Chasing Peter

Catching Peter 

I have created a new language. By smashing together Spanish, French and six words of Italian, I am able to communicate as a thoroughly confused four year old. But while I am lacking eloquence, i am generally at least partially understood. instead of speech, I rely on varying degrees  of smiles and shrugs and I simply hope for the best. 

Peter has robbed me of my beloved words and though at first I shouted at him and rebelled against him, I am beginning to understand. When I am forced to sit back, close my mouth and exit a conversation is when, for the first time, I begin to see. 

"Look around you Jen, tell me what it is that you see?"

"Peter, I had no idea.  I see so much. I see lovers leaning close, their heads angled together and their knees touching. I see an old man wistfully watching young children play in the square. I see fatigue in the lines of the body of the waitress. I see frustration and homesickness in the eyes of the foreigner.  I see impatience in the movements of a teenager. I see a hand resting comfortably in another's. "

The last stage walking into Rome is not very pretty. We walk single file along the busy highway as the smell of exhaust clogs the air. I walked quietly behind Serge and Angela, observing their linked hands and hearts. As I walked, I abruptly redirected my feet to avoid stepping on a dead cat on the side of the road. I quickly averted my eyes from its perfectly intact little body and lifeless eyes.

"Peter, what do I do when I see too much, when there is nothing I can do to ease any of the pain I see?"

"Jen, you look, you look closer, and then you look again while breathing in the blessings of your own life. I denied our lord 3 times, I looked away from his pain and yet he still gave me everything he had. "

We arrived inSaint Peters Square on July 29th at 11:30am, Angela dropping to her knees to reverently kiss the ground.  As the six of us looked at each other, a suspicious sheen was visible in each of our eyes.

We raised little plastic cups filled with crisp prosecco,  toasting Peter, friendship and the never ending drive to continue walking.

Sometimes though, the sacred moments are not the ones we expect. When Genevieve, Marion and I walked our last few miles to Saint James, the stars hung low and the smell of eucalyptus filled the air. We raced through the night guided by the Big Dipper pointing towards Our Jim. As for Peter, I tried to see him the day I arrived in Rome because as pilgrims we are allowed to skip the excessive line and head directly into the basilica to Peter's feet. However, we were told by the guards that one of us was responsible to stay with the bags. So I volunteered and contentedly sat writing, seated next to our bags as the others went inside to meet Peter. An hour later after everyone came back, I approached the guards to go in myself, but I was turned away with the excuse that the pilgrims office closes at 1pm and it was 12:59. I was deflated. 

I went back to see Peter on my birthday and while I was thrilled to bits to have the security guard sing happy birthday to me after checking my passport, I did not feel awe and a sense of the sacred while surrounded by a thousand photo snapping tourists and guards urging all to move along. I went to saint Peter's feet and just as a kind stranger was about to snap my photo with Peter and my testimonium, a guard told me to move. I waited patiently nearby for about a half hour until the guard felt bad and allowed me to have my photo taken but as I walked away contentedly, I looked at my camera only to discover that Peter's head was cut off. 

"Son of a @$&&!!!! "

Peter laughed deep in his stomach, "Jen, I guess if you only want a good picture then you will just have to come back again!! But you know that this was not your moment."

Peter was right, my sacred moment was not inside the basilica on my birthday or the day the guards turned me away, but rather My moment had been outside in Peter's empty quiet piazza late at night a couple days earlier. The stars had hung low as a blissfully mild breeze eased the roman heat. The cobble stone glowed from the soft light delicately illuminating the saints surrounding the piazza, and the Big Dipper had dangled in the sky directly above my dear Peter, ready to scoop us up and carry us off in a dream. 

      

"So Jen, when are you coming back to visit me again?"

"Peter, please just shut up..." I say as I stalk off to buy fifty Vespa keychains for my students.

“Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened.” 

― Dr. Seuss

Peter doesn't like to have his picture taken...