of how I came by such a beautiful portrait of JPII. The very next Sunday I rushed to church and asked the father, "What are you going to do with that picture of JPII in the narthex? Sell it? Send it somewhere? What?"
Bless him, Fr. X leaned over and asked in a conspiratorial tone: "Do you want it? Nobody else does." He knew how broke I was as usual.
Still, I nodded my head like a bobble doll, for once not daring to speak. He said, "Stop by the office soon after Mass."
So I was on pins and needles the whole time. He's a Claretian, indpendent minded with a biting sense of humor. In the basement social hall, he used to face a table laden with donuts and such, make the sign of the cross, then turn to us and declare with a straight face that the entire table of goodies were completely free of calories now. That was his shtick.
Anyway, Fr. X looked both ways (rather dramatically) and then hurried with it out to my car. I thanked him and sped off, feeling as if we'd really put something over on somebody, although I had no idea exactly who. Well, truthfully, some snotty people would've raised unholy hell if they'd seen us, so it wasn't entirely a game. But we played it to the hilt anyway.
Strange, the memories that still give me a warm glow years later. That resembles the way I got the antique print of Rafael's Sistine Madonna from another church, too. I guess maybe great priests think alike?
As long as I feel that Francis might be the same sort, guess I'll stick with him.
In a rather roundabout way, this does describe what being a Catholic now means to me. For all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, I've been deeply blessed in the ways that matter most.
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BTW, one main reason Rafael's Madonna is my favorite is because it's the only one over the centuries where either Mary and baby Jesus show a glimmer of having any idea what's to come. It's prophetic, tragic, and yet so full of love. Not in a million years would God have chosen me for Mary's role because He must know how poorly I would've done. Even today when one of 'my' animals crosses over before me, I go cuckoo. No other way to put it. But I love Mary almost as much as Jesus. Protestants don't realize what they're missing by turning their backs on her. I've even heard of some pastors referring to the Mother of God as a mere tool. Not in front of me, or they'd get their ears pinned back. When I'm way down in the dumps, I climb out by literally dancing around the house singing hail Mary's at the top of my lungs to every tune I can make up. By the time I run out of steam, my heart's well on its way to mending.
Where else on earth can a person find that sort of comfort? Nowhere. That's another reason I can't turn my back on Rome no matter how deep green my Celtic blood runs. Would Mary leave with me? 
Somehow I doubt it.
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