Mr. Wolf is Huffing and Puffing and Well — You Know the Rest

My life has never been the same since first meeting Mr. Wolf more than a decade ago.

Sadly, he became so fond of me that he decided to move in without an invitation, and I have been woefully unable to evict him since, despite my very best efforts.

I have Lupus, which I refer to as “Mr. Wolf,” because lupus is the Latin word for wolf, and boy has he been snapping his big teeth at me of late.

I have the most serious form of the disease, Systemic Lupus Erythematosus (pronounced: er-uh-thee-muh-toe-sus), also called SLE, which is an autoimmune disease. As such, it is characterized by a malfunction of the immune system. In these types of diseases, the immune system cannot distinguish between the body’s own cells and tissues and that of ‘foreign’ matter. So, rather than simply producing antibodies to attack invading viruses, bacteria or other similar foreign substances, my immune system creates auto-antibodies that attack my body’s own cells and/or tissues.

Like the last of the Three Little Pigs, I've learned long ago to build my house's foundation soundly against his attacks. I have built it upon the concepts of spirituality (Wicca), love (bisexual), hard work, honesty and a willingness to play (the last has been the hardest part for me.) Nonetheless, the truth is that my house is about to come down around my ears.

The past few months have been bleak. Mr. Wolf has been feasting virtually at will — and sister, does he have a lot of will. During the current onslaught, I went to the doctor and was told what I already knew — Mr. Wolf is coming closer and closer to achieving his goal.

Last year, I had a horrible realization: I can no longer remember what it felt like to be well. Oh, I have memories of being very active, unabashedly athletic and whole, but they are no longer sense memories. It’s as if that part of my life was so insubstantial that it has been absorbed into the unreality of dream.

When I was first diagnosed more than 15 years ago, I was consumed with knowing why my own body was trying to destroy me. At first, I found myself looking deeply into the mirror: Who was this stranger that had taken over my body? And, even more importantly, how could I ever learn to live with her?

I fell into a deep-as-the-deepest ravine depression. There was nothing left of the person I once was. Nothing, absolutely nothing, remained. Or so I thought then. I had been wrong. Very wrong. A tiny, itty-bitty, bright even luminous speck of something had survived.

Was it my soul? I still don’t know, but I think so. I also came to believe it was the divine spark of creation housed within all beings; that indescribable “something” that connects us all to each other regardless of race, gender, age, creed, religion or geography. Whatever it was, I felt it. Visceral.

But for the past few months, nothing. It had been a long process, but I had finally begun to believe again that I had a body, that I was a woman, not simply a lump of flesh that temporarily housed my brain until my ever-approaching death. Unfortunately, almost imperceptibly, I had become a “thing” again.

I had thought that once I had found my “soul,” that knowledge — that sense of self, would be mine forever. It has been sobering indeed to realize that self-knowledge, even hard-fought, can be forgotten in the face of relentless disease and worsening disability. So, once again I stood on the very brink. I had managed to take a step back once before, but did I have the ability, or even the will, to do it again?

For days, I once again stared at the pill bottle, my “stash” I had hoarded for years that would bring on the ultimate darkness. If I gave in to its seduction and the sweet oblivion it promised, I would finally rest. And, I was so very, very tired.

I thought back, what had I done before? What was it that had caused me to give a damn whether I met the next dawn? Slowly, I remembered – it was that little zing of life. That shooting feeling that you are, indeed, alive. Even muted by illness it was still there, still calling me unceasingly back from suicide: Sensation.

I sighed and put the pill bottle away— again. I know now that I will not improve, or may never even stabilize again. The truce, the peaceful co-existence, the political accord that I had hammered out with him before is gone.

I must once again work to reclaim my body, make her a part of me again. Integration in a literal sense. I have been kind, nurturing, drawing her back — but that is no longer enough.

Before, it was my honest sexuality that was the key. I had worked to feel arousal again, slowly, gradually working to feel even a nano flash of sexual interest. Once I had done that, I almost immediately remembered the long-lost feeling of my “soul.”

When I was having sex, I was no longer disabled. The pain that has always been Mr. Wolf’s hallmark transcended into pleasure. Touch and intimacy has been my link to the divine for as long as I can remember. In those moments, I was my true self again. Not a disabled person on her way out, but a living, vibrant woman who was put on this planet for some purpose beyond my finite understanding.

