It’s with a heavy heart that I sit down to write this. Pope Francis is gone. He was 87, and though he’d been slowing down in recent years, the news still hit me like a punch to the gut. It’s not just that he was the leader of the Catholic Church—he was this warm, humble soul who made faith feel personal, like it was something you could hold onto in the mess of everyday life. His passing marks the end of a papacy that began in 2013, and now we’re all left reflecting on what he meant to the world and what comes next.
The Kid from Buenos Aires Who Changed Everything
Pope Francis, or Jorge Mario Bergoglio as he was known back in Argentina, wasn’t your typical pope. He was the first Jesuit to take the role, the first from the Americas, and from the moment he stepped onto that Vatican balcony with a shy “Buonasera,” you could tell he was different. He didn’t come across as some distant, holy figure—he felt like a friend, a neighbor, maybe even a grandpa who’d seen it all and just wanted to help you make sense of it.
I remember watching his election with my family. My mom, who’s not particularly religious, leaned over and said, “He seems like a good man.” That was Francis’s gift—he reached people who didn’t even go to church. His whole thing was mercy, compassion, and meeting people where they were, no strings attached.
He Took on the Big Fights—And Won Hearts
Francis didn’t shy away from the tough stuff. In 2015, he wrote Laudato Si’, a letter to the world about caring for the planet. I was in college at the time, struggling through an environmental science class, and our professor actually assigned parts of it. Here was a pope talking about climate change in a way that felt urgent and real, not just for Catholics but for everyone. It pushed me to join a campus group that organized river cleanups, and I’d think of him every time we pulled trash out of the water.
He also had this incredible heart for people on the margins. Refugees, the poor, anyone who’d been forgotten—he was their voice. One winter, I volunteered at a soup kitchen, and the organizer quoted Francis: “The poor are not a problem; they are a resource.” It changed how I saw the people we were serving. They weren’t just faces in a line; they were teachers, showing me what resilience looked like.
Inside the Church, he was a force. He took on the Vatican’s old bureaucracy, dug into financial scandals, and opened up conversations about women’s roles and LGBTQ+ inclusion. I had a friend, Alex, who’d left the Church because he felt it didn’t accept him as a gay man. When Francis said, “Who am I to judge?” Alex called me, voice shaky, and said, “Maybe there’s a place for me after all.” It wasn’t a fix, but it was a start, and it mattered.
Humility That Felt Like a Warm Hug
What I loved most about Francis was how real he kept it. He could’ve lived in a palace, but he chose a simple guesthouse. And those moments when he’d wash the feet of prisoners or refugees? They weren’t just symbolic—they were him, showing up for people in the most human way. One Holy Thursday, I was at my parish, and our priest played a video of Francis washing the feet of young inmates. My little brother, who usually zones out during Mass, leaned over and whispered, “Why’s he doing that?” I didn’t have a big answer, just said, “Because he loves them.” That was Francis—love in action.
I got to see him once, during his 2015 U.S. visit. I was 20, and my college Catholic group scraped together enough cash to get us to Philadelphia. We were jammed into this massive crowd, screaming like he was a rock star when his popemobile rolled by. He waved, and for a split second, it felt like he looked right at us. My friend Maria started crying, and I wasn’t far behind. It wasn’t just about seeing the pope—it was about feeling seen by him, like our messy, hopeful lives mattered.
Another memory that’s stuck with me happened a few years ago. I was going through a rough patch, doubting my faith, wondering if the Church was too rigid for someone like me. One night, I stumbled across a video of Francis talking to young people. He said, “Don’t be afraid to ask questions. God loves your searching heart.” I sat there, ugly-crying, because it felt like he was speaking directly to me. I wrote that quote on a sticky note and stuck it to my mirror. It’s still there, a little faded but still true.
The Tough Times—But He Kept Going
Francis had his share of battles. Some folks in the Church pushed back hard against his changes, wanting things to stay traditional. I remember arguing with my uncle at Thanksgiving—he thought Francis was “too liberal.” It frustrated me, but I got it; change is scary. And in his later years, you could see his health failing. He’d show up in a wheelchair, still smiling, still trying to bring people together in a world that felt more divided than ever. It made me admire him even more—he didn’t quit, even when it was hard.
What’s Next for the Church?
Now that he’s gone, the Church is at a crossroads. The cardinals will pick a new pope soon, and I keep wondering: Will they carry on his vision or swing back to the old ways? I don’t know, but his influence isn’t going anywhere. It’s in me, in my friends, in the way we try to live with a little more kindness, a little more courage.
A Goodbye That Hurts—But Leaves a Legacy
The world’s mourning. One leader called him “a beacon of hope and humanity,” and that’s no exaggeration. His words keep echoing in my head: “Let us never tire of seeking the Lord, of letting ourselves be sought by Him.” I scribbled that in my journal during a retreat a few years back, when I was wrestling with what I believed. Francis made it okay to wrestle, to not have all the answers.
There’s this one moment I keep thinking about. Last summer, I was volunteering at a community center, teaching kids from tough backgrounds how to read. One day, we talked about heroes, and I brought up Francis—not as some saint, but as a guy who showed up for people. I told them how he hugged kids in refugee camps, how he didn’t care about looking “important.” One of the kids, Sofia, drew a picture of a smiling man in white handing out bread. “Like this?” she asked. I nodded, tearing up, because yeah, that was him.
Saying goodbye to Pope Francis feels like losing someone who believed in me, even from afar. He was a reminder that you could be powerful and still gentle, that faith could mean getting your hands dirty to help someone. So maybe the best way to honor him is to keep that spark alive—to be a little braver, a little kinder, even when it’s hard. Thank you, Holy Father, for showing us how. Rest in peace. You made the world—and my world—better.