The Apostolic Palace: 8:40 a.m.
Pope Gregory turned to the stranger, who sat silently opposite his desk. They had spoken together, they had been quiet together. There had been long spans of reflection and prayer. But now, as the progress of a new day pushed forward, the Pope was filled with resolve.
“I will speak to the people,” he said softly. “I’ve already conveyed my intentions to my staff. They will make the arrangements for a small press conference here in the palace. I’m certain, given the climate outside, that my words will be broadcast live.”
“And what will you say?” The man’s question was smooth and unrushed.
“I will tell the world of the good works we are witnessing.” The Pope’s answer was direct, though behind it there were concerns that wouldn’t fully leave his mind. The miracles that he’d learned had taken place outside the Vatican’s walls were extraordinary. But they were also just as unexplained as his own healing.
Yet that healing was real. That much he knew as an absolute fact. And as to the rest . . . he was, after all, a man of faith.
Besides, even a pope could speak in veiled terms.
“More importantly,” he continued, “I will urge them to make the witness of these things a beginning. To undertake good works of their own.”
The Pope looked into the face of the stranger. For the thousandth time he felt the pinch of curiosity. He considered asking the man his name—asking where he’d come from, why he’d come. But just like each instance in the past, the temptation fled as quickly as it had come. What remained was the feeling of serenity, of otherness, of timelessness that had been with the pontiff since he’d first met the stranger the previous day.
The feeling of hope. It was a feeling that, for the moment, was enough for Gregory.
“These are noble sentiments,” the stranger answered. There was a comforting smile in his eyes. “The goodness we see in the world should always spur us to a deeper virtue. What miracle has ever been an end in itself?”
The Pope sighed deeply and with gratitude. He reflected on the millions of faithful outside these walls who so desperately needed hope. The reassurance of love and grace. If he could offer them words that would inspire this, in the face of the wondrous things being done in their midst, his own heart would rejoice. Surely this was the great work to which the descendants of the Fisherman were called.
“There is only one thing I ask of you, if you are willing.” The stranger spoke after a few moments’ pause. A request. The first the man had made. Pope Gregory leaned forward in his chair.
“Of course.”
“I ask only that you say what is truly in your heart.” The stranger kept his eyes on the Pope’s as he slid a hand into the breast pocket of his shirt. He extracted a small slip of paper, folded once down the middle.
“Say what you feel, say what your heart whispers into your mouth,” he repeated, sliding the paper across the Pope’s desk.
“And then say this.”