At around 4am today I woke up at the sound of a tolling bell coming from the television. Mom was watching CNN and she was crying; I didn’t need her to say what I already knew. Pope John Paul II had died.

As we watched the news, Mom said something about the sound of bells, of how they at times reflected the mood of the people around them. The bell that woke me up sounded melancholy. It reverberated with loss. Unbidden, tears came to my eyes. I don’t know from where or why. They just came. Every time I saw someone in the news weeping, they came easily to my eyes, flowing.

I know I’m being melodramatic, but it’s just the way it was.

Sometimes I hate being right. I told my mom some days ago that the pope won’t recover. When I heard about his condition, I knew from what I’ve been studying that hope was very slim for him to recover or even live any longer. And I was right. I wasn’t surprised when the news reported that his condition worsened. It was just the way things were with the human body. But I wasn’t happy about being right.

Now he’s dead. But what a great death... to have so many people – millions – mourning the loss of one’s life and still have those same people say that he had lived a great life... I envy him. I envy the fact that he had helped so many people and touched so many people’s lives. I envy the hope and faith he renewed in everyone he met; I wish I could accomplish half of what he has done in his life.