During day six of Italy, we found ourselves staring at the finger of St. Thomas the Apostle, the surprised participants in a wedding, praying at the tomb of a little girl from the 1930’s soon to be a Saint, riding 13 miles through Rome on a bicycle, and in constant amazement at every turn.
The hotel provided free breakfast in the dining hall, so we took advantage of that. The cappuccinos were excellent as too were the croissants and yogurt. They served cake and pie as well. This surprised us. It was actual pound cake, and cheese and fruit pie. Bronwyn loved the notion of dessert for breakfast! It is something that she had always felt was missing on our kitchen table in the mornings.
An egg on toast?
No, no, Mom!
Dessert and cappuccino is the way to go!
I don’t have to work too hard at guessing what Bronwyn’s breakfast at college will look like.
After breakfast, we walked next door to the Basilica Santa Croce in Gerusalemme. We got there twenty minutes early. Everyone else arrived at 10 for 10 o’clock mass.
Mom sat on the last pew, and Bronwyn and I walked around.
To the left of the sanctuary was a room. There was a sign in front of the room, which we couldn’t read because it was in Italian. We went in the room anyway. The room had several smaller rooms connected by a long hallway. The first room off the hall was dedicated to Antonietta Meo. In the room was a beautiful tomb, and there was a glass cabinet with a child’s toys. There was a prayer card, one in every language, with a prayer on one side and her picture on the other. The information in the room talked about how Antonietta had bone cancer at a very young age. She went through a great deal of pain during her illness, yet she kept her compassion for those around her, and she kept her grace. She would write poems and letters to Jesus before she died. She was only six years old, and the letters displayed great maturity very rare for someone her age. The Church of Rome considered her a mystic because of her letters and poems.
Soon after her death, the church began efforts to canonize her as a saint. She is currently a Venerable Servant of God. I did not know this, but to become a saint, there had to be two miracles associated with the person. For Antonietta, the first miracle was when a woman was cured of Hepatitis C after she prayed to Antonietta for healing. Now Antonietta needed one more miracle to become a saint.
I pondered Antonietta’s need for sainthood.
She certainly did suffer, and in her suffering, she gave many people joy and peace.
I decided I would think of something I could pray for to “help” her out. I said a short prayer at her tomb mentioning that before I left Rome, I would come back and ask for something miracle-worthy.
She would undoubtedly understand that these things take time. In her prayer-book, signed by many people asking many things of little Antonietta, I drew the shape of a heart.
I figured IF she were reading these, she would appreciate a little love, and she wouldn’t need to translate it into Italian either.
I walked out of her room and down the hall where there were many pictures and much to read about them.
Bronwyn and I look at art at in different speeds, and that is OK with us. She had wandered off and was staring at another wall.
I wandered into a room at the end of the hall. It housed the relics of the crucifixion. Because I don’t read Italian, it took me a minute or so to figure out what I was looking at.
It was just me. An inch from the class that encased the relics, which included:
- A panel which hung above Christ’s cross at his crucifixion
- Two thorns from Christ’s crown
- Part of a nail that was used in his crucifixion
- Three pieces of the cross itself
- A large piece of the Good Thief’s cross
- St. Thomas the Apostle’s index finger, which he placed in the Risen Christ’s wounds
I was just standing there staring at the relics when it hit me what I was looking at. The enormity of what I was standing close to washed over me.
Now I have heard by many well-meaning friends that Europe is littered with parts of the crucifixion, and relics are said to be in abundance in Italy. Nevertheless, this was my personal experience with the relics that St. Helena had brought back in 300 AD.
I have had many people try to “pooh-pooh” me by saying, “Oh so what. I hear there are relics everywhere.” To them I say, but this was my experience with these relics. Moreover, it moved me on so many levels.
How did St. Helena procure the relics?
Yes, her son Constantine was a powerful emperor, but his father, the emperor before him, had coldly divorced St. Helena for a fancier wife. St. Helena did not have an easy life from the little I have read. Yet, at 80, she went to Jerusalem, took the relics, and brought them to Rome.
That could not have been easy.
