Story: Sound of God

To some (i.e. my Mother) a solo vacation to a place I did not know the language was not the best of choices. To me it was a great adventure to be had and a test of my ability to navigate successfully on my own. Now Italy isn’t that scary or dangerous of a place but things could still go badly and I’d have to figure it out on my own. I could get lost, raped by the mafia, kidnapped by the mafia, robbed by the mafia, whacked by the mafia or a hundred other things which may or may not include the mafia. There were a few harrowing moments of little significance now, but I managed to remain unscathed with no run ins with the mafia (even in Naples and Palermo). After roaming for a week in southern Italy and Sicily, I spent my last couple days in Rome. To have a religious experience as a Catholic you probably couldn’t find a better place than Rome, the heart of Catholicism. Ok ok. Vatican City would be a better, more precise answer but 2nd best would be Rome in one of the hundreds of churches that dot the cityscape. This was my first time in Rome and I planned to make the most of it. Being a student of architectural history I made a point of going into every church I walked by. Well, that’s if the doors were open. Quite a few times I happened upon a church to find it’s large, usually solid wood and gigantic, doors shut and locked. And if these parishes wanted people to come in, they should look into making their churches more hospitable, welcoming and less locked. I was in heaven, soaking up every bit of art, design and history I could in my limited time.

After spending a day wandering the streets, seeing the sights, visiting churches and getting my daily engorgement of gelato, I began to make my way back to my hostel. It was in the evening and I passed a church. Even though I’d probably been inside fifteen churches that day I felt the urge to go inside. I’m not sure why I was drawn to it. The façade was quite unremarkable and there was a flight of stairs leading up to its entry. Having literally walked from one side of the city to the other that day, walking up another flight upstairs, or really walking period, would stop most people from venturing in but not I. I walked slowly up the steps pounding my heavy feet on each one. The sign outside said vespers was to begin in a twenty minutes and having never been to vespers I figured being in Rome would be a good place to start going. My feet were tired and begging for a break. I knew I’d get to sit down for a bit and rest if I stayed, so in I went.

I entered the church and did my usual tour of the facilities. It was hardly the grandest or most ornate church I had been in, especially that day in my life. The interior was simple, small (room for maybe two hundred) and pretty unadorned. I stared up at the ceiling and alter for a quick moment and then made my way over to the chapel to the right of the altar. I said a prayer to Mary, thanking her for usual things and went back into the nave to sit down in a pew. Some older women began to shuffle in and a priest appeared and made his way down the aisle. The women came wearing what you would picture old Italian woman to wear: long dark skirts, scarves carefully wrapped around their head, huge leather handbags swinging from their hands (what do they carry in there?) and blouses. They sat down, nodded to one another and began their prayers. After a minute of silence, rosaries appeared in each of their hands. I sat there for a moment thinking about rosaries and thinking I should probably own one being a Catholic. And a DUH moment hit me. I remembered I had purchased one earlier in the day at the Vatican. I hastily dug through my backpack to find my new treasure. I carefully took it out of its case and began to fumble it in my hand, trying to watch the other women and mimic their actions. Although I had grown up Catholic and probably learned to pray the Rosary repeatedly in religious education, I had never actually done it in practice and couldn’t remember much about the whole process. I had a vague idea and knew each bead represents a specific prayer or announcement of a mystery. But really it didn’t matter much for me in that moment. These ladies were saying the prayers in a language I did not speak. So I bowed my head and listened. I tried to pick up when they were starting the Hail Mary or Our Father, the only prayers I knew for sure were involved in praying the rosary. “Ave Maria piena di grazia I Signore è con Te….." As they went on I fell into their hypnotic rhythm, saying Hail Mary in English softly to myself over top of theirs. It was a sweet chant, which showed their undeniable devotion to their faith. "…Tu sei benedetta fra le donne e benedetto è il frutto del tuo seno, Gesù…." My mind diverged from the thoughts of prayers, thinking about the stories of these women. Did they all know each other? Were their husbands still alive? Were they always this devout in their beliefs? How long had they been going to this church? Do they go everyday? Who are they praying for? Questioning these ladies brought me closer into the moment. "Santa Maria, madre di Dio prega per noi peccatori …adesso e nell’ora della nostra morte Amen…" The monk like chanting sent me to a place of clarity not before experienced. It was a connection with the women and with God. I felt my heart pulse stronger and a heightened awareness washed over me. I tried to keep up with the English version of the prayers in my voice but got lost listening to the women and into my own thoughts. I tried to pick up at the beginning of a prayer again. “Ave Maria piena di grazia …" As they made their way around the necklace, I found peace and serenity in myself in the monotone resonance of their voices.

Everything about the moment felt pure. If I could hear the sound of God it would sound like these women in this moment. Although it was probably an average evening of prayer for these women who were strangers to me, it was an extraordinary moment for me. So deep in their credence to come to this church and pledge their allegiance to their Maker daily, it made me want to become a more devout person. And not just in my Catholicism but become more devout in the world and myself. Tears began to well up in my eyes and I tried to keep myself in the moment, closing my eyes and feeding my heart with the women’s energy. It felt like pure love. Before I knew it, they finished their way around the rosary. The rest of vespers continued. The only words I recognized throughout the service were Amen and pace. But it didn’t matter. These ladies spoke to me in a language, which has no linguistic barriers. They spoke to me in the true language of love, faith and humanity. I gathered my things at the end of service and made my way out the door into the cool evening a newly enlivened person.