I first met Pope John Paul II in late June 1979.
A friend and I had
hitchhiked from Dublin to Rome, where we stayed at the Convent of San
Clemente near the Colosseum for two weeks.
We had both commenced studies
for the priesthood the previous year.
One morning we received an
invitation from an Irish priest, Fr John Magee, to meet the Pope. Fr
Magee had been private secretary to Pope Paul VI from 1974 until the
pontiff’s death four years later and had also served during the 33-day
pontificate of Pope John Paul I.
Our introduction to Fr Magee had been
arranged by an Irish Dominican, Fr Lambert Greenan, the English-language
editor of the Vatican newspaper, L’Osservatore Romano, and a friar at
San Clemente.
The pontiff was staying for a brief period in the
Tower of St John in the Vatican gardens while his apartments were being
renovated.
Fr Magee had arranged for us to be escorted through the
Vatican gardens and up to the tower, which was built as a fortification
for Pope Nicholas V in the mid-15th century.
The round tower opens
into a hallway, in front of which is set a lift. The Irish priest came
down in the lift first to greet us. He returned to fetch the pontiff,
and about quarter of an hour later the lift door opened once more and
out stepped Pope John Paul.
I recall how he walked into the hallway,
exuding energy and cheerfulness. We were introduced to him along with
other guests. After a short greeting, the Pope suggested we have our
photograph taken by his photographer.
Having blessed us, he then went
out through the door, where a car was waiting to take him to the
Apostolic Palace for the day’s audiences.
Fr Magee also got into
the car, and I looked out the door to signal my appreciation for his
kindness in arranging the meeting. He discreetly nodded to me.
The Pope,
however, leaned forward and, with a broad smile on his face, gave me
the “thumbs-up” sign.
Over the next 25 years, I met Pope John Paul
on some 30 occasions. Several times in the early years I met him in the
gardens of Castelgandolfo, when I spent my summers as a seminarian
working as a guide in St Peter’s Basilica.
I became a friend of Fr
Magee, who often invited me out for the afternoon to Castelgandolfo,
where we walked in the magnificent gardens. It was a most relaxed
atmosphere and on one occasion I recall how we happened upon the pope
who was sitting at a table reading a book. We retreated before we
disturbed his concentration, but I remember being surprised to see him
wearing white tennis shoes underneath his soutane.
Often in the
evenings, while in his country residence, he invited guests to join him
in the gardens after supper. These were informal gatherings, usually
made up of young people. The pope would sit in a wicker armchair while
we sat on the ground around him, asking questions and sometimes
exchanging jokes.
When the evening ended, around 10.30, we escorted the
pope back to the villa where we said goodnight. I remember also on one
occasion noticing that the pope wore aftershave, which struck me as
rather odd.
Of course, it was perfectly natural. I was usually fortunate
to get a lift back into Rome with Arturo Mari, the pontiff’s
photographer, or some Swiss Guards who had finished their duty and were
returning to the Vatican.
After ordination, I often concelebrated
Mass either in his country residence or in the Vatican.
What struck me
was the profound silence in the chapel. It was so different from the
vast public Masses celebrated before millions around the globe. When
Mass ended the Pope spent 15 minutes in silent thanksgiving, kneeling at
his prie-dieu in front of the tabernacle. He then came into the
corridor where he met his visitors.
I noticed that the Pope
enjoyed when people spoke to him as so many were overcome with emotion
and simply burst into tears.
As a linguist, he enjoyed bantering in
various languages. On one occasion I was with a fellow classmate, the
nephew of Cardinal Desmond Connell of Dublin. I told him that this was
the Archbishop of Dublin’s nephew.
“Ah!” he said with mock
surprise, looking at the young man. “His nephew is the Archbishop of
Dublin?” I explained that it was his uncle. “So, now you tell me he is
the uncle of the Archbishop of Dublin?” he replied. I think he enjoyed
my discomfort.
On another occasion, I was with John McCaffrey from
Northern Ireland. We both had met the pope many times and John asked the
pope to autograph a photograph.
The pope sat down and good humouredly
signed the image for his cheeky Irish guests. John is now a fundraiser
and assisted Pope Benedict XVI’s visit to Britain last year.
Meeting
the pope so often, I noticed tiny details. I was surprised that the
upper buttons of his soutane always showed signs of wear, as did the
piping around his collar. Surely there was somebody who would mend these
for him, I thought. I also noticed that when he met individuals in a
line, he appeared to look not at the person presented but to the next
visitor.
Mgr Vincent Tran Ngoc Thu, his Vietnamese secretary, told me
that the Pope was deaf in one ear, and that this was his way of
straining to hear in his good ear.
I also observed that when he
met people, many of whom spoke different languages, he repeated the last
words which they had said. “Holy Father, I am from Paris,” one might
say.
The reply was usually: “Ah, Paris. God bless Paris.” It was a way
of conserving his mental energies.
Pope John Paul had very strong
hands. His mother’s family came from farming stock and his handshake was
firm. I noticed that he had developed a tremor in his left hand while
celebrating Mass in Castelgandolfo in July 1991. It was the first sign
of the Parkinson’s disease which was to destroy his frame.
I met
Sister Tobiana on several occasions. She was one of the five Polish nuns
who looked after the papal apartments.
She was a nurse and I was deeply
struck by her sincere love for the pope and especially the care she
showed him in his old age and illness. It was to her that he whispered
his last words on earth and it was she who held his hand as he “slipped
away to the House of the Lord”.
As the years went by, the strong,
athletic man shrank in size but he grew in my appreciation.
His
acceptance of physical illness and pain was extraordinary and his sheer
determination was impressive.
The last time I saw him was in the
papal apartments one Sunday evening six months before he died. His face
was now a mask.
Yet behind the pain-filled eyes was the soul of a man
who burned with a deep love of Jesus Christ. He remains my inspiration
and I realise that I am blessed to have met him.
Fr Michael Collins’s book, John Paul II: The Path to Sainthood, will be published by Columba Press on May 15.
