Adam and Annette Howard of Union, and two of their five children attended Mass celebrated by Pope Francis in Philadelphia Sunday. Here, Annette Howard provides a first-person account of her experiences. Photos by Adam Howard.
Three days ago, I was anticipating what would happen in the upcoming weekend. What experiences would we have on our way to see Pope Francis? What wonderful spiritual reflections would there be?
As a veteran of World Youth Day in 1993, when I was in high school, I had expectations of uplifting times and emotional highs. As I sit to write this, I can say that my experiences were completely different than any expectations I had.
Truthfully, I cannot say that my husband and I and our two oldest children had an enjoyable time in Philadelphia. Our time was full of waiting, frustration and exhaustion. The throngs of people, the massive law enforcement presence and the inability to move where we wanted to go left us with broken expectations.
Yet, even through the difficulties, we had a great experience on our journey to share in the Eucharist with our Holy Father.
We came to Philly with a place to stay. Friends who used to be members of our parish opened up their home to us and 11 other friends and family from Northern Kentucky, other parts of Pennsylvania and Baltimore.
We had warm hospitality, good food as well as the advantage of a local host who had kept on top of the logistics and planning for our group of 19 people ranging from ages 1 to 76. We started our Sunday morning with a gathering to discuss logistics and then a prayer over our meal and a prayer for the World Meeting of Families.
We had pancakes and waffles, sausage, bacon and homemade syrup. Armed with camp chairs, backpacks and tickets purchased in June, we made our way to the train station at 10 a.m. After an hour, we were loaded on the train and on our way to the city.
Once in the city, we walked with anticipation to the security checkpoint for those who had secured tickets to the Mass. In line at 12:15 we began the wait. More than four hours later, we finally emerged from the security check point, just in time for the homily of the Papal Mass.
At first the mood was light and hope was high. Pictures were taken of the novelty of such a crowd ahead on their way to church. At a rate of less than a block an hour, there was no ability to sit. The camp chairs, brought in anticipation of a wait before Mass, quickly became extra weight to carry as we shuffled shoulder to shoulder towards the security checkpoint.
The games we had brought to pass the time were worthless as we stood and shuffled. Some got creative, listening to music, reading books, exchanging banter with line neighbors. One middle school student in our group even studied for an upcoming science test. Parents of small children struggled to shift positions and appease their squirms. Occasionally there was a camera crew from some sort of news station who panned over the crowd and a reporter who marveled at the pilgrims.
People from second level apartments looked down as if we were some kind of slow spectator sport or took pictures of the throng like a carnival oddity. This was the kind of situation where tempers may have flared and penned-in humans may have started to turn on each other.
But in the mass of humanity, strangers from states and countries apart began to ask, “Where are you from?”
They had conversations. They exchanged wry jokes about better understanding the nature of Purgatory. They played with those squirming little ones who, in the crowd, seemed to have more patience for the situation than anyone would ever expect from ones so young. Mothers encouraged their grade schoolers to be perseverant, despite their aching feet, and some began to sing hymns. Someone began a rosary. Others joined in.
For myself, that good feeling of knowing Christ is near, that swell in your chest that spiritual retreat sometimes brings wasn’t there. I struggled with myself, wanting to throw in the towel, especially as the line seemed only to get slower the closer we got to the checkpoint.
I wondered many times, was this worth it? The Pope is a holy man, but he’s still, just a man. Would we even be able to receive Communion here? Mass is mass. We could duck out at the next cross street and head back to the suburbs; catch Mass at a local parish.
Somehow, the Spirit whispered to me that Jesus’ walk was much harder than this. I tried with little passion to offer the pain in my feet and my exhaustion and frustrations up to the Lord.
Emerging from the checkpoint, there was only the mild relief of not being immediately surrounded by people. We were so late getting in that there was no longer access to the inner areas that would give us good visibility of either Pope Francis or one of the Jumbotrons simulcasting the altar.
We found satisfactory places to put up our chairs and get a few minutes of rest while listening to the Pope’s homily… in Spanish. Apps that carried the subtitles were not working due to the overloaded data networks on Ben Franklin Parkway. But we had our programs printed in dual Latin and English.
We attempted to sing along to the Creed, sung in Latin. The words of the Eucharistic prayer, also in Latin were unfamiliar to this Post-Vatican II Catholic, but we did our best to follow along.
Then voices went up in unison, reciting the Lord’s Prayer all around us.
The Eucharistic prayers concluded and from down the parkway, white and yellow umbrellas began to flow. Below each was an umbrella bearer dressed in a respectful suit or dress. Beside each bearer walked a priest or deacon, vested in white and carrying a ciborium. Some protectively covered the vessel which carried the hosts blessed by Pope Francis, Christ’s Vicar on earth. Every 25 feet the umbrellas stopped.
And I began to cry.
Slowly, almost silently, believers respectfully filed into makeshift lines to receive Jesus who had just processed up Ben Franklin Parkway in the hands of His faithful servants.
To see so many gathered together, at least 800,000 reciting the prayer Jesus taught us to pray; faithful, sinful humans – some wearing habits, some with a toddler on their hip, some with the light of youth and others with the wisdom of age.
Black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Catholics and Non – All gathered in prayer. All quite in shared reverence, not just for the holy man we had gathered here with, but for the one he serves as ambassador for – Christ Jesus.
As I looked around at the many and varied people in the crowd, I was struck by the fact that each of these people has a story. Each of these people had different experience as they journeyed here. My brother who had taken plane and then train here from Madison, Wisconsin, and had no plan for lodging on Saturday night had a fantastic trip with lots of memorable (and less painful) experiences… but that’s another story.
Each person here has a story. And for each person here, God has a plan. And to different extents, each one here has a relationship with this Jesus we came here to receive in humble bread. That God is so universal and yet so personal at the same time is an awesome mystery that we can never stop appreciating. Our God is so great and so good.
So, though the story of my journey was not as happy as I hoped it would be, it was most definitely fulfilling. Which, I think, is one of the truths of life as a Christian. Though times are not always happy, not always easy, if you see Christ and keep your eyes on Him, life will hold purpose and meaning and joy.