Bronwyn says I am obsessed with St. Helena. I wouldn’t say I am obsessed with her, but she is on my list of people to learn more about. My end of summer book list will be a book about St. Helena and one about Sister Domenica of Paradise, along with finishing-up the Jack Reacher series. I love Lee Child’s books!
The intensity that went into bringing the relics to that spot and building the church to house the relics moved me, not to mention the relics themselves.
I heard some people enter the room behind me, and feeling a little foolish for having my nose one inch from the enclosed glass case, I moved on to the next room.
That room housed a copy of the Shroud of Turin.
Why would they put a copy next to relics?
I looked in awe at the relics, a little mystified by the experience; then, I walked to the next room to see the face of Jesus imprinted on the Shroud of Turin. It nailed in the experience for me.
When I saw the relics, there was a sense of distance from the objects. When I saw the impression of Christ on the cloth, the experience with relics became closer to me. The experience was that much more fulfilling. It made sense to me why the copy was there, and I appreciated whoever came up with the idea.
Maybe it was one of the monks?
Maybe not.
I wandered back out and found Bronwyn. An altar boy was asking us to take our seats for the service, or at least I think that is what he was pleasantly saying to us in Italian.
The service began and suddenly the empty church was packed. People’s dress varied. Some were wearing shorts, and some were wearing fancy dresses. Nearly everyone had on good shoes. There were young and old, and from what we could tell, most everyone was Italian.
This wasn’t a tourist’s church service, which was fine with us.
I hoped it was fine with them that we were there. It seemed to be.
The service was in Italian, so we had no idea what was being said, but it sounded lovely.
During the mass, we realized a couple who had walked in late, were getting married. They were an older couple. She was wearing a nice grey dress carrying a bouquet of yellow roses, and he was wearing a sharp-looking suit. I wondered why she was carrying a bouquet of flowers.
Bronwyn, my mother, and I looked at each other and mouthed, “What should we do?”
“I think it’s OK that we are here. Just stay seated,” I whispered.
I figured it would look awful if we got up and walked out during their exchange of vows. Maybe someone would think we didn’t approve of the union?
At least, we were sitting in the back.
The wedding ceremony took about 15 minutes out of the mass.
Across the aisle from us sat three nuns. I kept a close eye on them, and when they stood, we stood. When they bowed their head, we bowed our head. They were my “pace car” for the service.
After the service, we talked Mom into looking at the relics. By then, a group of people gathered in the room. I noticed that people would walk up one at a time and fully kneel on the floor at the foot of the case with the relics.
Gosh Darn It!
I did it all wrong!
I didn’t know.
But, of course, you kneel at the cross of Jesus.
Duh!
I felt bad about that, and told myself that when I came back to discuss my miracle proposal to Antonietta, I would view the relics properly as well.
My Mom sat for a time on one of the pews in front of the relics.
When she got up, we all walked out of the basilica.
We were happy from the experiences we had shared there.
After grabbing a light lunch, we asked the clerk at the hotel what was the best way to get to The Coliseum.
“It’s just a 15-minute walk from here,” he assured us.
So, off we went.
We walked through the piazza and by the fountain in front of the hotel and turned left.
There was a park along the street that was very confusing. We walked by it several times during our stay, and at different times of the day.
Sometimes it was abandoned and looked unkempt. Other times, it has freshly mowed and children were playing with their mothers nearby. At night, it looked like a place where homeless people spent the night.
We could see ancient Roman walls fencing in the city.
One thing we never got used to is crossing the street in Rome. At the crosswalk, cars actually stop for pedestrians. We would put our foot on the crosswalk, and traffic speeding down the road would stop and wait for us to cross the street.
There was no honking, no yelling, no violent hand waving, and no road-rage from the drivers.
They waited for us to cross the street, and then they went on their way.
Nevertheless, we had to walk out into the crosswalk for them to stop, and that was counter-intuitive. In North Carolina, when I run, and try to cross the street at a cross walk, I have to wait for cars to go by before crossing.
Once, I stood at a crosswalk watching at least 10 cars go by on our local main street before a police officer stopped for me. When he stopped, all the other cars stopped, but the cars did not stop until he came along.
