On Monday morning, the world awoke to the news that Pope Francis had passed away. The cause wasn’t immediately known, but in time we learned it was a stroke and cardiac arrest. Like many, I read the headline in disbelief—then felt a weight in my chest I wasn’t prepared for.
I remember when Pope Benedict XVI passed. I noticed, perhaps even said a prayer, but the loss didn’t register deeply. And when Pope John Paul II died, I was saddened—he was the first Pope I ever knew anything about, and there was something monumental about his passing. But this—this grief over Pope Francis—is different. It is deeper. More personal.
Perhaps it’s because this past year, I’ve spent time within the Catholic Church. I’ve sat beside my brothers and sisters in Christ, prayed the intentions for the Pope, mentioned his name in the Eucharistic prayers. I’ve heard him invoked not as a distant figurehead but as a shepherd of the Church. I even wrote him a letter—a hopeful act that, I now know, won’t receive a reply. Unless, perhaps, some kind-hearted bishop or cardinal takes the time to write back with words of prayer and consolation.
But even without a response, I felt seen by Pope Francis.
He didn’t do everything perfectly—no one does—but he tried to do some things right. He spoke with compassion about marginalized groups, including allowing for blessings of individuals in same-sex relationships. He auctioned off a gifted Lamborghini and gave all proceeds to charity. He prioritized the poor, the refugees, the overlooked, and reminded us constantly of the Gospel's call to care for “the least of these.”
His papacy didn’t feel distant. It felt pastoral.
More than anything, I remember his humility. Pope Francis never carried himself with grandeur, even as the leader of 1.3 billion Catholics. One of the first things he said when he became Pope was a simple, powerful request: “Pray for me.” He never stopped asking. That humility stuck with me. It reminded us that even those in the highest office of the Church are still people—still in need of grace, of prayer, of community.
Now I find myself waiting for the next conclave with a kind of cautious anticipation. It’s my first time experiencing this process as an invested Catholic, not just as a bystander. I’m hoping—praying—for a moderate Pope. One who isn’t bent fully liberal nor conservative, but someone who, like Francis, finds a Gospel-centered balance. That hope angers some. There are Catholics who are eager for a swing back to staunch conservatism.
But here’s my question: if we get stuck in preservation and rigidity, where is the growth? Where is the evangelization? What happens when the Church clings so tightly to tradition that it forgets to reach out with compassion to a world in need?
Because make no mistake—the Church is dying in some places. Attendance is falling. Vocations are dwindling. If we are to keep up with the spiritual hunger of today’s world, we can’t afford to stand still. We can’t afford to let fear of change override the movement of the Spirit.
I grieve Pope Francis not just as a man, not even only as a Pope—but as a voice of pastoral compassion in a polarized world. His death feels like a chapter closing on a papacy that tried, however imperfectly, to embody mercy and humility.
And so I wait. I pray. And I hope the next chapter will build on the legacy of love that Francis left behind.
“Pray for me.” I will, Holy Father. I will.
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