Early one summer morning in the 1980s. The sun has risen over the Lago Albano, the elliptical volcanic lake below the town of Castelgandolfo, where for 300 some odd years the popes have had their summer residence.

The narrow streets were still empty as two americani–myself and my husband–hurried along the cobblestones on our way to the palazzo papale. It was the first time I’d ever worn high heels in Castelgandolfo. The heels kept getting stuck between the stones, and I flailed about bowlegged, trying to keep my balance. “Hurry up,” Richard tossed over his shoulder. “We’re going to be late.” Let him wear the heels next time, I thought.

A guard let us in the big wooden gate. In the courtyard some black-suited Italian met us and led us inside the palace, where we were left in the hands of a tiny Vietnamese monsignor. He said something that no doubt sounded to him like “buon giorno,” and we said something that sounded like “buon giorno,” to us. Then he took off. Fast.

He scurried down the long hallways. The floors of the palace are blindingly polished marble, and as we learned within a couple seconds, extremely slippery. Now Richard in his solid leather soles was having just as much difficulty as I. Our choices seemed few and all bad: race after the little Vietnamese and fall on our rear ends in the papal palace, or lag behind and become lost in the labyrinth, miss our chance to meet the pope, and disappoint our young friend waiting for us to do our sacramental duty only to surface hours later as accused terrorists or, even more shameful, journalists.

The little monsignor made a compromise of sorts. He would race to the end of a hallway until reaching a corner at which he would pause and look back at us beseechingly. We would race after him as fast as we dared until we had just caught up. Then he would smile, stretch out his hand, and bow and say “prego,” pointing for us to go ahead. We would reply “grazie,” imagining we must be near our destination, and walk on in a more dignified manner. Then he would start running again, leaving us far behind. Corner. Stop. “Prego.” Point. “Grazie.” Walk in dignified manner. Run. Corner. Stop. “Prego.” Point “Grazie.” Walk in dignified manner. Run. This was repeated so many times in that old 17th-century palace that we began to get a little punch drunk, the way you feel when you’ve been making left turns around a parking lot too long looking for an empty space. By now the walking bit had dropped out entirely and it was more like: Run fast (little monsignor). Run slow (Vigilantes). Stop and wait. (little monsignor again). Slow and nod while passing by (us). “Prego.” Point. “Grazie.” (Us, on the fly) And run. Which is how, after chasing him down I don’t know how many hallways and seeing the little priest do the prego-point one last time, we turned yet another corner, careened into the tiny chapel, and skidded to a halt just short of tripping over the pope, on his knees, deep in prayer.

We took a seat in one of the pews, carefully.

This is no Sistine chapel. There are no Michaelangelos on the ceiling, nothing for crowds of milling artlovers to appreciate. There are frescoes on the walls but they are modern. Otherwise the walls are stark white. Except for the marble floor, which is sumptuous, the chapel is a simple room.

Across the narrow aisle are two boys, ages seven and twelve. The older boy wears a strait-laced blazer and a tie, while the younger one wears a dashing white linen bomber jacket. Both had flowers pinned to their lapels. Today the older boy, Walter, will receive the sacrament of Confirmation. Richard is to be his sponsor. His little brother Michael will make his First Holy Communion. Seated beside the boys are his parents and grandparents. Behind them is a small group of American nuns. One of those nuns, Sister Louise, is their godmother.

The Holy Father prayed for some time. Perhaps 20 minutes. Then he stood up , and the Mass began.

Like every other pope watcher, I had read accounts of papal Masses that went something like, “John Paul II is a powerful presence in the liturgy. In his hands the sacrament of the altar takes on a different meaning…” My experience bore no resemblance to any of those tales. For me the most powerful impression was not of his presence but his absence, as if Mass began he seemed to recede. I am a contemporary American woman who’s as star-struck as the next girl and certainly no stranger to distraction at Mass. But that summer morning, in that tiny chapel with the most famous man in the world a few steps away, all I focused on was the Eucharist. That was John Paul’s gift to us during Mass. Not presence but absence. He led us to Jesus, which is after all a priest’s job. We followed where he went.

When the time came for the Confirmation, Richard stood up and edged out of the pew to play his part in the ceremony.

Maybe it was his black suit. Maybe no one had thought to mention we were Americans. But for some reason both the pope and his assistants explained everything to Richard in Italian, a language of which he understands perhaps three words, in apparent confidence that he understood every word. Richard decided to deal with this misunderstanding by nodding and looking solemn, which had the effect of suggesting he understood every word, while desperately trying to figure out what to do next. Fortunately it was a simple ceremony.

Afterwards the pope took each boy’s face in his hands and kissed him on both cheeks. He looked solemn and loving. The boys were solemn, too.

When the Mass was over we filed out into the wide corridor to await the Holy Father. The boys’ mother, my friend Katia, came over and gave me a hug. “So,” she whispered, “What do you think of this dress? Can you guess where I got it?”

I had to laugh. The dress was one I recognized. Until she entered the convent it had belonged to Sister Louise, then known as our friend Sheila, who had been famous for her wardrobe, among many other things. “It looks good on you,” I said.

“Thanks.” Katia laughed. “Holy Father remembered it, of course. Sheila wore it when Michael was baptized here.”

The pope reappeared. We stood in a line to take our turns kissing his ring and being introduced. After hugging the boys and greeting their parents, the pope made a beeline for Sister Louise. “And here is Sheila!” He took her face in his hands and gave her a kiss. “Sister Sheila! Or, no. Sister Louise.”

Sheila beamed. “Holy Father–” She appeared to be about to start chatting with him about who knows what–she was a notorious chatterbox–but she caught herself and remembered she had official business. “Um, Holy Father? This is my superior, Mother Gabriel. And this is Sister Martine. And over here, this is Sister–Sister–”

A look of horror crossed Sheila’s face as she realized in all the excitement she was blanking on the woman’s name. Then suddenly she burst out, “John Paul! John Paul.”

The pope looked at her carefully and lowered his voice. “Sheila,” he stage whispered, “I’m John Paul.”

“No, no, no! This is Sister John Paul! That’s, that’s her name, too.”

The pope gave everyone a rosary from a little silver tray the Vietnamese priest held for him. When he got to Richard, Katia introduced him as a dear friend from New York. Every time we met the Holy Father after that he would say to my husband, “Ah, New York! Good to see you again!”

At that first breakfast the Holy Father did everything he could to put us at our ease and include us in the conversation. It was tough work and eventually too much for him. I’m always quiet. Richard almost never. But at breakfast he was, as he later described it, catatonic. Fortunately we had the nuns, all of whom seemed unabashed if respectful, something like senior girls at a private school having tea with a favorite teacher. He asked how their brand new order was going. “Wonderful, Holy Father,” bubbled a dark-haired Italian looking one. “It’s growing like crazy. We have five novices.”

“What! Five thousand novices, already! Magnificent.” Big broad papal smile, as if to say, I got you.

Many giggles in reply. But the dark one was undeterred. “Yes, Holy Father. In fact we think it must be a great time of grace and a great work of the Holy Spirit that there are so many new vocations in America.”

The Holy Father paused thoughtfully and looked over the nuns in their newly designed and approved but not terribly attractive habits. He nodded gravely. “Yes. Yes. It must be the work of the Holy Spirit, if it has gotten Sheila to wear that.”

–This is adapted from Susan Vigilante’s forthcoming book: Breakfast With the Pope, A Spiritual Memoir.