It unnerved us each time to cross the street. Each time, though, traffic stopped.
There was an outdoor summer festival at San Giovanni. We walked through it, and kept walking and walking and walking.
After an hour of walking, we gave up reaching The Coliseum, stopped for gelato and cappuccino at a café, and then called for a taxi to take us back to the hotel.
The uneven cobblestones and hills wore Mom out, and she needed a break.
We learned a 15-minute walk for an Italian in Rome is not the same as a 15-minute walk for a Carolina girl.
We relaxed in the hotel for a short while; then, Bronwyn and I headed out for a bike tour of Rome that I had booked online weeks ago.
We looked over a map of Rome at length and decided we could walk to the bike tour. The walk wasn’t too bad. We were speedwalking, and a little creeped-out by all the graffiti on the buildings. We almost got lost when I thought the names on the buildings were the street names. They were really the names of the building. Once we got that straight, we were fine.
The bike tour was a blast. I booked it through Topbike Rental & Tours.
We were with a group of 11 on mountain bikes. There were two other women and one fellow from The United States, two young girls from Quebec, and a family of four from Brazil. The 13 miles took some work because we had to peddle up the some big hills. The mom from the Brazilian family was the Alpha in our group and was constantly vying for the lead bike position. That only got annoying when she would cut me off.
Our guide Francesco was very passionate about history, and he stopped our group often providing insight on the ancient Roman ruins.
Did you know, that The Coliseum sits on the site where Nero’s manmade lake sat? His advisor told him to fill in the lake and build The Coliseum to better control his people.
The advisor told Nero if he kept their minds busy and their bellies full, he would control the masses.
There are water spigots all over Rome. The Roman aqueduct feeds the spigots, which Francesco said is purer than bottled water. People in Rome keep their water bottles and fill them up from the spigots every week. Francesco even instructed us on the correct way to drink from a Roman fountain.
Unfortunately, Trevi Fountain was being cleaned, but we rode by it anyway.
We rode to the Spanish Steps, which Francesco thought should be named the French Steps because the steps were built by the French.
He also told us that what we saw of The Forum was only ¼ of what existed. The rest was buried under centuries of mud. Italy didn’t have the money to properly excavate the entire site, so it was better that the ruins stay protected underground, then mishandled because of a lack of funds.
Francesco turned us loose at The Pantheon. The building was more spectacular than I had imagined it would be. It was originally built in 27 BC, and then Emperor Hadrian rebuilt The Pantheon in 126 AD. The concrete dome, the largest of its kind, is spectacular as too is the use of light in the building. As we walked around, an announcement came over a loudspeaker saying the building was closing. We could have walked out the door to the right of us; instead, we went left and walked around the entire building before exiting. It was well worth it.
In the square outside the building, a guitar player was playing. His playing was on par with that of Carlos Santana. He had to be a professional guitarist practicing on the crowd. We couldn’t stay long because Francesco asked us to be back by a certain time; by then, we all had crushes on Francesco, so everyone hurried back.
The three-hour tour lasted four hours and consisted of us pedaling furiously, stopping to gaze in awe at a sight, then pedaling fast to the next stop. There was a lot to see in Rome, and we covered a lot of ground.
Francesco could write a book on Roman history. I hope he does one day.
The great thing about the tour was it gave us a broad perspective of what there was to see in Rome, so we knew what we wanted to come back to see.
Our group bonded during the ride, and we hugged each other good-bye as we left.
By the time Bronwyn and I got back to the hotel, it was 8:30, and we were famished and tired, so we ate at the hotel restaurant.
We rode the elevator up to the rooftop to take in the night air after dinner. Fireworks shot off in the distance. There was a lovely breeze.
Our Vatican tour was scheduled for first thing Monday morning. I had a feeling the following day was going to bring yet more adventure and more surprises, and it did, including seeing a deceased Pope “unchanged” after over 50 years.
As in no decomposition…
As in vampire…
OK, maybe he’s not vampire.
I will let you decide.
Ciao!
