cowed to the power of all that had come and all that would come. I don't mean power in terms of politics, though that's also an obvious factor here. No, I mean the power of the love of the Christian God. I mean what Man would - and has done - in His name, and how that's changed the world several times over. The weight of that, the power, the strength in that conviction - I felt that as I walked the floor of that church.
At some point, as I wandered the floor, annoyed at the people who clearly didn't understand the sanctity they were being given access to, a choir began to sing. They were practicing, and sang only a few parts of a few songs, but the reverberations, the echoes, the added power to that space, undid me. I stood to the side and closed my eyes as tears streamed down my face. My soul broke free, and I felt.
What did I feel? Oh, so much. Everything. Nothing. All. None. My heart burst into a million pieces, and then pulled itself back together into something stronger, better, broken yet whole. I wish I could explain it to you in a way that would make sense, but I can't. It was wholly me, and yet, wholly, all of those who've been there. Who've felt true loss.
After I caught my breath and gave myself a minute to breathe again, I sought out the cuppola. Lance, the guy from Vesurvius, had strongly encouraged me to climb to the top, to see it all. He said that it was worth it. He, like me, is a "recovering" Catholic, so he understood without having to be told, and so I trusted him.
Going into St. Peter's is free. It's God's church, and therefore the church of the People. But the cuppola is a different beast. You can pay 10 Euro to take the elevator, or 8 Euro to walk the 554 stairs. Guess which I did? Yeah.... I took the hard route.
Wait. So here's where I should mention that I don't like enclosed spaces. Or heights. I'm not just a little leery of these things. I've been known to go into full-on panic-attack mode under the wrong circumstances. (I once ripped myself out of my dress in a blind panic because it felt too constraining. Not kidding.) But this was important. So, up I went.
The first stop was the rotunda above the church apse. (That's where the alter is in a Catholic church.) Here, we were at the mosaics. Oh, those mosaics. I couldn't help but think of CJ, Selene, and Ericka while I strolled along that walkway. Oh, you guys. You would have died!
Then, the choir began to sing again, and I paused, catching my breath. Then a priest gave a benediction of some sort. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but his intonations were beautiful, and I stood there, my hands on the railing, just taking it all in, my fear - for the moment - gone.
Once the priest was done, I moved off the rotunda and back to the staircase... going up. Because the rotunda wasn't the cuppola. That was another 300+ stairs - in incredibly tight quarters - up. Which I did, trudging along after multiple other people. Women, children, men, all huffed and puffed up those stairs to the very top. And I don't know how to explain how it looked from there other than... wow. Just... wow. Lance was so right.
Oh, I mean, I shook like a leaf, and breathed heavily, and at least one person looked at me a little alarmed. (There were a lot of people looking green around the gills, so it was kind of a thing up there. They were looking out for each other, and I got caught up in their concern.)
After a fairly short time, I decided that I'd had enough and tried to find the stairs down. They were not, however, readily apparent, and I started to panic a little. I did lamaze breathing (because I'm going to tell you right now that that stuff helps you through anything), and followed the wall until I finally came to the exit and made my way down, down, down those stairs. I've never been so grateful that my knees are solid as I was walking down those narrow, tight, winding stairs. (No picture of these because WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE I WAS TERRIFIED!!)
Once you come down from the cuppola, you end up on the roof of St Peter's. Not kidding. And there's a gift shop here. Again, not kidding.
I bought myself a case for my rosary (I'd already bought one for Graciela's) as well as a lovely little prayer from Pope Francis in Spanish to give to Graciela with her rosary. Then I hightailed it back down those 554 stairs to the bottom floor. I'd had enough of heights and ridiculously closed-in spaces.
The exit from the cuppola is through the church, so I walked back through the church to the holy water at the back to bless myself out of the church. (It's a Catholic thing.)
Only, there were people standing in line at the bowl taking pictures putting their hand into the holy water. WTF? *rolls eyes* So I went in, disrupting some girl's picture, put my finger in the holy water and blessed myself while glaring at the girl, and then walked out of the basilica.
