I Saw the Pope on TV this Morning

The Pope has become quite frail, and he does not speak well anymore. But he does not give up - he had a long speech to give, thanking the US soldiers of sixty years ago for saving the world, and he read that speech with the same determination an athlete completes an athletic event.

This Pope has become a living witness of the value of the elderly. For us, who hide the elderly, or treat them like doddering old fools, it is sobering to listen to this man who, despite his infirmities, still does his job every day, and brings a crystal clear mind to every speech he has trouble reading.

It was not always so - in 1979, this was the hiking, kayaking Pope. He came into his Roman bishopric with the kind of acclaim that always seems to herald someone of particularly youthful vigour.

But this Pope has been Pope for a lifetime, and we have all watched him age to an age where, if it were one of our relatives, we would have put him off in a home somewhere. Instead he still writes books, gives homilies, blesses the faithful, canonizes saints, and ordains bishops and priests.

In the Catechism is quoted this wisdom of Ben Sirach:

"O Son, Help your father in his old age, and do not grieve him as long as he lives; even if he is lacking in understanding, show forbearance; in all your strength do not despise him... Whoever forsakes his father is like a blasphemer, and whoever angers his mother is cursed by the Lord."

I have some guilt here. When my one grandmother had Alzheimers, I started calling her only infrequently. I was afraid that I would remember only this new reality, and not remember her more vigourous earlier self, I think.

I did better with my other grandmother. Shortly before she died, I had a long talk with her about life and death. She told me that nobody lives forever, and there comes a time when you are ready to move on. She thought she'd reached that time.

When she took a stroke a week or so later, I prayed, and begged that I might see her one last time (she lives very far away.) The day she died I was granted this prayer: a Christmas card was on my desk, which my wife had taken from the mail. Inside, my Nanny had sent me a picture of herself, from her 90th birthday party that summer. She had found a way, she herself, for my prayers to be answered, in such a poignant way - I did get to see her the one last time.

I miss her. She had a serene wisdom that does not come from books or education. Her wisdom was the kind you only get from living a long well-lived life. I dream about her now, sometimes.

But not nearly often enough.