As a Dominican nun, I lived in a convent named for a deceased pope.

One day while I was wearing contemporary clothes instead of my habit and rosary beads, I drove into a gas station to get the communal car filled up.

After the young attendant topped off the tank, he walked toward my car window to return my credit card.  It was clear from his furrowed brow that he had something on his mind.

The young man looked at me shyly and pointed to the convent's name, John XXIII Hall, imprinted on the card.

"Pardon me," he asked hesitantly, "but how do you pronounce your husband's middle name?"