I stood vigil at the altar of CNN all day. When the news came that Pope John Paul II had died, I went to church and prayed. So long away from the Catholic Church, I still knew the words. The church was nearly empty, except for a portrait of the Pope on the altar, and three other women, crying like me. Slowly the building began to fill, as women with tissues and men with sombre expressions trickled in, all praying for the soul of John Paul II - not that he needed it.

When there were enough people in the church, the priest turned up the lights, called in an impromptu staff, and held a mass.

Mr. Right didn't come with me, as he is not Catholic, and didn't feel up to the thought of sitting through a mass. So I sat alone - yet not alone. We were all there for the same reason. The priest gave us communion, and as I made my way out of the church after the mass, I felt better. I realized that although John Paul II was the only Pope I had known throughout my life, that today a child would be born that would know no other than the one elected in the next three weeks. The beat goes on. The Catholic Church doesn't guage time in terms of months or even dacades, but in terms of centuries. Twenty-six years is a drop in the bucket, and I should just be thankful that he was my Pope, at least at first.