A Moment In St Peter's Square

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It was a cold, windy day in Rome — the kind of day where the wind whips across St Peter’s Square and makes you wonder why anyone ever calls Rome the Eternal City of Sunshine. We had two days in Rome between trips and, for once, had chosen to stay near the Vatican. We rarely stayed on that side of the city, so we decided to spend the time simply wandering with no real plan.

As we crossed in front of St Peter’s, I noticed a long line of people snaking all the way around the edge of the square. A small sign read: Mass Today — 1:00 PM. A few people were gathered around it, talking. Curious, I stopped and asked one of them whether it was an open Mass the public could attend.

A young American backpacker, guidebook in hand, told me she’d come especially to try to get tickets. The enormous queue, she explained, was full of people with the same idea. And then came the real news: this wasn’t just any Mass — the Pope was giving it. There were special guests from around the world, and the service would be followed by a confessional.

Attending a Mass in St Peter’s had always been on my list of “100 things I want to experience before I die.” If I’m honest, it was probably less for me and more for my mum. She was a devoted Catholic, and had she been born in another time, with different opportunities, she would have loved nothing more than to stand exactly where I was standing that day. Mum had passed away just a few months earlier, and she was still very much front and centre in my heart.

I looked at Gary, and he knew instantly what I was thinking. In his usual cheeky way, he said, “Why don’t we line up and see if we’re lucky enough to get tickets?” So we joined the back of the queue, not knowing how many tickets existed or how many hundreds of people were already ahead of us.

After a while, I told Gary to go for a wander and come back later to see if I was still there. He headed off along the river, and I settled into the line.

I hadn’t been waiting long when I noticed two tiny, bent‑over nuns walking toward me. They were both in their seventies, wrapped in heavy coats. One of them approached, reached into her deep pocket, and handed me a ticket.

“This is for your mother,” she said.

I looked around, confused, and told her my mother wasn’t with me. She smiled gently and said, “Yes, she is. She is always with you.”

I must have still looked puzzled, because the second nun stepped forward. Her English was better. “We have tickets to give to people,” she explained. “To allow you into the Mass with the Holy Father. Would you like to come with us?”

Before I could fully process what was happening, they took me by the arm, pulled me out of the line, and led me to a small side door. They handed my ticket to the man at the entrance, he nodded, and I was ushered inside.

The nuns smiled and waved as the door closed behind me.

I was directed to the front left side of the basilica and found myself seated in the third row — surrounded by clergy from all over the world. I joked to Gary later that I was so close I could almost see the Pope’s nasal hair.

The entire service was in Italian. The music soared. And eventually, the huge crowd from outside was allowed in, but only to stand at the very back. Meanwhile, there I was — right in front of the Pope.

I think I silently cried through much of it. Cried for my mum, who would have given anything to be there. Cried in awe that, for some reason, on this cold and windy day, I had been given this extraordinary moment.

When I stepped back out into the square an hour later, the rain had passed and the sun was shining brilliantly.

I don’t know what I believe about fate, or coincidence, or the strange ways life nudges us. But I do know this: I was meant to be there that day, at that exact minute. And somehow, in some way, I was meant to be there with my mother, listening to the Pope give blessings for peace on earth.