The following morning, Margaret woke early. The sun was already coming up over the buildings. She knew that this day was Good Friday and that is when we remember and honor Jesus, who died for us on the cross. That was such an awful thing that Jesus had to do, and yet we call it “Good” Friday. Margaret paused and thought about this.

She knew the Pope would be busy today. Even though she had woken up early, looking around the apartment she could see that he was already gone. He was probably at Mass.

A few minutes later, he walked into the room and announced:

“Today, Margaret, we remember Our Lord and his death.” Then, he picked her up in his arms and added, “Good morning, sweetness.” He kissed her on her cheek where her whiskers are. It tickled.

Margaret felt happy. She looked in his eyes.

“Do you see all of the people outside?” the Pope said, gesturing to the window. He set her down on the table by the window to look.

It was a familiar sight to Margaret, as she looked down into St. Peter’s Square and saw thousands of pilgrims who had come to Rome and the Vatican for this Holy Week, for this holy day.

“They have come to celebrate the Passion of Our Lord and to walk the Via Crucis with us,” the Pope said.

There was that word again, “Passion.” Margaret was beginning to understand that it meant the suffering and pain Jesus had to undergo for us during the first Holy Week about 2,000 years ago.

Via Crucis means the Way of the Cross. The Pope said, “This evening, for the Via Crucis, I will take you to the Roman Colosseum.”

Margaret jumped down from the table. She looked up at him as if to say, To the what? Where?

“The Colosseum is the place here in Rome where, in the years after Jesus died on the cross at the hands of the Romans, the Roman Empire went on to kill many of Jesus’s followers.”

Margaret suddenly looked frightened.

“We’ll be safe,” the Pope assured her. “Romans don’t kill Christians today. That was long ago.”

Margaret’s mind then turned to the subject of breakfast. All she saw on a tray on the coffee table was a bowl of fruit and some cereal. She began to look around the room. Maybe she had slept while the stewards came in, and missed the tasty things. She went to the door and looked around the corner. There was no sign of anything else, not anywhere.

“We are fasting today, sweetness,” the Pope said, noticing her search. “I asked them for a very simple breakfast and lunch. We can eat light, to honor Our Lord who suffered much.”

A few hours later, when the Pope left to preside over another Mass in St. Peter’s Basilica, Margaret snuck down the hall, down the stairs, and through the corridor, to join him.

At Mass, the Pope didn’t know Margaret was there, but that was okay, because Margaret remembered St. Peter’s from the day she had spent in the Basilica not long ago on Christmas Eve. In the nave of the huge church, she found an out-of-the-way corner. She listened to the Mass from there.

Margaret sat near an older woman who had a guide dog beside her. Margaret and the dog made easy friends.

From where she sat, Margaret could hear the Pope as he preached his homily, and she watched him closely as he did something unusual. She saw the Pope lie flat on his face and belly, prostrate on the marble floor. This, she learned later, was in humble obedience and honor to God on this passion-filled day. Margaret had never seen him do that before.

When Father Felipe came, later that day, to tell the Pope it was time to go the Colosseum, Felipe was worried when the Pope said Margaret was coming too.

“Of course she is coming,” the Pope said, and then added, “Margaret is experiencing so many things during this, her first Holy Week.” He winked at her.

A few moments later, the Pope picked Margaret up and tucked her inside his cassock. Together, they followed Felipe to the car.