When I was 15, my parents brought up the possibility of a trip to France. A doctor my father worked with was organizing a youth group sort of trip to see the Pope at World Youth Day in Paris that summer.

(Actually, thinking over that, I can't imagine my dad -- who brought his family to church every Sunday for months in a disturbingly-orchestrated attempt to arrange more time sitting next to his mistress in public-- was the source of this trip, but I'm pretty sure that's how it went down. Actually, I can't imagine my dad actually having a conversation about me with someone at all, as I'm fairly certain I pop up on his radar every few months, like a dentist visit might for most people. Note: to my knowledge, my father hasn't been to a dentist in the last decade.)

Anyway:

I hesitated, briefly, because I was a little unsure about entangling myself with weirdly religious people, but it was Paris afterall, Paris so, I reasoned, even if I did have to put up with nutty religious nuts, I'd get to travel to Europe. Ok, sign me up. And thus, for a week or so in August of 1997, I spent a week sightseeing, meeting people and praying around Paris while occassionally spending time in large crowds awaiting the Pope. The trip culminated in an overnight vigil at Longchamp, during which hundred thousand more people than expected turned up, resulting in a shortage of food, working port-a-potties, and an exciting six hours during which I was stranded from my group with a boy from Houston, TX that I exchaged two letters with before losing touch forever. (Chris Wolfe, if you are reading this, do let me know if it ever worked out for you and that girl from Norway.)

I think I kept a journal from that week, but I have no idea where it might be these days. I wish I could find it, I think it would be interesting.

I think everyone goes through a few phases, perhaps, of being very religious and spiritual throughout their life. This may have been the first for me -- I mean, I was raised in a religious house and brought to church and CCD classes every week, but hadn't actually bothered to get very interested in the doctrines of the church and contemplating the mysteries of God until then, but, I suppose, my days of dark, depressing poetry writing from ages 13 and 14 had just about ended, and I was prepared to take on a more mature view of the world.

So I was pleasantly surprised when I didn't find the Jesus freaks that freakish. Sure, there were a few odd ducks, but most people seemed to be genuinely enthusiastic about God, Jesus, the Pope; not in a fanatical, over-zealous, convert-the-heathens sort of way, but at the time, I thought it all very wonderful and graceful, and actually sort of inspiring that so many teenagers seemed genuinely thrilled to attend mass and wait in the stifling heat just to see the Popemobile cruise by. I still have a copy of the treasured Paris-Match I bought with the Pope on the cover. I chose Therese as my confirmation name the following spring, after St. Therese of Lisieux, who was declared a "Doctor of the Church" during World Youth Day 1997. I made a note to myself to incorporate God more into my life by trying to say the Rosary more often, and tried to pay closer attention at mass.

But time goes on, and somewhere between high school boyfriends, several family dramas, church molestation scandals and teachings on issues like gay marriage and birth control that I find a little hard to subscribe to, I lost the naive devotion I had as almost eight years ago. Yesterday, though, watching scenes from Rome as people held candles and cried in St. Peter's Square (where I stood and saw the Pope again as a slightly more jaded 17-year-old during a class trip to Italy the next year), I felt a great sense of loss and sadness.