Randall J. Meissen - Living Miracles: The Spiritual Sons of John Paul the Great

Now more than ever it is crucial that you be watchers of the dawn, the lookouts who announce the light of dawn and the new springtime of the Gospel of which the buds can already be seen. Pope John Paul II1

Are you praying for John Paul?

The shouted question caught my attention, and I glanced over my shoulder, catching sight of its unlikely source. A young man, not more than nineteen, stood at the street-side newsstand, bedecked with black leather, tattoos, dyed hair, and all. He was a teenage hybrid of goth and grunge, quite a contrast to the long, winding column processing past him along the New York street.

The passing Eucharistic procession must have puzzled the young man. The scene was almost surreal, like a picture from a medieval manuscript. First came a tall wooden cross held high, and far behind, a canopy carried aloft by four poles, beneath which a priest, resplendent in ornate vestments, bore the Blessed Sacrament encased in a sunburst monstrance of shimmering gold. Between the cross and the canopy came the faithful, row after row, chanting and singing, many arrayed in religious garb: seminarians in black cassocks, friars in earthen brown and smoky grey, Mother Teresas missionary sisters in white saris fringed with blue, and many more.

This day was Aprils first, but the sheer size and solemnity of the marching company dispelled any suspicion of jest. In fact, the event had been planned long in advance. The Pope himself had sent the magnificent monstrance which led the procession through the streets of New York. Yet no one in the archdiocese, not even the cardinal, could have planned the affair to take place on such a day. Providence alone knew that this April day in 2005 would be the eve before the Pontiffs passing.

Front pages on the newsstand racks already carried images of a failing pope. News anchors and commentators all agreed that his condition was grave. And it was grave, mortally grave. Nonetheless, as John Paul slipped into final sleep, he worked a miracle; for at that dingy New York newsstand along the urban street an unlikely young mans heart, beating beneath black leather, was pierced by the final witness of a saint.

The simple question, Are you praying for John Paul? was genuine, filled with empathy and respect. It was a question that touched me deeply. Was I praying for John Paul? I paused for an instant, standing there, myself among the cassock-clad seminarians, and responded, Yes. Yes indeed, I prayed for John Paul II, because he had changed my life.

Twice prior, I had been the inquisitive young man standing stunned on the roadside. The first time, I stood in the dark of night along a Houston highway, staring at a smashed wreck and a dead friend. In that moment, I was the one asking questions. Why had it happened this way? Why had I been spared? Standing there, looking at my selfish life and its shattered ambitions, I knew the reason. God had given me another chance; he had given me the chance to walk where he led, if I but had the courage to respond and the courage to hope. Thus I offered Christ my life and started down his path.