It seems significant that I have to relearn this simple message yet again — but this time without my usual coping mechanism. My sexuality continues to elude me now, so I have to figure something else out. Perhaps I failed to appreciate that my real sense of self, my soul, cannot be wooed from the outside, but must be found within. Even though I had connected to her through my physical senses and the practice of a Divine sexuality, she is not really connected to my body at all. She exists in everything, in everyone. Even me — still.

Thus, I have decided to move forward knowing that my deterioration simply is. Mr. Wolf is real, and I can't pretend that he's just some euphemism I created to represent my disease. I need to find new ways to hang on, to continue breathing. I was given the gift of life, and it remains a gift still.

I also hereby re-dedicate my efforts to re-establish my intimate life. I want the most satisfying sex possible. For me, sex doesn’t just promote overall health, it has always meant the very breath of creation. Despite needing to learn a different way to remain connected, I refuse to give up hope that physical intimacy is lost to me now.

— E

Eat, Drink and be Merry, for on May 21 We Die!

OK, so what's with this end of the world stuff, anyway?

Most people have heard the “theory” that the world is going to end in 2012, according to the Mayan calendar, but recently billboards have started popping up across the country "revealing" the world’s literal last day will be on May 21 this year, allegedly based on the Hebrew Calendar.

Christian Evangelical Radio host Harold Camping and his followers have calculated this date CERTAIN of Christ's "Second Coming" (something that Born Again and other Evangelical Christians refer to as, 'The Rapture') after using a series of insanely complicated and suspiciously bogus calculations.

"It's going to be a horror story that we absolutely cannot conceive of. Millions of people will die on that day and everyday thereafter," Camping said.

According to Camping, who is the founder of the Family Radio Network, Judgment Day will begin with earthquakes — at 6 p.m. local time.

Camping's followers have been traveling around the world, spreading the word about the forthcoming day. "We see people that give us the thumb. They say, 'Thumbs up.' We also see people that, unfortunately, give us the other finger," said one devotee, Darryl Keats.

Camping's doomsday scenario has given the late-night talk show hosts grist for their comedy mills, but sadly a lot of regular people have admitted to being terrified as the date fast approaches, according to recent news accounts.

Look, I'm not a Christian anymore, but if it makes those of you who are feel any better, here are two New Testament verses apropos, from the King James version:

"For ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh," (Matthew, Chapter 25, verse 13); and, "Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come," (Matthew, Chapter 24, verse 42.)

Let's talk a bit here about death. As an anonymous philosophical wit once observed, "None of us is getting out of here alive."

It is vital that we come to grips with the very reality of the very real end of our lives — whether it's in two weeks or two decades, or longer.

As readers of this space know, I have Lupus, S.E., a worsening auto-immune disease that will eventually kill me if nothing else does. Since I learned my diagnosis, I have become progressively sicker, and just last week found out that I am deteriorating at quite a disgusting pace.

I was pretty bummed, but I do know the real truth; that it doesn't matter how many days or years you live, but what you do with them. (Brother, I certainly am filled with cliches today!) I don't mean how much money you make, or how "important" you are, but how many people you've touched, and how many people you've allowed into your heart.

As a sex-positive, bisexual Wiccan, I believe that life and its many pleasures are to be thoroughly explored and enjoyed; that our physical couplings should be as frequent and fun as possible, but also sometimes seen as sacred; and that the divine exists within each and every being on this wonderfully diverse and rich planet.

My faith isn't based on fear, threats, and always looking toward an uncertain hereafter, but rather what we've done in the here-and-now.

So, if the gig is up for the whole of Mother Earth, why not celebrate the life you've had every day until then, and if it's not, why not celebrate every day after?

Meanwhile, the Florida Atheists and Secular Humanists have posted their own billboard advertising a recruitment party at Tiki Bar on May 21. "The upcoming rapture that's predicted for May 21 obviously is nonsense," said Ken Loukinen of the Florida Atheists. "We're just drawing attention, poking a little fun."

Mainstream Evangelical Christians have avoided the topic despite Camping's insistence that Judgment Day is soon to come. "This is not something where there's a tiny, tiny, tiny chance it might happen. It is going to happen," said Camping.

Oh yes, quite an important uh...end note: Camping’s findings should be taken with tons and tons of salt, as people have been predicting the end of the world, unsuccessfully of course, since 1260. Camping himself “miscalculated” in 1994. In 1860 there was even a “Great Disappointment” when people were warned about the Second Coming. Much more recently, who can forget the doomsayers who predicted the end of the world at the change of the millennium, the so-called Y2K disaster that turned out to be just another glorious day!

