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THE DAY I MET JESUS
I have always been slightly jealous of those people who have had joyful, peace-filled encounters with God. You know, the kind we read about in “Chicken Soup” books. I felt ignored, neglected, maybe unworthy, but I didn’t let it get to me too much. I know God loves me. Whether or not He writes it in the sky is up to Him.
I was one of the fortunate millions who attended World Youth Day in Krakow, Poland. That fact was a small miracle. A ticket became available when one of the chaperones became pregnant and offered her ticket to me.
I wanted to go, but my husband had been laid off for a year and money was tight. I prayed that if God wanted me to go on this pilgrimage He would drop the money out of the sky.
Well He did, sort of. We held many fundraisers and after all the donations were counted, I was able to pay the rest of the cost with our tax refund. It appeared that God wanted me to go and so I went.
After the usually busyness of travel, our group of 81 arrived in Krakow, a lovely, charming city with extensive historical significance, so much so that it stole a large share of attention from the Pontiff’s visit. We spent hours in Krakow alongside of the other two million plus pilgrims who had also come to see the pope.
We toured the Divine Mercy Shrine (beautiful, but crowded), The Benedictine Monastery (beautiful, not so crowded), St. Mary’s Cathedral (so crowded we lost one of our kids), The Salt Mines, (with its breathtaking underground chapel), but it was on the streets of Krakow where I met Jesus.
We were working our way back to the train station when some of our youth wanted to check out another tee shirt shop. Others went into McDonald’s, and a third group went into a jewelry shop leaving a couple of us to be the meeting point on the cobblestone street.
As I was waiting, I saw Jesus Crucified pass into my line of vision. It was an incredibly well drawn tattoo on the upper arm of a stranger who was passing by. I am not generally an admirer of tattoos having a short attention span and not being able to appreciate their permanence, but I stopped him and asked if I could have a better look. He amicably agreed and began to explain it to me in a slight Irish brogue.
On his upper arm was Jesus, crown of thorns included, accurately and respectfully drawn, as was our Blessed Mother with her sadness exquisitely captured. Down onto his forearm was a rendering of the Angel of the North. It was done by a true artist.
Then he began to explain to me that his family was very, very religious and that he was afraid he had been rather naughty these last few years. He went on to say that he intended to change his ways.
After I complimented him a few more times, I said that I hoped that now Jesus was on his arm that He would find His way into the gentleman’s heart. The stranger thanked me and we parted on friendly terms.
My attention returned to gathering our group, when one of the other chaperones came dashing out of the tee shirt shop. She came right up to me and asked, “Was that a man or a woman?”
I answered “A man of course.” Then I turned to look at the retreating back of my new friend. He wore a mini skirt, tights and fashion boots. He was also wearing a wig and jewelry. I was surprised! I hadn’t noticed any of that.
I had only seen Jesus. Literally! I had not seen anything else.
It was a revelation for me that day; a metaphor for how we are to live our lives. We must see Jesus in each other. As for the rest, a blind eye is helpful.
This is the memory that has remained firmly and foremost in my mind when I think of my trip. I remember attending the Mass with Pope Francis with its amazing solidarity. I remember the endless, vast crowds of people, truly universal with all races represented. I remember the cream cakes we ate in Wadowice in the bakery next to St. John Paul II childhood home. I remember the fun of all the activities we participated in, but mostly what I remember is the day that I met Jesus.
