It was six in the morning when George’s roommate burst into his room and said the words no Catholic expects to hear.

The Pope was dead.

In the days that followed, George found himself grieving more than he expected. And in prayer, a strange idea kept returning, one that didn’t make much practical sense: Go to Rome.

A few phone calls and a very uncomfortable flight later, he was standing in St. Peter’s Square with thousands of pilgrims watching the chimney above the Sistine Chapel.

Before leaving home, he had thrown an American flag into his bag almost as an afterthought.

He didn’t think he’d need it.