— E

A Mother's Day Tribute — My Way

I dreamed about my Mom last night, probably because of today's celebrations for all Mother's on their very well-deserved special day.

 

I dreamed she was alive, and that she was sober. Neither true.

 

She's been dead since 1997, and was rarely sober for any extended period in my lifetime. I'm almost 55, but I can hear her voice as clear as a bell, more so than I can some people whom I see daily, and are very alive. Even now, I often catch myself as I begin to dial her old telephone number.

 

I guess drunks can be funny, at least they are often portrayed that way. Funny — that is, unless you live with one; unless the drunk in your life is also your primary caregiver.

 

This may not sound like a tribute, but it is. My mother was a tortured soul. Something — I always thought sexual abuse when she was young — compelled her after taking that first drink to never stop. Her heart was broken, as mine is now when I think remember her.

 

She was a true virtuoso, a classical violinist so good that she was offered a chair in a prestigious orchestra when she was just a young woman from Missouri, not a state from which musicians were normally recruited. This orchestra literally traveled the the U.S. and the world.

 

I know now that she was afraid — no, terrified — to accept this one-time opportunity, an opportunity that wound have changed her life forever. A choice that would have made this brilliant and beautiful farmer's daughter into a cosmopolitan woman, long before that term was widely used. Instead, she made a different life-changing decision: She married my father.

 

It was 1950. My father had come back from war (World War II) deciding to become an artist. My parents had been high school sweethearts, so it was easy for him to resume their relationship and to propose. When they wed, my mother had never taken a drink.

 

My dad was — and is — a natural rebel. He didn't want to follow his father into "The Store," a large department store that his father ran with his two brothers. He hated it with an abiding passion. So, the newlyweds shocked their collective families and moved to California — an art mecca beloved by their fellow members of the "Beat Generation." My mother also wanted desperately to leave, to free herself, from the Midwest, and to finally shake the dust off her clothes and the Bible belt's intolerance.

 

I think they were happy for a time, but my mother was prone to depression, a disease little discussed in those days. After my birth in 1956, she suffered postpartem depression, again an affliction unheard of when it happened to her.

 

My father had given my mother her first drink, and he carries the guilt for it to this day. Soon after my birth, she began to drink in secret. She was a 1950's housewife, a stay-at-home mom with a baby and a drinking problem. The only proof my father had of her problem was her increasingly erratic behavior, which we eventually called her being "groggy." Quite a euphemism, that.

 

I remember her being drunk from the time I was 4, up until she died. I also remember her kindness, generosity, humor and an abundance of love that she showered on me. Her hair was so black that it had blue highlights. She was exotic looking, and strangers of different nationalities always assumed she was a kinswoman. Once, she told some who claimed she was a Native American that she was in fact a member of a particular tribe — one that she made up on the spot. She winked at me, then deadpanned the delivery so that the person believed her.

 

In reality, she was a German Jew, but her mother's family hid their heritage, never discussing it — even within the family.

 

My mother was magical, a deeply creative woman of so many contradictions. Suddenly, after a successful symphony with a local orchestra she played in when I was 12, she announced she was simply giving up the violin — forever.

 

In my childhood, she supported me in everything I ever tried to do. She also threatened suicide numerous times, and ripped out the pages of my father's beloved books to hurt him once when she was drunk. As I grew older, she wasn't the same woman whom I had grown up with. I firmly believe it was because of her untreated alcoholism.

 

She never admitted to her drinking, but did tell her pastor decades later. My parents divorced, and when I was 18 she inexplicably moved back to the state of her birth — the state she loathed — to care for her aging mother. Her mother had never told her she loved her, or even hugged her when she was a child. Go figure.

 

I'm an only child, and I'm glad. Our home-life was so messed up, it's good there was only one kid to go through it.

 

After my mother moved back to Missouri, I married and later divorced. After several years of my own torturous self-reflection, I realized I'm bisexual. I've been with my female partner since 1982.

 

My mother returned to her conservative roots as soon as she set foot back in her home turf. She drank really heavily while my grandmother remained alive, and even more afterward. Eventually, she married an alcoholic and drank more openly. Abruptly, she told me she sometimes played "the fiddle" at church. I tried to encourage her music, but she backed away from it again and stopped playing.

