The year was 1984, and Vancouver’s BC Place was alive with a kind of energy young Joe had never felt before. At ten years old, he didn’t fully understand why his parents had insisted on dragging him to see Pope John Paul II, but he could sense that this was something important. The stadium was packed, the air buzzing with excitement as the crowd awaited the Pope’s arrival.
Joe sat on the edge of his seat, watching the choir perform on the large stage. The music echoed through the arena, but then something caught his attention—one voice stood out, clear and radiant.
It was a girl, probably around his age, singing with the choir. Her voice was pure and confident, rising above the others like sunlight breaking through clouds. Joe didn’t know her name, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
A Message That Stayed
When Pope John Paul II finally appeared, the applause thundered through the stadium. Joe’s parents stood, cheering, while he sat back, still thinking about the girl’s voice.
The Pope began to speak, his deep, resonant voice filling every corner of the arena. He talked about God’s love, His mercy, and His authority—not as something oppressive but as a guiding light.
“God is the only true authority,” the Pope said. “Not because He demands control, but because He offers freedom. When you trust in His love, you are free from fear, free from pride, free from anything that holds you back from who you are meant to be.”
Joe didn’t entirely understand, but something about those words stuck. They reminded him of the girl’s song—a kind of freedom he couldn’t explain, but he felt it all the same.
Five Years Later
It was 1989, and Joe was now fifteen, awkward and tall, standing nervously at the edge of the gym during the school dance. The lights were dim, the music loud, and kids were clustering into groups, laughing and swaying to the beat. Joe felt out of place, unsure of why he had even come.
Then he heard it again—a voice, clear and radiant, cutting through the noise.
The band playing on stage had paused, and someone had taken the microphone. It was a girl, her voice soaring as she sang an impromptu ballad. The sound silenced the room, and Joe froze. He knew that voice.
After the song ended, the room erupted into cheers. Joe made his way toward the stage, heart pounding.
“Hey,” he said nervously when he reached her. “That was amazing.”
The girl turned, her brown eyes sparkling. “Thanks. I’m Nelly.”
Joe smiled. “I think I’ve heard you sing before. At BC Place? When the Pope came to Vancouver?”
Nelly tilted her head, surprised. “You were there?”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “I didn’t know who you were then, but… I never forgot your voice.”
Nelly smiled, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Well, I didn’t know anyone was listening back then. Guess you proved me wrong.”
For the rest of the night, they talked about everything—music, faith, and how strange it was to feel connected to something bigger than themselves. For Joe, meeting Nelly felt like the final note of a song he’d been humming for years, a melody that began when he first heard her voice echo in a crowded stadium.
And though they didn’t realize it yet, that moment marked the beginning of something neither of them could have planned—a bond that would grow, rooted in the idea that perhaps God’s authority wasn’t about control, but about the freedom to discover who they were meant to be.