Pope Francis came with a whisper, but his presence roared through our times. Rest in peace. Amen.
I had just concluded my hours of prayer, the stillness that seeps deep into the soul. It was 4:20am EST, and I was about to shift into work mode—research paper open, books stacked like quiet sentinels on my desk—when the flood began.
My phone lit up. One ping, then another. Notifications rolled in like a stream suddenly awakened by a storm: Vatican News. Vatican Radio. EWTN. CNN. Fox News. The New York Times. BBC. On and on. My thumb hesitated before tapping. This had to be big. The kind of moment that slices through routine and demands attention.
Then the headline blinked before my eyes: Pope Francis has died. He died 9:45am CET. What? That’s barley 25 minutes ago.
I didn’t know what to feel. For a long second, I just stared at the screen. Maybe I was numb. Perhaps I was in denial. I could feel the hollow quiet of my room. Yes, we had seen the signs—his frailty, the wheelchair, the long hospital stays. And yet… nothing prepares you for the moment when it actually happens. When it’s no longer someday soon, but today.
He passed on Easter Monday at 88. What a time to die—a holy, glorious moment to return home. Easter Monday, when the Church still echoes with alleluias and the scent of lilies. It felt like heaven timed it.
I wept. Not in a loud way, but the kind of weeping that breaks gently, like soft rain on dry soil. Deep and palpable, like a heart ready to burst.
A Man of Humble Service
Papa Francesco. He came with a whisper, but his presence roared through our times. A man with the people, who “smelled like the sheep” he shepherded. He carried the weight of a world unraveling, yet chose to walk with simplicity. He wore the white of Peter not as a crown but as a towel—serving, washing, listening.
Papa Francesco unsettled many, no doubt. He asked hard questions and entered the chaos of our polarized age with the heart of a shepherd. He reminded us that faith is not an escape from the tensions of the world, but a lamp carried into them. His belief, particularly on social justice and care for the poor, didn’t always make everyone comfortable. His affection for the created order in eco-theology has given us so much to ponder.
In many ways, he became a pope for the wounded—wounded nations, wounded hearts, wounded faith and his life reflects that complex wound. And even in what he left undone, there is room for grace and future growth in the unresolved tensions.
As we mourn Pope Francis, the weight of his absence will deepen over time. But so too will the gratitude—for what he was, what he tried to be, and what his witness stirred in us.
Rest well, Papa Francesco. We love you. And we thank you.
In the silence of this moment, I whisper what heaven already knows:
You fought the good fight. You kept the faith. Now, go in peace. Amen.