 

Her church, Southern Baptist (naturally,) was beyond ultra-conservative. I told her over the phone about my sexuality almost as soon as I had figured it out. I had expected acceptance, if not understanding. Instead, she disowned me, and just for good measure, damned me to hell-fire for all eternity. I sat without moving beside the quiet phone for hours.

 

From the time I was 18, I was only to see my mother in person twice more, and they are not happy memories.

 

We were able to reconcile before she died, at least enough for her not to hang up on me when I called.

 

When I think of her, it is with a heart filled with love, and saddness. I see the beautiful young woman of my childhood. She was a woman with so much talent, compassion, intellect and so much potential. I see her practicing the violin while I literally sat at her feet.

 

She didn't ask for whatever demons hunted and haunted her, stealing her life, and the world is the worse for it. She didn't deserve the destruction wrought by the disease, or the fact that housewives never admitted to alcoholism in the 1950's or accepted treatment.

 

It was my mother, afterall, who paid the ultimate price for her drinking. She was miserable, and only 68 when she died.

 

So on this Mother's Day, I raise a glass of GRAPE JUICE to you, dearest Mom. I hope you have finally found the peace in death that so eluded you in life.

 

— E

Let There Be Peace — Not Hatred

Originally Posted on Monday, May 2: Late last night, al-Qaida leader Osama bin Laden was killed in his Pakistani compound following a daring nighttime raid by Navy Seals.

The 16-member tactical team of elite Navy Seals rappelled over barbed wire fencing, entering the compound and searching bedrooms for the mastermind of the worst terror attacks in U.S. history. Those Sept. 11, 2001 attacks have changed this country forever.

Finding him, they ordered, "Surrender! Surrender!" When he refused to do so, he was shot twice in the head.

Last night around midnight, President Obama announced the raid and Bin Laden's death, saying, "Justice was done." Today during an afternoon press conference, Obama declared, "is a good day for America."

I am a Solitary Practitioner of Wicca. As such, I believe that all life is sacred — not just the good people, but the bad ones too. I am profoundly grateful to the Seals who risked their lives in the raid, but also that they gave this international criminal an opportunity to surrender.

Our country is founded on the democratic concepts of due process, and equal treatment under the law. We base those laws on the Constitution and Bill of Rights, not the Sectarian Law that is confined to the dogmatic limits of a specific religious sect or denomination.

Thus, the U.S. does not practice "an eye-for-an-eye," if we did, we would be no better than the terrorists we fight. I also oppose the death penalty.

Bin Laden was buried at sea, following Islamic Law. I would imagine that choice was also made so that there would be no grave to become a shrine for other terrorist-religious extremists to visit, thus making Bin Laden a martyr to their cause.

To those in Americans who celebrated the death, I urge you to be more reflective. Every person carries a spark of the Goddess within, so rejoicing in the killing of anyone may have unintended Karmic consequences. It is also a tenant of Wicca to respect all faiths.

We should also remember the thousands of Muslims that have died as a direct result of Bin Laden's outrages, not to mention everyone who had died since in the armed conflicts.

As a Wiccan, my faith can be summed up as:

"Bide the Wiccan laws ye must, in perfect love and perfect trust...Mind the Threefold Law ye should – three times bad and three times good...Eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfill – an it harm none, do what ye will."

I hope this will be another turning point in this country: Toward peace.

I pray it is the beginning of the end of the longest war in this country's history, as well as the on-going war in Afghanistan, which has been the stronghold of al-Qaida.

I also hope that we will begin to overcome religious hatred toward Muslims, finally understanding that it was not the faith that killed thousands and continues to threaten to reign mass destruction on the U.S. and our allies, but radical extremists/fanatics who work outside their own religion's precepts.

On a very personal note: I had the honor to be working with the New Jersey state law enforcement agency on that fateful Sept. 11 morning — which was brilliantly sunny and cloud free. In its aftermath, my agency provided backup assistance to New York City police and fire companies, and also to families and friends who lost loved ones in the cowardly attacks.

State police escorted me to Ground Zero about two weeks after the attacks, before it was reopened to civilians. We went over in a small boat. As we crossed New York Harbor from New Jersey, the Statue of Liberty on my right, I saw the burning face of the new skyline directly before me. Lady Liberty almost directly opposite that shameless brutality.

Recovery efforts were still underway, and the Twin Towers were still burning. I met exhausted first-responders, and aid workers who had come from around the world to help.

