In June, I wrote a piece for the Register, shortly after Pope Leo was elected, to show our connectedness to one another. 

“Ultimately, most of us will never have the chance to shake a pope’s hand,” I concluded, “but we can be assured that zero degrees of separation exist between us and God.”

Ironically, just four months later, on Nov. 5, I found myself shaking the Pope’s hand with my husband Troy at my side. Now, just a few weeks before our 34th wedding anniversary, and newly back from Rome, we are counting this moment among the highlights of our marriage.

During our pilgrimage, my husband had found himself consulting Chat GPT to navigate the more confusing details of our time in the Eternal City. We were, indeed, far from our native North Dakota. Just before the general audience that morning, he’d asked the digital resource the odds of anyone meeting the Pope, and the answer came: “1 in 450 million.” 

Our odds were slightly increased by a few factors, and yet, until the final hour, we didn’t know if we’d be close enough to the Pontiff to kiss his ring, or in the square showing up as little dots among the throng. 

We committed to this trip on Holy Thursday, joining a group of pilgrims from Minnesota to tour Siena, Assisi and, finally, Rome. A few days later, Pope Francis died, and we didn’t even know the new pope’s name, not to mention have any thought of meeting him.  

Soon, we learned with the world that our new Pontiff was from Chicago! I was further heartened to find he bore my father’s name, Robert, and had taken the name of my father’s closest brother, Leo, in his pontifical capacity.

Despite these minor points of convergence, our chances of meeting this Holy Father should have been no more than any other pope in our lifetime. And yet, it happened. 

I mainly credit our Blessed Mother, St. Monica and Msgr. Jeffrey Steenson. I’d gotten to know Monsignor, originally from North Dakota, after writing a profile for our local daily here in Fargo.

On the feast of St. Monica, Aug. 27, he emailed a quick hello. I was glad to share that we’d be visiting Rome soon, and I’d planned to visit St. Monica’s tomb. He wondered if, while there, I might present the Pope a copy of What Would Monica Do?, a book I co-wrote with fellow Register writer Patti Armstrong. An expert on the Church Fathers, Monsignor had added some thoughts to a few of the chapters. 

But meet the Pope? How? Monsignor led me through all the steps to increase our chances of such a meeting. And on the feast of Our Lady of Sorrows — my consecration anniversary date — I handed an envelope bearing my bishop’s seal to a postal worker in Fargo, uttering a prayer of trust.

A few weeks later, my husband commented that it probably wasn’t going to happen, and we should just be happy for the chance to tour Italy. “Maybe, but God has surprised me before,” I said.

The very next morning, Sept. 26, I noticed an unusual email. It was from the prefect of the papal household at the Vatican, inviting us to be part of the papal audience on Nov. 5. Usually a slow riser, I jumped up to call my husband, then rerouted my plans to shop for appropriate attire, which I described in a Substack post. 

That evening, I hung up the dress in a prominent place in our bedroom, readying it for its spot in my suitcase, but doubts crept in. A late-night internet search revealed that a “general audience” was just that: general. I revealed to my husband my findings, sharing also with Monsignor that we’d probably gotten ahead of ourselves. Perhaps I should pull the post mentioning an upcoming papal visit, which was unlikely now, it seemed. “I wouldn’t,” Monsignor replied optimistically. “After all, you are a daughter of hope!” 

I soon returned to my trip preparations, excited, but with scaled-back expectations and a growing eagerness for the rest of the upcoming adventure. Surely, many blessings would come, papal visit or not.

It is truly impossible to adequately convey the gift of those 12 wonder-filled days: the colorful streets of Siena, the expansive views from atop Assisi’s majestic hills, and the sheer wonder of the history, art and faith contained within Rome’s beautiful basilicas. 

As it all came to an end, we found ourselves travel-weary, but excited for one last day, buoyed by the mystery: Would we meet the Pope or just see him from afar?

Parting ways with our new friends, who’d be returning a day before us, one confidently said she was praying big for us — to not only see Pope Leo, but shake his hand and give him a copy of the book. “I’m praying you’ll go all the way!” she said, waving goodbye. 

The next morning, alone now in Rome, Troy and I stood at the Vatican gate with many others as instructed, but as the crowd was released into the square, we found a Swiss guard and showed him our tickets. By now, we’d noticed the others held mostly beige tickets, but ours were yellow. 

Maybe it meant something? 

“St. Paulo!” the guard said, motioning toward the basilica to the Pope’s chair, which sat under a canopy away from the square. 

Several more waves by several more guards, and we looked at each other incredulously. It was happening! At our final stop, they searched for our name on their official list, and there it was: Salonen! So, on a cloudless, 60-degree, autumn day in Rome, we took our spots among the dignitaries, across from a section of bishops, and waited our turn to hear from and meet our Pope.

When finally summoned to the front, my husband and I introduced ourselves, and, as graciously as possible, I handed Pope Leo a signed copy of the book, requesting prayers for all the “Monica” parents, and gave him a copy of an article I’d written about our local connection to him through The Friends of Chimbote mission in Peru. 

The visit was short and sweet, and soon, we were back in the crowds, joining others for Mass inside St. Peter’s just behind where we’d been sitting in the sun with Papa Leo. 

It occurred to us how, just the day before we’d been in this same sacred space for a tour. Now, fresh from meeting the Vicar of Christ, we were meeting Our Lord in the same sanctuary — and not just admiring the art for art’s sake but experiencing it in its truest context of worship.

“I think we did it all in the right order,” my husband said just before the final blessing. I understood, for we’d first been introduced to the art, then Christ’s representative on earth, and finally, now, to God himself in the Eucharist. 

“I think you’re right,” I said, grasping Troy’s hand, whispering, “Deo Gratias!”