The Secret Cardinal

7

The Pope sat quietly in the Redemptoris Mater Chapel, his hands slowly working the smooth beads of an old familiar rosary. His prayers were interwoven with meditations on the Immaculate Heart of Mary, for he believed it was only through the Blessed Mother’s intervention that his life had been spared from an assassin’s bullets early in his pontificate.

He prayed as he had throughout his long life, his daily devotions to a faith that had sustained him through years of suffering and the burden of more than a quarter century as the successor of Saint Peter, whose bones rested nearby beneath the altar of the basilica. One day, the Pope knew, his body would be placed in the crypt with those of the other men who had preceded him as Bishop of Rome.

As he prayed, the Pope heard a distant sound as if waves were crashing on the shore. Thinking it the rushing traffic outside, he ignored the sound and continued with his devotions. But the waves continued to crash, each building in volume and intensity until the sound of water enveloped him. Then the crashing disappeared.

‘Jedrek,’ a familiar voice spoke softly.

Hearing the nickname used only by his family and closest friends, the Pope paused in his recitation. He detected a faint floral scent in the air, a garden in springtime.

‘Jedrek,’ the voice called again, this time more distinct. A lyrical voice, familiar, but from his distant past.

Looking up, the Pope saw a woman with blonde hair and blue eyes wearing a plain dress. She stood near the altar, and the air around her was suffused with an ethereal light. The woman was young and beautiful, as he had always remembered her in his heart.

‘Mamusia,’ Pope Leo said, his voice choked with joy. He last saw her a month before his tenth birthday. ‘I have missed you so much.’

The woman smiled. ‘I have always been with you, my son. Your long journey is over. Take my hand.’

The Pope felt a new strength flowing through his aged body, a vigor he thought lost in the waning years of his life. He rose and stood tall, his first steps poised and confident. He glanced down at his body. His hands were those of a younger man, and his lean frame was clad in a black cassock. Despite the turns his life had taken, the road that led him from an old wooden church in the Polish countryside to the glory of the Vatican, Andrzej Bojnarowicz had never sought to be anything but a parish priest.

The young priest turned and saw his former self, a chrysalis empty as the tomb after Christ’s resurrection. In the face of the dead Pope, he saw the joy he had felt at the sight of his mother.

‘Come, Jedrek,’ his mother said lovingly. ‘It is time to go.’ Andrzej Bojnarowicz took his mother’s hand for the first time since he was a child. He felt her warmth and love and followed her into the light.