In the fall of the Jubilee Year I was blessed with the extraordinary grace of traveling to Rome for World Youth Day 2000. A group of nearly one hundred young people from the Diocese of Lincoln, along with some chaperones and a dozen priests, embarked on a spiritual pilgrimage through some of the holy sites of Italy — Milan, Assisi, Padua, Siena, and finally Rome.
I still feel the echoes of grace in my life from those two weeks. And there was one blessing in particular God was pleased to grant me to show that no passage of time and no number of miles might separate a soul from His loving care.
Near the end of our stay in Rome we had split into small groups to explore the city. Six of my friends and one priest spent the afternoon visiting some of the sisters from our diocese, stopped by a little church called after one of our patron saints, and ended up in the Hard Rock Café. Everyone was delighted that we had found the popular eatery — well, almost everyone. I had begged to go instead to a tiny church nearby where the relics of St. Thérèse of Lisieux were being housed. A good friend of mine suggested a devotion to her at a very difficult juncture of my teenage years, and I have loved the Saint of the Little Way ardently ever since. Her relics were being sent around the world in a rare journey, and I was certain it was now or never.
I was desperately disappointed as the minutes, and then several hours, dragged on and still our little group showed no sign of getting up from their table at the café. I knew that the time was slipping away, and as it neared nine o’clock, I knew it was gone. I would not see the relics. Our priest noticed my dismayed look, and gently reminded me of words that I had spoken to him only that morning — that it did not matter where we went. We were in Rome, and that was blessing enough in and of itself. And so we returned to our hotel without visiting the church, and I gave my disappointment over to God. I could not let it ruin my experience in Rome, for I knew that He still had much to work in me through my time there.
My friends and I went our separate ways when we returned to the United States. Most of them were staying in Lincoln and going to UNL, but I had chosen to pursue a slightly different education at a much smaller school in Missouri. My freshman and sophomore years passed quickly in a flurry of classes, new friends and activities, and the deepening of my spiritual walk with God. I didn’t quite forget my missed rendezvous with Thérèse, but neither was it often on my mind.
Two years after my journey to Rome I found myself spending a summer on the small island of Guam, where my father was stationed at the time. It is easy to miss on the map; a mere speck in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, Guam is hardly 25 miles wide at its largest point and several hundred miles from its closest notable neighbor. And for someone who doesn’t drink or scuba dive, there was nothing much to recommend it.
I had two weeks left, and was eagerly counting down the days to my escape back to “the mainland” and my life at school, when a small ad that ran in the parish bulletin happened to catch my eye. In fact, when I read it, I caught my breath and my heart skipped a beat or two. For the wonderful news it broadcast to the parishioners was that for the next six days the reliquary of St. Thérèse would be on Guam.
Being forbidden to drive the car off of the air force base, I asked my mother to take me, and she gladly did. It was a sultry, uncomfortable Tuesday, and the minute we walked into the church I could tell they weren’t planning on using the air conditioning. We genuflected, slid into the pew, and waited our turn to go up to the front and pray before the relics. There were quite a few people there. I squirmed impatiently. It had been two years since I had been so desperately disappointed at missing these relics in Rome, and now here I was. I couldn’t quite believe it was real.
Finally, it was my turn. I stepped out of the pew into line, and slowly moved up toward the front of the church. I had had the privilege of praying in the crypt of St. Peter’s in Rome where the first pope’s bones are buried, and of praying before the tomb of St. Francis in Assisi. Both of those experiences were extremely powerful. But neither of them compared to this.
As I knelt in front of the reliquary, tears began to drip down my cheeks, but they were not tears of sorrow. They were the same tears that one would cry when reunited with an old friend after a very long time. Thérèse was spiritually and literally right there in front of me. I could feel her presence welcoming me as she might have welcomed a dear little sister. And we both thanked God for His loving providence that had brought us together at last.
© Copyright 2006 Catholic Exchange
Pamela Acker holds a BA in biology and recently embarked on a career in genetics. Her homeschool education included extensive readings in Catholic doctrine, and she continues to devote much of her free time to improving her understanding of theology and helping others understand their faith. Her email address is pjacker1s@yahoo.com.
