Lost & Found in The Eternal City

The Papal Basilica of St. Peter in the Vatican (St. Peter’s Basilica) Photo Credit: Shequila Purnell-Saunders

Part 2 of 3

Part 1: Florence | Part 3 Naples

Sometimes I wonder if I am the most cliché version of a Catholic woman you’ll ever meet. I took first communion in a dress too young for my long legs. I was a fast-tailed but naive rebellious Catholic schoolgirl who, without irony, allowed my high school boyfriend to nickname me Bambi.

Maybe I’m unique, though. The number of Black Catholics in the U.S., anyway, has always been dwarfed by Baptists — I know this both from firsthand experience and as one of a handful of people who once did God’s work as a religion reporter in this country.

We’d all probably like to believe our faith journeys are fascinatingly rare, so let’s go with the latter, if you’ll humor me.

My journey to faith, which has waxed and waned over the years, has only strengthened in the years since my mother’s death six years ago. That’s been surprising because my understanding of Catholicism was shaped by the mystery and fear that began as a girl standing and kneeling beside her in churches throughout the Northeast. Her unstable mental health was the most predictable thing about her aside from her absolute devotion to Catholicism.

The path to my mother’s heart, to understanding her with any clarity beyond the constant clouds of her unmedicated…