When I was a seminarian, I was dazzled by a girl I met at an

Host: The church bells had just finished ringing, their echo dissolving into the amber dusk that hung over the narrow streets of Rome. The air was soft, carrying the scent of basil, incense, and old stone. Inside a small courtyard café, two figures sat at a marble table surrounded by creeping vines and melancholy light—Jack and Jeeny.

Jack’s coat was draped across his chair, his tie loosened, a small espresso cooling in front of him. Jeeny, in a light cream shawl, stirred her coffee slowly, her eyes distant yet glowing.

Between them lay a quiet that wasn’t empty but pregnant—the kind that follows a confession not yet spoken.

She had just read the quote aloud, her voice warm but trembling at its edges:

“When I was a seminarian, I was dazzled by a girl I met at an uncle’s wedding. I was surprised by her beauty, her intellectual brilliance... and, well, I was bowled over for quite a while.” — Pope Francis

Jeeny: “Isn’t that beautiful?”

Jack: “Beautiful, sure. But also ironic.”

Jeeny: “Ironic?”

Jack: “A future pope ‘bowled over’ by a girl? It sounds like something out of a Fellini film. A man of God meeting temptation in silk gloves.”

Jeeny: “Temptation? No, Jack. Humanity. It’s not a sin to be moved by beauty. It’s a reminder that even faith must kneel before feeling sometimes.”

Jack: “Feeling is what ruins conviction, Jeeny. You start with admiration, end with distraction. That’s how faith cracks—small fractures of desire.”

Host: The sunlight dipped lower, splintering through the vines in golden fragments. The shadows crawled across the table like hesitant hands. Jack’s voice was calm but tight, while Jeeny’s eyes burned with quiet defiance.

Jeeny: “You think faith is fragile because it meets desire? Maybe faith without desire is the real illusion. Even Pope Francis—before he was who he is—was just a man standing in front of a woman who reminded him of his heart.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing a moment. He didn’t choose her. He chose the Church. That’s what discipline looks like.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s what sacrifice looks like. But don’t confuse the two. Discipline without longing is just control. Sacrifice means you give something up because it mattered.”

Jack: “And you call that noble?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because you can’t give meaning to something you’ve never loved.”

Host: The evening light turned gold to amber, amber to wine. The first street musician started to play an old Neapolitan song in the square—a melody full of sighs and memory, the kind that makes even strangers feel like ex-lovers.

Jack: “You talk like desire’s divine.”

Jeeny: “It is. At least the kind that reminds us of our soul. The problem isn’t wanting—it’s pretending we don’t.”

Jack: “And yet, every vow, every promise ever made to something higher depends on restraint. On saying no.”

Jeeny: “But the ‘no’ means nothing if there isn’t a ‘yes’ trembling behind it.”

Jack: “You sound like Augustine.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he understood something most of us forget—that love isn’t the enemy of devotion, it’s the proof of it.”

Jack: “And what happens when love pulls you away from your devotion?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not love. It’s possession.”

Host: The sound of the guitar in the square deepened, the notes spilling into the café like a slow confession. The waiter passed quietly, leaving a bottle of Chianti on the table, its cork half-pulled, as if to say: some things are meant to breathe.

Jack: “You really think he was just ‘bowled over’? Come on, Jeeny. That kind of phrasing—it’s tenderness wrapped in restraint. He must have fought with himself. He probably still remembers her face.”

Jeeny: “Of course he does. That’s the point. Some people enter your heart not to stay, but to wake it.”

Jack: “And you think he could love her and still love God the same way?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because love isn’t divided, Jack. It’s multiplied. The girl didn’t take him away from God—she showed him what loving fully looked like. The way she thought, the way she shone—it reminded him that faith isn’t a theory. It’s feeling turned toward the eternal.”

Jack: “You’re telling me the Pope’s faith was born of infatuation?”

Jeeny: “Why not? All true faith begins with wonder.”

Host: A silence fell—deep, charged, sacred. The air trembled as though the world itself were listening.

Jack: “You make it sound holy, this human weakness.”

Jeeny: “It’s not weakness, Jack. It’s awareness. To be moved by beauty is to recognize divinity in disguise. Maybe that girl was a mirror—showing him what love could be, before he devoted it to God.”

Jack: “So you’re saying every temptation is a teacher?”

Jeeny: “Yes. If you’re brave enough to learn from it instead of running from it.”

Jack: “And if it destroys you?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you needed to be destroyed before you could be real.”

Host: The guitarist hit a tender note, and the crowd in the square broke into gentle applause. The sound reached them, quiet as a heartbeat.

Jack’s eyes softened, the defiance in his tone waning. He stared into the wine glass, where the reflection of the candlelight wavered like a soul uncertain of its shape.

Jack: “You know, I envy that kind of purity. To feel something so powerfully and still choose restraint. To be shaken by beauty, and instead of drowning, to let it baptize you.”

Jeeny: “That’s what he did. That’s what wholeheartedness looks like—not denying feeling, but transforming it. The girl was his reminder that holiness and desire are siblings, not enemies.”

Jack: “So maybe it’s not about choosing between love and God, but about learning to love through God.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe the divine lives in every person who makes our hearts stumble.”

Host: The church bells chimed again, faint but clear, rolling over the rooftops. Jack leaned back, his face calm now, the storm in his voice giving way to something almost prayerful.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought temptation was a test. Now I wonder if it’s a reminder that we’re alive.”

Jeeny: “And being alive is the first miracle.”

Jack: “So maybe being ‘bowled over’—as he said—isn’t weakness. It’s grace disguised as longing.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The heart’s way of saying, ‘Pay attention.’”

Host: Jeeny smiled, slow and luminous, her eyes glinting with the gold of the fading sun. The bells faded into silence, leaving only the distant hum of the city and the soft music from the square.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? The Pope once fell for a girl. Maybe that’s why he understands mercy so well.”

Jeeny: “Because only those who’ve loved deeply know how to forgive completely.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what makes him holy.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s what makes him human.”

Host: The light finally broke through the last of the vines, landing across their table, catching the rim of their glasses and turning the wine into a thin ribbon of fire.

For a long time, neither spoke. They simply sat there—two souls caught in the same delicate truth the Pope once discovered: that the divine often wears the face of the ordinary, that love—whether earthly or eternal—always begins with wonder.

And as the evening descended upon Rome, the world outside blurred into gold and shadow, while inside, Jack and Jeeny shared a silence that felt like both a prayer and its answer.