Italy in my bones…
We came to Italy with hearts wide open—some of us pilgrims for the first time, others seasoned sojourners of the sacred. What we could not have anticipated was just how deeply this pilgrimage would root itself in our bones.
We arrived under the bright banner of Jubilee, and to our astonishment, stood witness to history: the Papal Installation of Pope Leo. It was a glory all its own. St. Peter’s Square swelled with humanity, a sea of languages and longing. And there among the bishops and cardinals, among the splendour and the song, stood our own Father Greg—con-celebrating the Mass, hands lifted in unity with Peter’s successor. Back on the bus, in a spirit of genuine humility, he shared his experiences and the pictures with us all. In some way, we were there too. The Church, in all her pageantry and paradox, pulsed through us.
Yet not all moments were gilded and grand. Pilgrimage, after all, demands more than good shoes—it asks for the heart to break open again and again. One among us was especially innocent, uniquely needy, and in their vulnerability, called forth our collective compassion. It wasn’t always easy. But we know that when one suffers, we all suffer. That is the true measure of a holy people—how we carry each other when grace is costly and patience worn thin. And carry we did. Sometimes better than other times. Some of us better at it than others. Overall, I was awed by the generosity of spirit constellated in this ragtag tribe of believers.
Through crowds that pressed and nerves that frayed, we practiced staying centred. In the push and press of Roman traffic, in the impatience of lineups and language barriers, in the frustration of poor communication, we chose—again and again—to return to the still point. To breathe. To remember why we came. To pray the rosary together. And even when restaurants were full or closed, and there was “no room at the inn”, we found a way. A way was found for us. One of the highlights for me was the unexpected grace of a shared Sunday afternoon meal at a long table made for us in Ristorante Da Giorgio. Nothing soothes worn spirits more than true Italian hospitality.
And oh, the Masses. In ancient basilicas where saints’ bones whispered underfoot, and candlelight flickered like the Spirit herself, we knelt and sang and received. From the high altar of St. Peter’s Basilica, to a makeshift sanctuary in a hotel meeting room, we shared Eucharist, and prayers, and tears. We were never more one than when Christ met us in bread and wine. His body and His blood. Given up for us.
We built community at crowded tables—pizzerias echoing with laughter, dining rooms seasoned with stories. Cold beer quenched our weariness, rich wine softened the day, and Montenegro—our mysterious little digestivo—sealed a few sacred nights. Pasta was heaven. Art was exquisite. Weather was blessed. Vistas were stunning. But it was the fellowship that fed me deepest. Questions of where do you reside, what is your work, who are your people, gave way to the most profound and intimate question, how does your faith live? This is the question that will continue to inform my days and deepen my nights.
I met such devout people. Such honest people. Such beautiful people. We told stories. We sang songs. There was even a rap or two! My faith deepened in ways no itinerary could have planned.
And now, back home, I carry Italy in my body and in my spirit. I unpack my suitcase, sort and start the laundry, and begin the long process of reflection and integration. A pilgrimage does not begin with the departure nor does end with the arrival. Pilgrimage starts a process. This morning my prayer is that we will continue to carry each other. To carry the weight and wonder of what it means to be Church.
Until the next pilgrimage—
Muriel