Grasping for a Bit of Grace.

It’s summertime out there for sure today, and it somehow feels like a change is in the air.

I was walking downtown early yesterday morning en route to a quickie doctor’s appointment; dodging past barricades and weaving through crowds that, even at 8.30, were already beginning to form along Pennsylvania. People cram the metro with signs and posters, prayers and rosaries.

The Pope is in Washington this week, and it’s these subtle changes, these sparks in energy that make it real to me.

I won’t see him; I work in ghettosville Northern Virginia, for one, and for a dictator who, though he takes off at 3, requires so much more of me. Being something of a transient Catholic where parishes are concerned, of course I was not on any of the lists for papal mass tickets. And I do not, as do many of my more gung-ho religious acquaintances, work for a company that sees cloying by the side of the road for a glimpse of His Excellency within the ambit of “all in a day’s work.”

But I still feel a part of it. It’s like there’s something in the air here, and it’s more than just a crowd mentality. Yes, there are throngs of pushing people and confused tourists and really, really bad traffic. Above that, though, hovering somewhere, is something really different. There’s a feeling, a peace, a harmony that may be just in my head—it may just be a figment of knowing that there’s something big going on, and it’s nearby—but it sure feels real.

It’s no news that Washington is home to the celebrated diplomat, the international figure. It happens all the time, but I have never felt it so tangibly as it related to me, to my outlook.

The Queen was here last year, as a rather apt example. I took interest, at least to the extent of following the coverage; true, I used to have a major thing for the Royal Family. It may or may not have involved Prince William, but that’s another story; the point is, I know a LOT about the Queen. History, lineage, all number of facts gleaned from hours of documentaries. When dear old H.M. came over the summer, I did, by chance, see her motorcade. Nothing more than a memory.

Here, though, and now? Despite my knowing about zilch on this Pope, these days are marked by something much more than fast cars and newsprint photos. I can’t help but think I would sense that something was different even absent the flashy pictures splashed across the paper. This is love and peace and contentment coursing through me, and I never want to let that go.