It seems that Pope John Paul II and I have something in common. Or at least had in common. No doubt you heard about him in the news earlier this week--he had the flu. And so did I. Before Monday I used to laugh at all those people getting flu shots, thinking what wimps they were and why they should toughen up a bit. Well let me tell you, never again will I scorn the flu shot folk. That was the absolute sickest I have ever been in my entire life. 24 hours of gut wrenching pain (minus all the graphic details) is not something I would wish on my almost worst enemies. Hard to believe I'm feeling up to par just a few days later. What's even stranger is how empathetic I became of the Pope this week. Tuesday morning I was honestly concerned. How many times have I heard about the Pope's ailing health over the past few years, but I never gave him the time of day! Until this past Monday. Odd isn't it, how calloused we are at the images of tragedy (and joy) we see on the news unless somehow, in some way, it connects to us? I wonder how the Pope is doing?