Last May, I traveled to Rome with a small group of journalists. We met with bishops and cardinals. We toured the Scavi beneath St. Peter’s and explored the Vatican Museums with a renowned art historian. We were welcomed onto the terrace atop the papal apartment, giving us an extraordinary view of Bernini’s piazza at the magic hour. Among all of the pleasures of this pilgrimage, the one I treasure most might be the evening I found myself ambling across the cobblestones of Borgo Pio, arm-in-arm with Kate O’Beirne, on the hunt for late-night gelato.
I did not know Kate well. I almost didn’t know her at all. As Jonah Goldberg wrote last week, Kate had been something like the den mother for just about every young conservative writer in Washington over the last 20 years. But for whatever reason, our paths rarely crossed, and when they did I avoided her. It seems ridiculous now, but the simple fact is that she intimidated me.
Kate was one of the great writers of her generation. She had worked in government starting with the Reagan administration and then became Washington editor of National Review and a fixture on political TV shows like the Capital Gang. I revered her from afar and was mildly terrified that if we met, either (a) I would turn into a puddle; (b) she would turn out to be less wonderful than I’d imagined; or (c) both. As is so often the case, I was wrong on all counts.
I met Kate in a little hotel courtyard 30 feet from the Piazza San Pietro. She was standing in the sun wearing a pair of Wayfarers with green lenses. Our mutual friend April Ponnuru—in whom I’d confided my reservations about meeting her—introduced us. April puckishly told Kate that I found her intimidating. I turned red. Kate laughed and hugged me. I loved her instantly.
Over the course of the next week, I sat beside Kate at meals, in taxis, in churches, in outdoor cafés over espresso. She told me about her sons and her grandchildren. We talked about parenting and the church and art. We walked all over the city and I was continually struck by her physical presence: She was tall and lanky, with the languid gait of a movie star. She had a distinct, easygoing glamour.
Kate was the quickest wit I’ve ever encountered. The Doc Holliday of wit. As we sat awaiting Pope Francis’s arrival at the Wednesday papal audience, Kate recounted another such Wednesday, a few years back. It was a hot, sticky Roman day and the Holy Father was running late. The crowd grew restless and, eventually, rather cranky. Kate turned to her companion and stage-whispered, “Give us Barabbas.”
One evening, our little group attended mass in the basement chapel of the Pontifical North American College, a snug, dim room whose pews each had room for two. Kate and I sat together. As we waited silently in the shadows for the priest to begin, sirens suddenly began wailing outside. After several disconcerting minutes of this racket, Kate leaned over and muttered, “They’ve got to do something about those sirens. I feel like Anne Frank.” I have never laughed so hard in a church. I doubt I’ll ever forget that moment. Nor what happened afterward, when I got to kneel alongside her, embrace her at the sign of peace, and receive the Eucharist with her.
There’s something strange and wonderful about meeting someone on a pilgrimage. It’s a period that exists out of time; you are surrounded by constant beauty, each marvel surpassing the last, not one of them like anything in your everyday life. And the pilgrims all share something foundational, even if each experiences it differently. Even if it’s unspoken.
Which may be why, more than her charm, or wit, or generosity—more than her kindness, even—what struck me most about Kate was her holiness. She’d laugh at that, I’m sure. She wasn’t any kind of a hairshirt-and-mantilla Catholic. Even so. She was the real deal. It radiated from her.
Last Sunday, a small army of conservatives lost their godmother. I know that for them and for her family, her death is a heartbreaking loss. I count myself grateful just to have met her, and blessed to have followed in Peter’s footsteps with Kate O’Beirne by my side.
Jonathan V. Last is a senior writer at The Weekly Standard.
