Reading about the recent, and unusual, interview of Pope Francis by Norah O’Donnell, reminded me of my own meeting years ago with Pope John Paul II.
My late husband, John, was a foreign service officer. As a consequence of our postings overseas, I’ve dined with presidents, curtsied to the queen and prayed with popes. Of course, there were many mundane happenings, but today this is about the glamorous ones!
I saw Pope John Paul II’s underwear before I met him in all his outerwear.
An Italian friend arranged for John and me to be given a tour of the pope’s wardrobe by Angelo, his great-uncle. When I first met him more than 40 years ago, Angelo was in his late 70s and had been at the Vatican since he was an adolescent. (The early 20th century was still a time when a Catholic family was expected to dedicate one son to the church.) The tour Angelo gave us was astounding. We saw an entire room full of robes of embroidered silk and lush velvets, rows of jewel-encrusted slippers, bejeweled crosiers (staffs) and cases replete with breathtaking jewels.
Angelo explained his daily duties and also told us about his special duties. When it came time to robe a newly elected pope, it was his responsibility to make sure the right size alb was on hand for the pope’s first appearance in the Sistine Chapel. When news was brought to Angelo of the frontrunners, he would lay out albs in the appropriate sizes.
I noticed on the floor a basket full of white clothing. Angelo confirmed that the basket contained the pope’s underwear. Is it any surprise to learn that these garments were cared for by a special order of nuns?
He amused us with stories concerning some of the rituals involved in the investiture of a new pope. He showed us a small silver hammer with which the dean of the College of Cardinals taps three times on the forehead of the deceased pope to ensure that he is actually dead. And, he went on to say that one particular dean had such enmity for one of the deceased popes that if he wasn’t dead before the dean struck him three times, he certainly was thereafter.
My first opportunity to see the pope in person came in 1979. My husband, responsible for arranging a papal audience for a group of visiting congressmen, secured a pass for me and our 6-year-old daughter, Kate. The day of the big event was hot and sticky. Kate woke up with a slight fever; however, I was determined she wouldn’t miss this occasion. When we arrived at the Vatican and presented our passes, the Swiss Guards directed us to a circular staircase. The staircase, designed centuries ago to carry armored men on horses, spiraled steeply upward. At the very top was the audience room. On the way up, we passed through a series of doors, each of which was locked behind us. We finally reached the audience room and I lifted up a wan Kate so she could see the pope. She vomited all over me. All the doors were quickly unlocked.
Several years later, on our second tour in Italy, we received an invitation to a special Mass at St. Peter’s. The occasion was the beatification by John Paul of a group of English Catholics who had been beheaded by Queen Elizabeth I. As active Episcopalians — at the time, John was senior warden at St. Paul’s Within the Walls — and, therefore, descendants of the Church of England, weren’t we heretics? Our ambassador was Jewish so he couldn’t have been invited. However, the British ambassador was Church of England and he wasn’t invited either. Exactly why we were invited we never learned, but we were more than happy to accept the invitation.
On the appointed Saturday, our embassy driver took us to a back entrance of St. Peter’s, where we were met by a priest and escorted to a door that opened directly into the apse. We were then led around to the front of the baldacchino — the majestic canopy over the altar designed by Bernini — and seated about 30 feet from where the pope would be seated.
We stood for the processional and I watched as thousands strained to get a closer look at the pope — the end of each row was roped off to keep the crowd from getting too close. I had been to St. Peter’s many times as a tourist, but to be there as a participant was an overwhelming — and intimidating — experience. I wasn’t just one of 60,000 people, for that moment I was one of a select few.
Episcopal and Catholic liturgies are similar enough that John and I had no trouble knowing when to sit, stand or kneel. But we had been told ahead of time that under no circumstances were we to take Communion.
There was a radiance about the pope; he seemed to listen with intensity to every word spoken and every voice lifted in song and prayer. As the laity offered prayers, he sat with his eyes closed and I was sure I could see a halo above his head.
When the Mass was over and we stood for the recessional, a priest approached and told John and me we were to follow right behind the pope.
“Oh no! Not me, Lord,” I whispered to myself.
I think that moment was the closest I’ve ever come to fainting. But we did walk behind the pope down the center aisle of St. Peter’s. At the end of the aisle, we followed him into a small private chapel, where he asked our names and we conversed in English. He was one of the most charismatic people I’ve ever met. His manner was one of complete, undivided attention. I came away with the feeling that if I ever met him again he would remember my name.
Jill Holmes is a San Rafael resident. IJ readers are invited to share their stories of love, dating, parenting, marriage, friendship and other experiences for our How It Is column, which runs Tuesdays in the Lifestyles section. All stories must not have been published in part or in its entirety previously. Send your stories of no more than 600 words to lifestyles@marinij.com. Please write How It Is in the subject line. The IJ reserves the right to edit them for publication. Please include your full name, address and a daytime phone number.
