Pope John Paul II was elected the Holy Father in 1978, I was just 9 years old. He was the only Pope that I remember. In my juvenile mind, uninterested and under-educated, he was sort-of like Jesus; present and there, but remote and inaccessible. When I left the Church, I never gave him much thought; he was simply a media personality, such as Mother Teresa or Princess Diana. When the Lord brought me home, I tried picking up some of his written works. I was dumbfounded. I could tell that they were astounding, but he still felt far-away and impregnable. The only aspect of John Paul that I could even remotely connect to - was his incredibly magnanimous personal persona and heroic life story of Faith, courage and survival. When Pope Benedict ascended to the Throne, he looked physically less welcoming, but I found a deeper connection with him through his writings. Unlike John Paul, the Holy Father wrote in an approachable manner. He was brilliant, but not unscalably academic. He was able to speak to the common man. His magnificent Jesus of Nazareth series became a pop-culture cross-over hit. Something that the lengthy tomes of John Paul was never able to accomplish. What Benedict may have lacked in star-power, he surly made-up for in towering achievements of catechetical charity: reaching-out to the ignorant, but thirsty. It meant so much to me, a once down-and-dirty sinner, that I could actually read something that the Vicar of Christ wrote – and understand. I love you, Holy Father.