Then, I sat on a stone bench and cried for a little bit. Not long - and not heaving sobs - but I just allowed myself to feel. I felt the pain, the anger, the frustrations of the last couple of decades ebb away. I felt the sorrow for my son come to my heart, hold it, and then seep away. And then, as I sat there, the bells of the church began to toll.
It was 4:40. I don't know the significance of that time (sundown?), but the bells rang loudly, clearly, and with gusto for several minutes, and people stood and stared at those bells in stunned silence. Then cameras came out, videos were taken, chatter began, and humanity fell back into the cadence and rhythm we all recognize and feel comfortable with.
I walked away from St Peter's Square then, my hand tightly coiled around the rosary box I'd bought, my heart sore and tender. And yet, I felt as though I'd fought a dragon in the hours I'd been in and on the basilica. I was bone tired, exhausted, and yet feeling completely alive and whole.
Many of you know that I was raised Catholic, and in fact, was very devout until I was 27 years old. It was the church of my godmother, a woman who taught me true unconditional love. It supported her and loved her and helped her through the most difficult parts of her life. She recognized the power of the church in her life, and shared that joy and love with me. Through our neighborhood church, I found peace in a chaotic life. By saying the rosary, I found calm in the storm of my soul.
And then I lost my son, and the church couldn't help me. I ached on a level I'd never known before and for the first time in my life, the church didn't soothe my soul. In fact, because of the turn it had taken being more angry and more aggressive against women who wanted a choice in how and when and with whom they should have a child, I found that the church felt abrasive against my heart, and I had to walk away. The Catholic church no longer brought me joy; it added to my pain.
For the past 23 years, I've still said my rosary when the need came, though it's been rare. Usually only on the death of a loved one, like my godmother or my friend Brian. I've gone to mass for occasions, not as a balm to my soul. I've been angry and hurt and felt betrayed by the men who drive what the church has become.
A few days ago, I came to Rome, the heart of my former church. One cannot turn a corner without coming across a church with history. One church that I stepped inside had been built inside the ruins of an ancient Roman bath in 600-ish CE! Know how I found this church? I walked up the street. No, seriously.
I've brought those two rosaries I bought in Montserrat to each of these churches and blessed them with the holy water that is in all Catholic churches.
I've knelt in each of these churches and prayed. I've lit candles, bowed my head, and with all of my heart, spoke to Jesus to bring this world back around to what He wanted, to bring His followers back into line with what He'd asked of them.
Several times, I've been brought to tears with the pain that's slowly breaking free of my heart. It's been a very long 23 years, and a lot has happened to close me off from the joy that I felt in the church that I know so well.
So, today... I went to Vatican City. It's so hard to explain to someone who isn't Catholic what this means. It's almost like ... walking into the pearly gates while still alive. There's a palpable air about the space. It vibrates with history, with lore, with joys, with sorrows.
I blessed myself and my rosaries as I did in each church before, and within moments, I felt the tears threaten. This wasn't just any church. This was St. Peter's. This was the church.
The Pope wasn't in attendance, of course, but that hardly mattered. This basilica held all Popes, past, present, and future. This space cowed to the power of all that had come and all that would come. I don't mean power in terms of politics, though that's also an obvious factor here. No, I mean the power of the love of the Christian God. I mean what Man would - and has done - in His name, and how that's changed the world several times over. The weight of that, the power, the strength in that conviction - I felt that as I walked the floor of that church.
At some point, as I wandered the floor, annoyed at the people who clearly didn't understand the sanctity they were being given access to, a choir began to sing. They were practicing, and sang only a few parts of a few songs, but the reverberations, the echoes, the added power to that space, undid me. I stood to the side and closed my eyes as tears streamed down my face. My soul broke free, and I felt.
What did I feel? Oh, so much. Everything. Nothing. All. None. My heart burst into a million pieces, and then pulled itself back together into something stronger, better, broken yet whole. I wish I could explain it to you in a way that would make sense, but I can't. It was wholly me, and yet, wholly, all of those who've been there. Who've felt true loss.