I talked to one New York police officer who refused to stop working. She was sleeping in one of the burned out buildings adjacent to the site. The triage centers had set up areas for workers to shower, worried about the contamination that we now know caused even more deaths in the months and years that have followed. Someone had donated the use of a large ship which was docked nearby, to allow workers to eat en masse, and also to rest.

The statuesque woman appeared to be in her 20's, with striking red hair, and hollow eyes. She told me that she was a fourth-generation New York City beat cop.

She had been on patrol that horrific morning near the Twin Towers, and saw the planes hit. Without a thought, she ran at full speed TOWARD the devastation — rather than away from it. She managed to pull some people out before she was beaten back by flames and ever-worsening smoke.

"They attacked my precinct," she said, then repeated it over-and-over-again, until she gradually fell silent.

I exchanged glances with a few other officers who were also her friends. Her post-traumatic shock was so palpable that it was excruciating to see. They shook their heads, silently telling me that they could not convince her to leave, or to get help.

When I got to the actual site, I saw workers in full-gear collapsed in exhaustion, many working 18-hour shifts hoping they still might find a miracle survivor. One firefighter described the work to me. He was from Australia, which had sent a full contingency to help!

Eventually, I went to the edge of the crater caused by the Towers' collapse into the underground. I spent some time in silent prayer before returning to my group.

Afterward, I went to the center my agency had established in New Jersey to help the victims' families and friends. Most had the same hollowed eyes that I had seen on the face of the female officer.

At the center, family and friends posted collages-memorials of their loved ones. Eventually, those were carefully preserved, and will end up in a 9/11 museum.

Later, we all learned that the thick dust that clung to everything and everyone at the attack site was pulverized cement, combined with the ashes of the dead.

I see the faces of those I met often, as well as what the devastation looked, sounded and even smelled like in detail. I will carry them until I am dust. Nonetheless, I still believe in due process and not simply retribution. We are not a cruel, angry, vicious mob — we are America!

— E

Pronounced: Blessed John Paul II!

Pope Benedict XVI beatified Pope John Paul II before an estimated 2 million faithful in St. Peter's Square and surrounding streets this morning, moving the beloved former pontiff one step closer to probable sainthood in one of the largest turnouts ever for a Vatican Mass.

 

I am a devout Pagan, a faith-filled practitioner of Wicca. Why then am I blogging about this "Catholic/Christian" event? Because I loved this man — enough to have gotten up at 4 a.m., E.S.T., to watch the Mass live.

 

Today's Mass occurred on Divine Mercy Sunday, the first Sunday after Easter. Pope Benedict wore the chasuble and mitre frequently worn by Pope John Paul II during his 26-year pontificate, which spanned from Oct. 22 1978, to April 2 2005.

 

I am a former Catholic, converting I realized later largely because of Pope John Paul II's magnetic, amazingly angelic-like personality. Had he not been Pope, I am sure that I would never have traveled down that faith path. Nonetheless, he remains my Pope, my beloved "Papa," and will until I am also dust.

 

The first-ever Polish Pope, traveled to 109 nations during his papacy. Each time he disembarked, he knelt and kissed the tarmac as a moving sign of respect for each country/nation that he visited, and also in humility. Later, when his health was ravaged by Parkinson's Disease and he was unable to kneel, his aides would bring a dish of native soil up to him to kiss.

 

It is interesting to note that a French nun, Sister Marie Simone-Pierre, who also suffered from Parkinson's Disease, prayed to the pontiff a week after his death, and received a complete cure. It was her experience that the Vatican investigated and confirmed as a "miracle," a necessary step toward Beatification.

 

When he died in 2005, the faithful had gathered exactly where today's ceremony was held. Then, the overflow crowd spontaneously erupted, chanting: "Santo Subito!" — meaning "Sainthood Now!" or "Sainthood Immediately!" They chanted it over and over again, unexpectedly stopping the Resurrection Mass for several moments. Their voices rang out through the square, filling it and echoing off the ancient Basilica with an indescribable intensity and yes, love. I truly felt chills watching it on TV thousands of miles away.

 

During today joyous Mass, an enormous tapestry of John Paul II based on a 1995 photograph by his then official photographer, Arturo Mari, was unveiled from the balcony of Saint Peter’s. It showed the pontiff with a twinkle in his eye, and a slightly wry smile.

