Rome Encountered

     Two thousand three hundred kilometres from where I am sitting fairly comfortably, is a spot where a few weeks ago I was destined before creation to stand (and sit and kneel and bow) for a fleeting period of time. From my position when I extended my neck and gazed at the apse, I realised the true purpose of my being and me being there, to see and know where I belong- at the feet of the King, the love of my life. May the dust that braced His feet shadow my existence. Before I could ponder if I was worthy to be where I was, to covet where I want to be and even to dare raise my eyes further up to His face, “Behold!” I heard the priest exclaim. The invitation was to see, not His feet, but His body and soul and not just to behold but to touch, taste and become. The answer to my question came from me in the timely response, ‘Lord, I am not worthy…’

     ‘Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap,’ promised my sweet Lord. A few pages of scripture hence, He poured out till the last of his sacred blood in fulfilment. He sounded confident about what He can give, and He knew what it meant to give it all. But how does it feel like to receive a good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over?

     Circa 2013 AD, I broke a miniature replica of the Pieta that my friend possessed, and I promised him that I would get one for him from the Vatican no less. A lofty promise I had no hesitation to make then as I took enormous pride in my dark sense of humour and the confidence I held in the impossibility of the proposition. I could have even promised him a spectator seat in a conclave. Failing classes and with no prospect of completing my degree, the idea of traveling abroad appeared only in jokes and vivid daydreams. Ten summers since, I stood a few feet from Michaelangelo’s masterpiece of the Master’s masterpiece. God’s good measure was not just the opportunity to look upon the marble of Madonna with the corpse of her Son. God’s good measure was when I was granted a glimpse into her sorrow. If she has space to hold the body of a thirty three year old, she will have place for me, lifeless that I am. 

     The thirty three year old was once only a few hours old when his delicate body claimed dominion over a manger. A piece of wood from his first home, that I did not even know existed, sits silently under an altar. Like the poor father on that night, this inanimate object does not speak and yet it conveys volumes. It called to mind yet another wood that He claimed as His. So strong was His claim that three pieces of iron ensured there was no parting from it; He was not going to let it go, He was not going to come down. There is a slight legal issue here because the latter piece of wood was mine, every tiny splinter. 

     Not that I want it back to be honest. I am stuck in the garden, and I refuse to leave. 

     For such is my expectation (?hope) that I get to choose to carry what I please. While I ridicule the Dolorosa with the kind of choices I make with impeccable precision, the offer from the one who endured it has been consistent- good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over. To stand mere metres away from The Rock, to see The Rock swing by and make eye contact for a fraction of a second, to walk by a ground drenched with the blood of Martyrs, to touch the tombs of His friends- all incredible blessings yet only a fraction of His provision. True providence was when I opted to abandon kindness in pursuit of religious tourism, and I got to witness Him in the Love displayed by my fellow pilgrims without whom I would still be who I was before the 26^th of July 2025.

     With these pilgrims, I shared moments that will stay with me for a long time. The vocation testimony of a Belarusian monk, the wait to be metal-detected, putting my flag knowledge to the test, the excitement of Pontifex maximus drawing near, the moment I laid eyes on the colonnades, the walk surrounded by a thousand banners and a million souls, the ethereal atmosphere of the vigil, dark chocolate and mint gelato, theology at Santa Maria, the zeal of the brown habit in action, Jerusalema, group analysis in No. 870, and the hymns rising to heaven from a delayed coach, to list a few. 

     For the company, I am grateful. 

     To always be a pilgrim, I shall endeavour. 

     To Rome, my home, I shall one day return. 

And at His feet, I shall always remain. 

-Sam