Lost in the Vatican

A backwards baseball cap, a dress and sneakers. That was my wardrobe when I met former Pope John Paul II.

A couple months after receiving my Confirmation and celebrating my 15th birthday, I embarked on a pilgrimage to Rome with my CCD graduating class. The plane ticket cost $500. We fundraised for months to earn enough money. With more than $2,000 in traveler's checks, I journeyed into Catholicism's holiest ground with five girls and four boys. The week-long trip tested our survival skills and strengthened our faith.

It was no vacation. Our disciplined routine consisted of attending numerous daily masses, awakening at the crack of dawn, wearing formal attire every day and constantly meeting strict appointments and deadlines. Sleeping on a cold, hard floor in sleeping bags, our shelter was an abandoned classroom in a run-down elementary school. Forced into humble nutrition, our diet was limited to one bland, mass-produced boxed lunch a day. We also chugged rancid-tasting liquid out of a cardboard carton to escape Italy's contaminated water system. Stripping us of all comfort, the cushions were removed from the kneelers at Mass, so the solid wood beams cut into our abraded knees.

In addition, the school had no hot water. So after enduring the first arctic shower from a rusty faucet, I vowed to abstain from bathing for the rest of the trip. Luckily, I had stashed a Philadelphia Eagles cap underneath the stack of daily-required dresses. By the fifth day, I used it to mask my greasy, disheveled quaff.

Venturing into the city tested our fortitude just as much as our living conditions. The Vatican was packed to the brim with an estimated 700,000 people within a seven-mile radius. It took nearly an hour to walk a half-mile. During our tumultuous tour through Rome, bodies crammed against each other like five people squeezed into the backseat of a Mitsubishi Eclipse.

The females and males had split into two separate chaperoned groups. The golden rule was stick together. Filtering our way through the crowd, I suddenly noticed that Jessica Gagnon, a tall, slender 14-year-old, had gone astray about 40 feet behind us.

"Wait, Jess is back there," I announced. Our chaperone ignored the fact and pushed ahead of us. The girls stood panicked and indecisive. Feeling like a coastguard on a rescue mission, I boosted the team into action.

"We have to go back! I'm not leaving her behind!" I screamed. "Follow me!"

I fought through the menacing tides of people, pulling me in all directions, and tried to keep my drowning friend in sight.

"Jess, I'm coming! Stay there!" I yelled. Seeing that she was crying, I wanted to reach her as fast as possible. The other girls, trying not to push anyone, trailed behind me. "Come on, girls! Don't be polite--just shove your way through!"

In a not so heroic effort, I finally grabbed her, and we reunified. The good news was that the six of us were together. The bad news was that our chaperone was nowhere in sight.

Our worst nightmare came true, as we found ourselves stranded amidst the masses in a foreign country. But after momentary panic, we realized our liberation. Unburdened by authority, we were free to roam and explore wherever we pleased.

The city's architecture alone beautified Rome. But even with The Coliseum and Roman Forum towering over us, sightseeing came second to religion. The girls and I voyaged on a religious experience that was all our own. We immersed ourselves in Catholicism by visiting museums, churches and historical buildings that inspired our Christian hearts.

The most memorable sight was the crown of thorns, accompanied by the nails and crucifix pieces, which Christ wore when He died. All of my skepticism wiped away in that moment. It secured physical evidence of the religious faith I held so dearly.

By nine o'clock that night, the reality of our situation struck us. It was pitch dark, and we were stuck in the middle of nowhere with no direction. Our initial idea marked getting to the hotel where Patricia Fason, leader of the trip, was staying. But we had received wrong directions numerous times from the few English-speaking officials we found.

None of us knew any Italian, so the language barrier proved great, and we were too young to be taken seriously by anyone. Even if our teenage minds scrounged up a new game plan, it would be impossible to execute in the 700,000 droves of people.

Twelve hours had passed since we began. The fact of us having no cell phones further demoralized us. There would be no signal anyway. Reconvening in St. Peter's Basilica, we rested our exhausted bodies while our minds scrambled for solutions. We had traveled many miles of terrain, only to end up back where we began. Wearing white sneakers, I thanked God that I had chosen logic over image that morning.

Three hours later--after a 15-hour hike around the Vatican--we finally spotted a map to Hotel Grandé and trudged our way there. The clock read nearly 1 a.m. when we, at last, made it back to the school. Authorities reprimanded us for breaking away from our chaperone. Despite explaining what happened, we laboriously cleaned an area assigned to us as our punishment.

Everything came into fruition on the final day, when we had VIP seats to witness the late Pope. We had attended the papal service every day but were never close enough until then. The Mass started, and my chance opened for the opportunity of a lifetime.

The crowd erupted. John Paul II rode across the aisle in his Pope mobile, and I jumped up from the front row of the second section. As he approached, I fought my petite body through the suffocating crowd to the forefront of the railing.

In that moment, I stood inches from John Paul II's radiance, and it shrunk all of my adversity. The harsh living conditions. The cumbersome crowds. The aimless trek around the Vatican. The arduous months of fundraising. The cleaning duty. The fact that I was wearing a backwards cap, a dress and sneakers. All of this meant nothing.

Because I was a 15-year-old freshman who was standing in front of the most powerful man in the world, through every Catholic's eyes. There was no reason to complain.

For a greater power presented itself before me. The grace of God shone through this man, and my heart exalted in worship to the Lord. It marked one of the most exhilarating moments of my life.

It was then that I realized I hadn't gotten lost at all. With Christ as my compass, I had been guided by Him all along. Renewed, I headed back to the school that night.

I had finally found my way.