Yeast & Flowers
It was Sunday, April 19, 1992. I remember waking up to the aroma of yeast and flowers coming from a nearby apartment. But, then I don’t recall the details of that morning’s journey. Did I take the metro? The bus? The sky was a happy shade of blue and the air was cool and unusually clean. I knew I needed to arrive in St. Peter’s Square early...but how early? After all, it was Easter Sunday and I was headed to the Vatican.
Valerie touring Pompeii in 1992.
I was finishing my 9th month living in Rome and this was the first big holiday service I was attending in this holy place. I wiggled my way gently and politely through the crowd, rubbing shoulders with colorful, joyful nuns and devout men and women waving flags from around the world. Before long, I found myself surrounded by thousands upon thousands of pilgrims - perhaps as many as 40,000 people. I was twenty years old - a college student living in Rome.
I had been to the Vatican before. Dozens of times. In fact, once or twice a month I would bring my personal mail to the Vatican post office. Within a few days my handwritten letters to the States would arrive in the hands of my parents and friends - a fact most tourists didn’t know. This was before email and cell phones. In 1992, personal letters were still very much how updates about my year abroad made it home. But, today St. Peter’s Square was different. I felt the warmth of the souls standing with me, facing the stage in front of the basilica where Pope John Paul II would soon appear. I wrapped myself in the laughter and cheers that seemed to echo through the columns and up to the sky. Tears of deep joy shimmered on their cheeks.
I recall the moment when the Pope began to recite certain parts of the service in various languages. German. Spanish. English. Visitors from those countries rejoiced as the Pope delivered messages of hope across the sea of thousands. I looked around and found myself humbled to be a witness to this unity. While I was not raised in the Catholic church, it did not matter. One did not need anything other than an open heart to be moved and changed on this Sunday morning.
I don’t remember the long walk home. I don’t remember the crowds that must have flooded the surrounding streets at the end of the service, but I do remember returning to my apartment. I pushed the well worn ivory button inside the tiny antique elevator which slowly brought me up. After preparing a cup of tea, I opened the window and looked down at the street below. I watched the cars wandering their way through the streets. Easter Sunday, I thought, will forever connect me to this place and this moment.
If I live to be 97 years old, I will still close my eyes on Easter and smell the yeast and flowers. I will be transported back to the middle of St. Peter’s Square and smile at the nuns. I will see my reflection in the tears on their cheeks. And, I hope I will be as grateful as I am today for this memory tucked safely away in my mind - it is a gift to go back in time.
Happy Easter.
