A vastness of white stretched towards the imperial heights of the summer sky. The walls snaked along the road as far as my eyes could fathom. The walls seemed so foreboding and inappropriate to me, even in all their beauty. This holy place, revered by the masses, shouldn’t be blockaded by such a mundane structure as mere walls.
My attention was drawn to the impossibly long queue that I had found myself at the end of. That line was the most awe-inspiring thing I have ever in my life experienced before that day. Literally thousands of people lined the walls for blocks upon blocks. Thousands of people, come to wait in line, to wait for their tickets, and then be admitted to see the physical culmination of all their faith and prayers. Elderly Italian mothers touched the walls reverently as anticipatory tears slid beautifully down time-worn cheeks. Birds sang sweet praises on high as they swam through the sun choked skies. The beauty of the scene seemed strangely appropriate.
I longed to view any such place that could inspire reverence and beauty such as this. Abandoning my post in line, leaving the others behind to stand guard, I walked across the street onto a rise in the landscape. Struggling up the paved hill of sidewalk and street vendor, I strained to see over those white curtains. As I crested the top of the slant, the sun’s golden streamers flooded my vision, blinding me for a moment. Within an instant my eyes cleared and I was stricken with a thousand years of faith and perseverance built with the blood and tears of man. The Vatican sprawled before me in all its holy grandeur. And I realized, this place not only inspired faith, love and beauty, it demanded it. The soul of that place, for I do believe that it bore a greater presence than mere architecture, touched the souls of all who encountered it; man, woman, believer, non-believer. Myself being afflicted as I was, a mere tourist not drawn by religion, I was almost afraid to imagine the effect this monument had on those of purer faith than my own.
Descending from my other-worldly experience back to the land of postcard peddlers and backpacking teenagers, I rejoined my comrades in line. We shuffled along, like all the others, eager to breach those impressive fortifications. Around curves and bends, crossing two rather busy streets, we traveled in our quest for admittance. Finally, we rounded a turret and there it was, the Musei Vaticani, the entrance to the Vatican. We still had a formidable line to overcome, so tightly reigning in our excitement, we waited yet some more. It was during that seemingly unending interval of standstill that I saw her. Clad in black, from skirts to veil, she achingly made her way along the street. No more than five foot tall, the weight of ages like stones upon her back and chains upon her feet. One hand, hardened by years of work and finally broken by arthritis, stretched before her in a silent caress. She trailed her fingers along those ancient walls and they shuddered at her presence, for even structure bows to its elders. The worshiping grandmothers turned to her, crossing themselves, and touched lined foreheads to pavement in silent revere. She approached the arched gateway to the holy city and the crowd parted before her. Children tugging at mothers skirts were hushed and held close. Barely able to stop myself from running to her arms, I walked achingly towards her. Out of the crowd I stepped and into the force of her gaze. Those eyes, nearly blinded with the milky evil of cataracts, met mine as my heart fluttered and my breath drew short. A thousand years of unimaginable pains and boundless joys carved her face with rocky gorges. Oceans rushed behind her eyes and fires burned in her heart. My entire being was warmed by her life, by her soul. I reached out to touch her, blind and craving as an infant near the matron. Her hand met mine, so small, and the pain of her gripping my hand showed on her face. I dropped to my knees, unable to stand before her. She released my hand and slowly, ever so slowly touched my face. Tears chased her hand down my unmarred cheek.
“Credi,” she whispered. “BELIEVE!” her eyes screamed to me. I shuddered and more burning tears plunged towards the sanctified earth. Another ancient appendage broke free of her dark robe. She cupped my face in her hands and I then realized tears slid down her face as well, losing themselves in the fissures of her countenance. I felt something in her hand slide along my tears and then she brought it before my face. A tired and over-loved rosary swayed before my eyes. With one last loving look, she dropped the relic into my hand.
With a startling force, I was suddenly bowled over by two ridiculously clad Swedish guards. They grabbed the woman by the arm and threw her to the ground.
“Tempo di andare, hag anziano,” one of the men barked at her. Time to go, old hag he had said. The old woman drew herself up with a painful grace, touching a hand to feeble lips and crossing herself once more before that holy city of God. My tears dried as I watched her go, awed by her devotion. As the crowd began again in it’s boisterous push towards the entrance, I picked myself up. Glancing one more time upon the symbol of pure faith that had been given to me, I placed the beads into the safety of my bag.
I rejoined my party and we then embarked on our expedition in the holy city. But her face haunted me. I saw her everywhere. In every painting, every Madonna, every ancient and worshipped symbol she was there, holding her baby boy, man’s savior. She looked upon me with knowing eyes through each and every visage. The Santa Maria, the holy mother walked among us and all of those wanting had known. Come to see the tribulations of man, to know what her son had died for. She walked among us, reliving the pains and loves of her life. She was faith, in all forms, and I would be forever marked by her tears.
I saw her, that holy mother, one more time that day. The sun was being torn apart by caramel colored clouds as we found ourselves departing that massive shrine. Back among the world of shortened cars and speeding mopeds. Outside the walls of the revered city a black figure lay prostrate on the ground. A beaten and battered pan lay before her, bearing the sad contents of a few Euros and a used gelato wrapper. I wondered if the ancient lived her life out here, among the streets. My heart breaking at the thought of yet another person, driven to the streets by the government or some untold circumstance. As we passed the immobile figure, I heard the pained sounds of prayers being whispered beneath the being, tearful begging prayers to God and whoever was kind enough to heed. And suddenly the figure lifted its head and the blue glazed, cataract ridden eyes found me once again. There she lay, Santa Maria descended.