I’ll never forget March 2005. Slumped in front of the TV, I watched with the world as Pope John Paul II lay dying. I wept at images of old and young thronging St. Peter’s Square and at news clips from the past: millions cheering his return to his native Poland; World Youth Day 1993 in Denver; the Berlin Wall crumbling; a glowing face, bowed in prayer. And most heart-rending: a feeble pontiff straining to utter a sound, betrayed by paralyzed vocal chords.
Riveted, I watched for hours—Thursday, Friday, Saturday. My tears streamed for this pope I never knew, for my dear friend Helen, who...
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