I fear for Pope Francis’s health. I wrote him a personal letter posted on 7 December, but it hasn’t left the UK yet according to the tracking number. I fear for his health because the last time I wrote personally to a pope was in May 1963 when I was six years old. The pope died before receiving my letter. Pope John XXIII – affectionately known these days as ‘il papa buono’ – was dying.
My class teacher at Brentwood Ursuline Convent School, who was a nun, had asked everyone in the class to write to him. I remember the excitement and responsibility of writing to a pope. We had to do it there and then. I expect every class in the convent was being asked the same thing.
The nuns were very upset he was dying. Perhaps they had been inspired by Vatican II. Anyway there was a great sense of urgency. A miracle was expected. Letters were to go to the Post Office that afternoon.
Introduction
I didn’t make my First Communion for another year after that, but my mother must have already given me some sort of introduction to Christianity and Jesus because I understood what a pope was. My maternal grandmother was a Catholic convert.
She’d gone to Oxford as a blue-stocking telling her Anglican parents she would either become a Communist or a Catholic. Her father had said that if she became either he would disown her. She never spoke about her conversion and he astutely never asked. I had been born in Kenya, and our family had only recently arrived in England. Had I ever even written a letter before, I wonder?
However I clearly knew that in a letter you were meant to write more than just one line. You were meant to give a little of yourself. And in this case, the life of the most important person we knew of was at stake.
Our letters were collected. There was a hushed silence as our letters were read by the nun and placed in a large envelope. Half-way through she stopped, looked at me and called me over. I wish I could remember her exact words but basically she told me to do it all over again. And quickly. The bell was about to go and I was now holding up the important posting.
This time, she emphasised, I was to leave the theology out of it. Of course she didn’t use that word. I was confused. And upset. I don’t remember being particularly embarrassed, perhaps because I was new to the school and new to the country and used to feeling an outsider. I believed I had written a good letter.
Pope John XXIII was old – 81 was very old then although I doubt I knew his age – and so in my best handwriting, in pencil, I had written telling him that I was praying for him to die very soon to be with Jesus. I was very happy for him. I remember adding that because he didn’t have children he didn’t have to worry about leaving them without a Daddy. I said something about hoping he wasn’t in pain.
But if this was unacceptable to my class teacher, what, I asked her, could I possibly write? I was deeply sincere but perhaps she was too busy to see that, because her reply was very off-hand. ‘It’s very simple, Penelope.
You should do what everyone else in the class has done…’ I listened, curious to know what they’d all done, and I had so clearly not… ‘and write to say that you are praying that he will get better.’ I was appalled. I didn’t want him to get better.
I wanted him with Jesus. He was old and ill. But my letter was now in the bin and I realised I would have to do what she said. I remember verbatim my reply. ‘What else can I write? I can’t just write I pray for you to get better.’ And her impatient response, ‘tell him you’re a good girl and…’ she floundered around for an and, ‘… and you help your Mummy with the washing up’. Then she sent me back to my desk. Well I didn’t.
I didn’t help my Mummy with the washing-up. I never had done. We’d lived in Kenya where the dishes were washed up by the cook in the stand-to kitchen to the side of our modest house. And now we were in England and my father had only just found a job after 9 months, we were living four of us (my parents, brother and I – and a Siamese cat with a litter tray) in very sad little hotel where they served either tinned spaghetti on toast or beans on toast for most of our meals.
So no, I’d never helped my Mummy with the washing-up.
Imposter
My hand wrote the letter my teacher wanted, and my imposter body put the letter on the teacher’s desk. She read it and just as the bell rang slipped it into the envelope. I remember feeling very sad.
I felt I’d failed the Pope. I had wanted to comfort him and now I’d written praying that his torment would continue. To make matters worse I had garnished it with a lie about being good and helping Mummy.
Everything in me rebelled at the hypocrisy I had been forced into. I didn’t want the Pope to read my cruel letter. I came home and exploded at my Mother. Why didn’t my teacher understand about Heaven? I remember realising then that I would have to keep on doing my own thinking about these important things.
A few weeks later in assembly the headmistress, also a nun, read out a letter from the Pope’s office thanking us for our very kind letters. She paused for us to comprehend the significance of hearing from the Vatican. It was in fact a very dull and stuffy letter written by some secretary. Then she continued.
Sadly Pope John XXIII had died before our kind letters reached him. Gasps of disappointment ran around the hall. That afternoon I jumped off the school bus into my Mother’s arms to deliver the good news. My real prayers had been listened to.
Pope John XXIII was with Jesus. He might even know the truth about my letter and forgive my white lie. My prayers today for Pope Francis couldn’t be more different. I pray that he has the strength to continue his revolution here on earth a while longer. And only now do I understand the nun who couldn’t bear the thought of losing the revolutionary John XXIII.
Penelope is the author of two history books, We Shall Never Surrender (Macmillan 2011) and Edith Olivier from her journals: 1924-48 (Weidenfeld & Nicolson 1989). She was Script and Series Editor on animated films aimed at making cultural heritage accessible for HBO, BBC and S4C/Channel 4. She co-produces a podcast HistoryCafe.org with 100+ episodes to date.
