Back in college I severely sprained an ankle playing flag football. It was the year we took the championship trophy, too, the only trophy I have ever received on merit, all four inches of it. (I tripped in or on a hole on the field, reestablishing the nickname my sister used to call me, “Grace.”) Anyway, I was wrapped up and on crutches and our choir was slated to sing at Saint Pope John Paul II’s visit to Iowa. I anticipated hobbling around on dirt ground with ungainliness but I wasn’t missing this opportunity.
What I didn’t anticipate was being placed in the first row with the other people who were crippled or handicapped that day. I was a mere six feet from the Pope when he came around to the crowd. I remember being struck by the kindness that emanated from him, the same kindness you could see in the dancing eyes of Pope Francis. A feeling of serenity and peace, joy.
How fitting the leader of the Church should return home on Easter Monday. And I am forever grateful for that injury.