Wednesday and Thurday were difficult for me. Knowing that just down the road, the man who had once led the Church was no longer there, that his windows were closed and his lights, which had waved goodnight to me after each 6pm Mass at St. Peters, were now extinguished-- I couldn't help but feel a part of me missing. Hearing his name in the Eucharistic Prayer during Mass at St. Maria Maggiore and the solemn Gregorian Chant of the communion song which followed brought tears to my eyes and, with them, an inability to sing. I had to start saying goodbye.

I was asked on Thursday afternoon if I wanted to go camp-out at the Vatican for Friday's Funeral Mass. With 5 minutes to decide and pack, I agreed.

At 2pm Thursday, the crowds were still amazing, but I found a place along a wall next to St. Peter's Square to crash for the day and to sleep during the night. And it was there that I realized the true reason for funerals:

Yes, funerals are for saying goodbye and for greiving, but, ultimately, they are a celebration.