Her eyes are wide and her arms flailed in the air, whisps of her red hair flowing with her motions. She is shouting. What is it? Is William OK? Where is Jen? She is frantic. No. Urgent? She’s mouthing, “Come over here!” and her hands gesture frenetically. I push through the crowd, across knees and over seats. As I get closer I understand. I hear. “Bring William!”, Martie yells excitedly. “Let’s get him to the Pope!”
I wondered if I would cry that day. I nearly did a few times in the days before. And I nearly did that day too. But mostly at very unexpected points. Even now, 48 hours after picking Martie up from her house at 4:30 in the morning I’m still processing. Letting it all sink in.
On the flight back from Lourdes, Jen joked that our next mission for William was for him to meet the Pope. In the few years since he had taken the seat of Peter, I’ve been proud and hopeful with the man and shepherd Pope Francis has been. One of the times I did cry actually, was watching him on his inaugural parade in Rome, stop his motorcade to get down, hold and kiss a young man obviously very disabled. One of the nurses I work with articulated it best, that we are often moved by those that can see our kids and love them for who they are, not in spite of what they have, or how they appear. That same compassion and unconditional love was so unexpected, and so seemingly unearned and undeserving on my part as his father, when William received what I have always felt he did earn and did deserve just for being him.
It was just the other week when I stood at Druid Ridge Cemetery, tears streaming down my face as I visited my Papa, and William’s namesake and told him all about how we were doing. It was the same afternoon when I heard Jen’s joyous news that Martie had been inspired and driven to have William meet the Pope when he came to town for his first visit to the United States. It was far more than coincidence. This was providence.
The sounds of cheers, of pure uncontrolled emotion and joy erupt and travel like a wave across the vast South Lawn. I can tell almost exactly where he is based on the sound. It’s not a thunderous applause like at a baseball game or concert. It is thousands of hearts singing, voices pitched high and echoed in the clapping of prayerful hands. My own heart surges with the emotion, and I’m caught up for moments at a time. I hold William’s hand and I strain my neck to try and see through the crowds, across the hands and flags of the sunny morning. I can’t make out what Jen and Martie are saying through the shouting, but I can see their faces. So hopeful. So happy. The joy of the Holy Spirit.
We woke up with so little sleep I was still so very groggy, and slightly disoriented. And a little nauseous as I sometimes am with only an hour or two of sleep. We hurried across our basement space, dressing, gathering things, checking and packing and loading the car. It was just after 3:30am when we finally left, the air crisp and cold in the dark. The first day of Fall. The drive was quick, and so empty that as I drove quickly down Connecticut Avenue I couldn’t understand why everyone else was driving so slow with no cars around. And the flash in my rearview gave it away. Speed cameras. Martie was so dressed up and fresh looking, like Jen. As we arrived at her office I waited with William outside while they went and parked the van. The streets of Dupont Circle were empty. Peaceful. A few joggers ran by and I wondered if anyone else around, the few shopkeepers getting ready for the day and a few sanitation people knew what was about to happen just a few blocks away. We walked briskly and before we knew it, it was there. Just like on the news. The White House. Thousands of people waited to get through security, and we inched through the crowd until finally we were there. There, in the dark the four of us sat. My wife and our son. Me and Martie, the woman we had met just earlier this year who in such a short time had demonstrated more care and compassion for William than most. The Dame of Malta that made all of this happen. For William.
As he comes out, the crowd crescendo’s. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe we’re here, standing across the lawn from Joe Biden, John Kerry, President Obama. Pope Francis. Martie reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “Isn’t this so exciting?”, she asks. My throat is tight and if any sound comes out at all, it’s nothing more than an exhale. A whisper. His voice is soft and gentle, not the animated vigor I saw on TV. A slow, and deliberate calming. HIs address is short, and it ends too quickly. “It’s awesome that we still get to see him later today!”, I remark to Jen. She nods happily. I hold William’s hand.
The streets surrounding the White House are completely empty, and the once dense crowd has dissipated into smaller streams of people walking on the sidewalks and even on the now empty roads. “It’s like Inauguration Day!” Martie states. The sun was shining now, streaming through the shade of the trees. There was a slight breeze and the temperature was much more like a cool and crisp Spring day than the first day of Fall. We walked past the massive salt trucks that were lined up to barricade the streets. We walked quickly back to Martie’s office, stopping only to talk with one of her friends and then ending up meeting Christine to go and grab some pizza before getting ready to leave again. The pizza was excellent!
We weave through the streets of DC easily, Martie an excellent navigator, being able to both listen to and carry on conversations behind us while also giving me directions with enough time to keep the drive smooth. I can’t believe how fast we get to Catholic University, much less just how close/connected the National Basilica is. After lots of talking to campus police, DC police and even Secret Service we finally get to our designated parking lot. William and I take our special tickets and go into the green line, bypassing all the people because of his wheelchair. When we finally get inside I feel the relief of being on a college campus that I’ve always felt since my fond experiences at Maryland and my own short career in Student Affairs.
The sun beat down in the afternoon wait, unlike the brisk and cool morning. When one of the choirs started their festive song in Spanish, I watched a Latina woman in front of me sit up, look around and smile, moving her whole body. She turned to a nun close by, in full habit whose face lit up, began singing the words and stood up to express with her legs and hips and hands what I had already heard from her face. William and I sat with still hours before the mass was supposed to start, waiting for Jen and Martie and Christine to find us after going through their own security line. When they did, we all took turns moving from their section just literally a few feet away from our own section for those with special needs. At one point, Martie came over and said she wanted to sit with William, and to go and spend time with Jen. Jen would eventually go and try and relieve Martie, in her suit jacket and in the hot sun but was touched when Martie explained that she wanted to experience the time with William. It was then when we heard it again, cheers and cries and shouting. Strained necks and people standing up and on their chairs. Waiting for glimpse of the Holy Father. As the commotion increased, I looked toward William to make sure he and Martie were doing OK.
Her eyes are wide and her arms flailed in the air, whisps of her red hair flowing with her motions. She is shouting. What is it? Is William OK? Where is Jen? She is frantic. No. Urgent? She’s mouthing, “Come over here!” and her hands gesture frenetically. I push through the crowd, across knees and over seats. As I get closer I understand. I hear. “Bring William!”, Martie yells excitedly. “Let’s get him to the Pope!” I rush through the crowd and scoop him up to bring him to the nearest fence, hoping that the Pope will walk that way. We hear the wave of the crowd crescendo as he approaches, and then turn around and go back the other way. I look at Jen’s face. And Martie’s. Not disappointment. But understanding. Not right now.
When the song started during mass, what caught my attention were the voices behind us. A large group of nuns sang happily. Joyously. I realized then that these were truly God’s people. Christians. I watched, very literally the very joy of Christ reflected in the faces of these holy women. I was humbled and ashamed to even be in their presence. It truly sank in, both then and in the coming days watching the news and seeing on the flags and posters and welcome banners the theme, “Have the courage to be truly happy.” I was then, and am again now reminded of words that Martie said as we walked out of Catholic University after mass. Words that Jen affirmed and Christine agreed. Words that I feel still in my heart. A heart of thanks and gratitude. A heart trying to have that courage. She said it with relief and happiness, content and satisfaction. She said what we felt, all of us walking amidst our brothers and sisters, students and professionals and priests and nuns. With my wife and my son.
“This was a perfect day.”
The Marana Family 