 

[Note: The tapestry is depicted at the top of this post.]

 

To begin today's Beatification rite, Cardinal Agostino Vallini, vicar general of the Rome Diocese, and Mgr Slawomir Oder, the postulator of the Cause, approached Pope Benedict. In Latin, Cardinal Vallini formally requested, "the Beatification of the Servant of God Pope John Paul II."

In a short biography of the late Pontiff, who was born born Karol Józef Wojtyła on May 18 1920, the cardinal said the characteristic of John Paul II’s Faith and Pontificate were a devotion to God, and his complete, almost childlike trust in "Our Lady," the Virgin Mary. It was also mentioned that today was appropriate for the Beatification because it is the first of May, or to the faithful, first Sunday of "the Month of Mary."

He went on to talk about John Paul’s missionary zeal and his love of young people for whom he established World Youth Day, which raised a loud cheer from young pilgrims in Rome for the Beatification.

Pope Benedict, of whom I am not fond, then declared that John Paul II's "name will forever be Blessed." It now remains for one more miracle to be reported and confirmed for him to be Canonized as a Saint.

 

"He restored to Christianity its true face as a religion of hope," Benedict said in his homily.

 

In John Paul's native country, tens of thousands of people gathered in rain in a major sanctuary in Krakow and in Wadowice, where the pontiff was born. Prime Minister Donald Tusk and his wife Malgorzata watched the ceremony together with Wadowice residents.

"I wonder what we would have been like and what would not have happened if we had not had our pope," Tusk was quoted as saying. "All that good that we all have received is still working."

 

Blessed John Paul II, or John Paul the Great, was also given a formal "Feast Day," upon which he will be celebrated annually. His day is Oct. 22, which was the date of his first public Mass in 1978 as Pope, during which he repeated what was to become his mantra: "Do Not Be Afraid."

 

I am still shocked at how strongly I respond to him. I am liberal and disagreed with almost every stance he ever took on church policy. For some reason, none of that matters. What matters is how I felt when I saw him, and still feel when I remember him, or even look at a photograph.

 

John Paul’s was a papacy of milestones. In 1978, as Cardinal Wojtyla of Krakow, he became the first non-Italian to become pope in four centuries. Under him, the church issued its first new catechism in nearly 500 years. In 2000, he asked pardon for the church’s sins against Jews, women, heretics (like me) and minorities. He was also the first pope to visit a Muslim mosque, and a Jewish synagogue.

He survived an assassination attempt by a Turkish gunman in 1981, a still-hazy chapter in Cold War history. He later visited the gunman in prison and forgave him. The man later said the Pontiff's visit changed his life.

 

When he was shot, I was not a Catholic at the time. Nonetheless, I sent my first and only Western Union telegram directly to the Vatican, telling him that he was in the prayers of those other than his own faith.

 

Blessed John Paul's closed coffin was exhumed from a crypt beneath the Basilica, and was placed at the center aisle during the ceremony. Pope Benedict kissed it reverently. He was followed by scores of cardinals who did the same. The simple wooden casket will be placed in a side chapel next to Michelangelo’s “Pietà,” allowing it to be viewed for the first time since his funeral.
 
During the Mass, Benedict received a silver reliquary holding a vial of blood taken from John Paul during his final hospitalization. The relic, a key feature of beatification ceremonies, will be available for the faithful to venerate.
 
It was presented to him by Sister Tobiana, the Polish nun who tended to John Paul throughout his pontificate, and Sister Marie Simone-Pierre.
 
Thousands of pilgrims, many of them from John Paul's native Poland, spent the night in sleeping bags on bridges and in piazzas around town, and then packed St. Peter's as soon as the barricades opened over an hour in advance because the crowds were too great.
 
They stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the main boulevard leading to the Vatican, Via della Conciliazione, as well as on side streets around it and the bridges crossing the Tiber leading to St. Peter's waving flags from Argentina, Germany, Great Britain and Lebanon.
 
It's the fastest beatification on record, coming just six years after John Paul died and beating out the beatification of Mother Teresa by a few days. It was also the first time a sitting Pope beatified his predecessor.

 

[Note above photo: The reliquary containing the blood of Pope John Paul II was placed on a pedestal during the beatification ceremony by Sister Marie Simon Pierre, right, who says she was cured of Parkinson's Disease after praying to John Paul II; and Sister Tobiana, who is also a nurse who cared for the late pope.]

 

— E