Dear George,
We so look forward to your visit. Things have been rather mad here, so, I am scrambling to get ready for your arrival. The weather has been kind, and you'll arrive at the peak of autumn — the weeping maples and liquid ambers are just glorious. Yesterday as I went on my walk around the grounds, I swear one of the magnolia blooms was large enough to have made the perfect face mask. I could have reached up and snipped it off and then twisted the woody branch to make a perfumed shield over my mouth and nose. Five thousand magnolia masks for the Faithful. Now there's a project. We are contemplating wearing masks when we go out. The sisters are meeting to decide on a pattern that would be suitable for both the convent and us. But I think Michael has communicated these things to you.
Of course, this year will be quieter than usual. It will be just you, me and the boys for Thursday evening. No services. If you arrive before nightfall, we could stroll down to the river. They've stripped back those tall reeds. It looks so beautiful now. Vast and pure. I cannot remember when you were last with us. It is quiet here, and the water is so still, the vista broken only by those ugly fences across the way acting like a barrier between the smooth and the rough. Who knows what is going on. I won't hazard a guess as to your feelings. We all wait now with a full belly for times to change.
We've planned a quiet day for Friday. We will give you space to get acclimatized again. Please use the library as an office to sort yourself out. Rest or whatever one needs after this ordeal.
Remember this time last year – Venerdi Santo – how we cried when that happened. Listening to Father Canatalamessa speak while Francis bowed his head. I don't understand the movement of the human heart. What causes us to lament? To find joy? The most beautiful of all being found in the mix of both. You will have much to impart. Promise me you will speak up if any of these plans don't gel with you. You are our priority. We've only got you with us for Holy Week. Then you will enter back in. You'll go home, I suppose. Or to Rome? Have you heard directly from the Holy Father?
Lent has come and gone. I'm usually busy right up until Thursday evening and this year was supposed to be different. It certainly is. We will have a car outside for you and station security guards at our front gate when you arrive. We will take care of the media.
I hope we have some rain. I have been longing for rain and storms, but they haven't come. We will all remain inside for the weekend. We could read aloud to each other and sing on Saturday evening. How does that sound? Father Tom has offered to say a special mass for you.
George, we hope you will find peace here. We have no expectations. We've ordered a box of wine that your assistant tells us is your favourite. See you on Thursday or whenever you get here.
Peace and grace
John