I was two years out of college and, to be honest, somewhat clueless as to the ins and outs of reporting. My coverage during the months of pre-World Youth Day events in Denver typically came down to printing press releases from World Youth Day, Inc., an all-too-commercial corporation formed to organize the event.

On this particular day, as hundreds of bystanders stood on East Colfax Ave. hoping for a glimpse of the Holy Father, I was marching between two yellow "do not cross" police banners toward a couple of Secret Service agents who looked like they earned their pay.

And boy, did I feel cool. I felt like some sort of secret agent, or like Cary Grant’s character from any of the several Hitchcock movies he made.

The Secret Service agents checked my jacket and micro-cassette recorder and let me through.

Earlier, my photographer had told me of a friend of his who was in a similar type of media situation when a pair of bomb-sniffing dogs became very aggressive at the scent of his camera case. With each arm held firm by an agent, the dogs proceeded to rip the bag apart. Inside? A turkey sandwich.

I made my way into the cathedral and to the balcony where the media was supposed to be housed. To my surprise, there were only a few other reporters and one television camera on the balcony.

I stood for an hour or so awaiting the arrival of the pope and probably the closest I would ever come to a pontiff. I tried to convince myself that it really wasn’t that big of deal. I mean, the pope was just a person, right? Not long out of college, I was still filled with a youthful arrogance that the pressures of real life hadn’t yet convinced me to abandon.

I looked down over the heads of all the young representatives. Thousands of youth from around the world came to Denver for World Youth Day. But these were the ambassadors; two youth from each of dozens of countries chosen to attend this and a handful of other events otherwise closed to the public.

I wondered what was going through their minds – surrounded by peers from every culture and in a country they had only seen in the movies – awaiting a man who would help tie them together as one family in God.

Suddenly, all heads turned to the back of the church. The youth rose. My adrenaline began pumping and for a moment I felt light-headed.

About 12 feet below me, I watched as Pope John Paul II suddenly emerged behind a contingent of bishops.

All my youthful arrogance was replaced by sheer awe.

I held tightly to my micro-cassette-recorder so I wouldn’t accidentally send it sailing over the edge of the balcony, bopping him on the head. That had "international incident" written all over it. (You think I’m joking, but I truly stressed over the possibility that this might happen.)

I wish I could quote what he said that day in the basilica, but even moments after the Mass I probably couldn’t have recalled what he said, so thoroughly caught up was I in his presence. My eyes kept going to him, trying to convince my brain that this wasn’t a picture in a book, but the real thing.

I didn’t know it at the time, but when it came time to receive Communion, my photographer was standing just 10 feet from the pope. We reporters had been instructed not to enter the main worship area, but I later learned that not only could I have received Communion from the pope, but my photographer was ready and waiting to get the picture.

After Mass, I walked out the side cathedral doors, once again in between the "Do Not Cross" tape, as dozens of people became simultaneously disappointed that I wasn’t John Paul II.

I hiked back to my car a few blocks away, sat down, and realized that only two years into my career and I had just experienced the most deeply moving event of my life, thanks to a little boy from Poland who grew up to be one of the greatest spiritual leaders of the last century.