When I was 12, I traveled with my choir to Rome, Italy, where we performed at various churches in and around Vatican City. Though it was mid-July and about 120 degrees every day, it was an amazing opportunity that I’ll never forget—especially the first day.

We arrived in Rome at about 3 p.m., but honestly, it could have been any time; it was such a blur. I found out on this flight, my first international one, that I can’t sleep on planes. I tried so hard, but my brain was not having it. So I didn’t sleep for one minute at any point during my 12 hours in the air, or for the two days of travel. When it finally came to a reasonable hour to go to bed (in Roman time) I fell onto my hotel bed and immediately lost consciousness. I don’t think I even fell asleep; I think I slipped into a small coma.

However, I was unpleasantly awoken the next day at five in the freaking morning to sing at an underground chapel in the basement of St. Peter’s Basilica. In case you don't know, St. Peter's Basilica is one of the prized jewels of Renaissance architecture, designed by famous artists such as Michelangelo and regarded as one of the holiest, and biggest, churches in the world. It really was beautiful, but I resented the fact that I had to wake up at the crack of dawn and shovel some scrambled eggs into my mouth before getting on a bus to Vatican City, where we sang in a mass attended by a priest, our parents, and maybe five nuns. We had a bigger concert at ground level later on, so I wasn’t too pleased about having this mini-concert in what felt like a rich person’s catacomb. Apparently, neither was my stomach, because about halfway through the service, I started feeling a little queasy.

I tried to ignore it and blame it on the exhaustion. After all, I had been feeling nauseated right after I exited the plane, so I figured the ache would subside, just as it had before. It just got worse and worse until, finally, an alarm sounded in my head that told me it was time to get the heck out of there.

I went over to my mom and told her that I felt sick and needed to find a bathroom, STAT. She, not realizing the severity of the situation, calmly walked over to our tour guide and asked her for directions to the bathroom. I was thinking, “Mom, my stomach does not care about the beautiful architecture of this holy place and will not wait for you to chit chat with the tour guide.” So I turned around and starting marching up the stairs, knowing that my stomach was a ticking bomb and I had to leave before any casualties occurred.

It was about the time that I had reached the top of the stairs that another type of stomach ache alerted me to another issue—a very feminine issue. All I could think was that I must have offended the Lord in some big way because here I was, on the verge of upheaval, cramping and running up the basement stairs onto the main floor, whilst getting my period. I must have committed some major sins.

My mother caught up to me, trying her best to match my quick pace as I headed for the entrance to the church. I tried to make it to the door, but it was a long path from the stairs to the outside. I stopped in my place, bent over, and expelled a stream of egg-filled bile at the velocity and intensity of a fire hose. It was like I was having an exorcism, forcing my breakfast out of my body like an otherworldly demon from the depths of my soul. I think I was cleansed.

My mother did not see the reality of the Lord’s presence in this situation. She was stuck on the fact that her disgusting daughter was puking up eggs and muffins in the middle of a church, which is like the worst representation of America imaginable. Panicking, she tried to catch my vomit with the only loose item she had on her person: a scarf. My mother put a thin, decorative, pink scarf under my face in order to protect the marble floor of the basilica. I’m not sure what she was expecting to happen, but she was left holding a vomit-covered scarf and I was still going strong. Upon realizing this, she grabbed my arm and started rushing me toward the main entrance.

“Keep going!” I heard her distantly shout as I continued to throw up. I wanted to stop walking and centralize the mess to a small area but, instead, I allowed myself to be dragged toward the entrance, leaving a trail of vomit behind me like some sort of unholy snail.

At last, after what seemed like hours of suffering, we made it to the entrance. By that time, I had nothing left in my stomach and was beginning to feel better physically. My psyche took a few hits once I realized that I was standing at the top of the steps with my breakfast all over my shirt and skirt.

I rushed to the bathroom with my mom following behind, completely humiliated. To my mom’s credit, she could have reacted a lot worse than she did. Instead of getting frustrated or disgusted, as she had every right to be, she immediately found the humor in the situation. She laughed about how “this will be a great story someday” while she washed my clothes in the bathroom sink. I, however, as I stood in my skivvies in the bathroom stall, could find nothing funny about anything that had happened.

She was right, though. It is a good story, and I now know one thing with certainty: Saint Peter definitely does not want me in his basilica.