After I caught my breath and gave myself a minute to breathe again, I sought out the cuppola. Lance, the guy from Vesurvius, had strongly encouraged me to climb to the top, to see it all. He said that it was worth it. He, like me, is a "recovering" Catholic, so he understood without having to be told, and so I trusted him.
Going into St. Peter's is free. It's God's church, and therefore the church of the People. But the cuppola is a different beast. You can pay 10 Euro to take the elevator, or 8 Euro to walk the 554 stairs. Guess which I did? Yeah.... I took the hard route.
Wait. So here's where I should mention that I don't like enclosed spaces. Or heights. I'm not just a little leery of these things. I've been known to go into full-on panic-attack mode under the wrong circumstances. (I once ripped myself out of my dress in a blind panic because it felt too constraining. Not kidding.) But this was important. So, up I went.
The first stop was the rotunda above the church apse. (That's where the alter is in a Catholic church.) Here, we were at the mosaics. Oh, those mosaics. I couldn't help but think of CJ, Selene, and Ericka while I strolled along that walkway. Oh, you guys. You would have died!
Then, the choir began to sing again, and I paused, catching my breath. Then a priest gave a benediction of some sort. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but his intonations were beautiful, and I stood there, my hands on the railing, just taking it all in, my fear - for the moment - gone.
Once the priest was done, I moved off the rotunda and back to the staircase... going up. Because the rotunda wasn't the cuppola. That was another 300+ stairs - in incredibly tight quarters - up. Which I did, trudging along after multiple other people. Women, children, men, all huffed and puffed up those stairs to the very top. And I don't know how to explain how it looked from there other than... wow. Just... wow. Lance was so right.
Oh, I mean, I shook like a leaf, and breathed heavily, and at least one person looked at me a little alarmed. (There were a lot of people looking green around the gills, so it was kind of a thing up there. They were looking out for each other, and I got caught up in their concern.)
After a fairly short time, I decided that I'd had enough and tried to find the stairs down. They were not, however, readily apparent, and I started to panic a little. I did lamaze breathing (because I'm going to tell you right now that that stuff helps you through anything), and followed the wall until I finally came to the exit and made my way down, down, down those stairs. I've never been so grateful that my knees are solid as I was walking down those narrow, tight, winding stairs. (No picture of these because WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE I WAS TERRIFIED!!)
Once you come down from the cuppola, you end up on the roof of St Peter's. Not kidding. And there's a gift shop here. Again, not kidding.
I bought myself a case for my rosary (I'd already bought one for Graciela's) as well as a lovely little prayer from Pope Francis in Spanish to give to Graciela with her rosary. Then I hightailed it back down those 554 stairs to the bottom floor. I'd had enough of heights and ridiculously closed-in spaces.
The exit from the cuppola is through the church, so I walked back through the church to the holy water at the back to bless myself out of the church. (It's a Catholic thing.)
Only, there were people standing in line at the bowl taking pictures putting their hand into the holy water. WTF? *rolls eyes* So I went in, disrupting some girl's picture, put my finger in the holy water and blessed myself while glaring at the girl, and then walked out of the basilica.
Then, I sat on a stone bench and cried for a little bit. Not long - and not heaving sobs - but I just allowed myself to feel. I felt the pain, the anger, the frustrations of the last couple of decades ebb away. I felt the sorrow for my son come to my heart, hold it, and then seep away. And then, as I sat there, the bells of the church began to toll.
It was 4:40. I don't know the significance of that time (sundown?), but the bells rang loudly, clearly, and with gusto for several minutes, and people stood and stared at those bells in stunned silence. Then cameras came out, videos were taken, chatter began, and humanity fell back into the cadence and rhythm we all recognize and feel comfortable with.
I walked away from St Peter's Square then, my hand tightly coiled around the rosary box I'd bought, my heart sore and tender. And yet, I felt as though I'd fought a dragon in the hours I'd been in and on the basilica. I was bone tired, exhausted, and yet feeling completely alive and whole.
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