“Ailing Pope Slows Travel Pace.” “Pontiff May Resign Soon.” “Pope John Paul II Stricken with Parkinson's.”

The media seem to love these and similar headlines. For a dozen years they have zeroed in on the Pope's health like vultures circling a wounded antelope.

These articles used to sting me.

I am studying to be a priest, and Pope John Paul II is such a hero for me. I didn't want to believe what they were saying; I didn't like the reality of him aging before my eyes.

Then one evening I got the call.

“You are invited to Mass with the Pope in his private chapel tomorrow morning.” It was like an incredible shot of adrenaline. I didn't sleep much that night.

There I was bright and early the next day, with 25 other lucky invitees, ready to see my hero up close and prove everyone wrong.

Not more than two minutes after we were settled into the papal chapel, the Pope stood and put on his red stole and chasuble.

Then came the deep voice I knew so well: “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

During the entire Mass, the Holy Father had his back to us. When he finally did turn toward us to give the final blessing, I was stunned.

Instead of the radiant World Youth Day face I expected, he seemed to reflect severe pain. The exhaustion was evident. I remembered Parkinson's makes you lose control of facial muscles. Looking at him I felt pain, too.

He turned around and sat back down. The group slowly filed out of the chapel, but I decided to stay. I was probably breaking some rule, but no one seemed to notice.

After a few minutes, John Paul tried to stand up. I say “tried” because he had to use his arms to lift his body out of the chair. He got about halfway up and fell back down on the cushion.

I started looking around.

He tried again, to no avail.

Then he started looking around. Help! I thought. Where was the secretary? Where was the sacristan? Somebody's got to do something!

So I did.

I went up to him, grabbed his arm and helped him stand.

Then I said the first dumb thing that came to mind: “Holy Father, how are you feeling this morning?”

“Oh Lord,” I thought to myself, “that was probably not the right question!”

All John Paul did was turn his head and look at me. He probably was thinking the same thing.

I helped him take his cane and I walked with him the length of the 20-foot chapel. I felt so sorry for him. It was as if he had a weight tied to each ankle. Each step was a sheer act of will and he literally had to drag his body forward.

And there I was, little old me, helping the Vicar of Christ walk forward.

We got to the door of the chapel and one of the secretaries appeared. He said a very diplomatic “thank you,” which I took as my cue and relinquished my post.

A few minutes later, to my utter amazement, the Pope walked into the room where we were waiting.

He slowly hobbled to the chair and plumped down.

Then he started to smile and take interest in each of us who knelt before him that morning.

He greeted the adults and gave out rosaries to the children.

His interest and smiles were genuine — no one doubted that — but I could tell he was still hurting, trapped inside that aging body.

And then it dawned on me.

At 82 years of age, he was up and out of bed early to pray his breviary and celebrate Mass. He didn't have to be there, but he was.

He took the time to greet all 25 of us that morning. He didn't have to do that, but he did.

And who really expects him to keep traveling? But he does.

No one would fault the Pope at this stage of his pontificate for wanting to sleep in, take things easier, cancel his audiences or stop receiving visitors (at least the nobodys who filled his chapel that morning).

He didn't have to be there that morning, but he was. Just like he is every Wednesday for the general audience. Just like he is at every Vatican event that calls for his presence and for every World Youth Day.

In spite of physical pain and infirmity, he is going forward with his Petrine ministry. “In my flesh I complete what is lacking in Christ's afflictions for the sake of his body, that is, the Church” (Colossians 1:24).

And maybe that is why he isn't as worried as we are about the media's predictions.

Presidents and politicians are concerned about polls and press coverage and appearances. A seminarian doesn't have to worry about the first two, but maybe he is concerned with the latter.

But the Holy Father is way beyond appearances. He is way beyond good or bad press coverage.

His smile isn't a response to the photo op, nor does he kiss babies to win good press. Neither does he try to hide his suffering out of shame or fear.

Like St. Paul, he is running the race and fighting the good fight right to the end. “And therefore I suffer as I do. But I am not ashamed, for I know whom I have believed” (2 Timothy 1:12).

And that's the stuff real heroes are made of. The headlines don't matter anymore. More than ever, the Pope is at the top of my list.

Legionary of Christ Brother Raymond Cleaveland writes from Rome.