Testaccio. I was standing on a particular morning in a very crowded Zia Elena (coffee bar) and was working my way over to the cash register to pay. One of my closest friends in the bar was Stefania, who collected the money, counted change back, and carried on several other conversations all at once. When she saw me that day, even while returning money to someone else, she said excitedly, "O Je!" (short and friendly Roman version of my name, Jeremy) "I wanted to ask you something. Yesterday I was praying the Our Father,"she explained, "and I suddenly realized that I wasn't able to say the words forgive us as we forgive "because there's lots of people that I don't forgive and don't want to. What should I do?" she bluntly asked. I continued, "When Jesus was dying on the cross, he prayed for those who were putting him to death saying, 'Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.' That was perfect forgiveness. Jesus is praying in you when you pray the Our Father. So let his perfect forgiveness be in you. Say the prayer with him praying in you and you will learn to forgive. If you wait until you've already forgiven enough, you'll never pray it. But if you let Jesus pray it in you, you will learn from him to forgive."

White. White smoke from the chimney on the Sistine Chapel indicates to people gathered in St. Peter's Square that a new pope has been elected by the cardinals gathered in conclave. John Paul II added something new to this tradition when he decreed that, in the election that would follow his death, the huge bell on the left side of the façade of St. Peter's Basilica should be rung, proclaiming in its own way what the white smoke declares. All of us who were gathering in the square when the election of Benedict XVI was announced could not tell for sure if the smoke was really white. It seemed black and then gray at best. But it kept vigorously puffi ng away. People would shout, "It's black," then, "It's white,"e; but it was really never white; it was just only sometimes not black. This was a unique tease, incredibly dramatic. Where do you ever get a black-and-white question posed like this? As we continued watching and trying to decide, we inevitably kept turning toward the bell to see if it would start to move. If it did, then we would know what color the smoke was. Finally, at first nearly imperceptibly, the mighty bell began to stir. That faintly discernible movement raised an enormous roar of excitement in the huge crowd. The bell could gather its momentum only slowly, so massive and heavy was it. So there it was swaying, swinging, but not yet sounding, gathering its drive; and it seemed our shouting was gradually lengthening the reach of its thrust. At last its deep tone sounded, and the sound propelled the movement into ever wider arcs in both directions of its sweep. Other bells swung into the song as the wide arms of the square embraced the gathering throng. I do not mean to recount here all the details of that exciting hour. I only mean to utter a small testimony as to how beautiful at first was that swinging, silent bell.

From A MONK'S ALPHABET by Jeremy Driscoll,© 2006.
Reprinted by arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Inc., www.shambhala.com