Thank you, Pope Francis

I remember having stood for 14 hours waiting for the popemobile to pass by. We had left our homes early to meet up with other colleagues who volunteered to be part of the human barricade for the gathering in Luneta in 2015. The place was filled, but there was never an instance of shoving or pushing witnessed, nor were there heated exchanges of words overheard. What was common was the sight of hands and arms lent to those who needed it and of smiling faces. People were content to wait patiently and were respectful of each other’s personal space.

Around 5 p.m., I finally saw him from a distance. In a yellow raincoat, he shone so brightly as if he was lit from within. He was surrounded with such an indescribable radiance, as if he had brought the sun’s rays and its warmth along with him. As the popemobile cruised past, there was a certain kind of companionable silence that settled over the crowd. Maybe we were all feeling the same thing. Overwhelmed in the presence of someone holy, to keep silent was the best way to capture and savor the moment. There was no need for a photo to remember how it was. It was reminiscent of the time when Pope John Paul II came to visit. People were just drawn to them.

On Monday afternoon, we were all shocked to hear that he had left us. It couldn’t be fake news, as it had come from the hospital’s Viber thread. Tears fell. Why did he have to go? While dying is inevitable, the death of a loved one will always be hard to accept. The feeling of having been abandoned was unexplainable, but words of comfort came swiftly. Friends reminded me of God’s power to help us surpass any darkness or challenge we face and how we shouldn’t be selfish about wanting them to be with us when they deserve their heavenly rewards.

Pope Francis endeared himself to all of us because he lived what he preached. This is not to say that the ones before him didn’t. They had their own laudable qualities, but “Lolo Kiko” was different. He exemplified humility and simplicity despite being in a position of immense power. He taught us how to be more compassionate and understanding of the frailties of being human. He was accessible, straightforward, and brave enough to tell us that he didn’t have the answers. His flexibility made him more inclusive, and while some may have labeled his actions as divergent from traditional Catholic teachings, it was his way of telling us that regardless of race, religion, or gender orientation, each and every one of us will always be equal in the eyes of God and dearly loved.

As the days go by, the sense of loss still lingers, especially when I come across footage of his visit to the Philippines—his first and, sadly, his last. In Tacloban, he started his homily by asking permission if he could deliver it in Spanish and continued to say that watching the catastrophe from Rome, he felt the need to visit and be there with them. Though he was a bit late, he came to let us know that Jesus is Lord and He never lets us down. We have a Jesus who is capable of walking and crying with us, and we can hold on to Mother Mary much like a child who holds on to the hand of his mother in times of fear.

At the University of Santo Tomas, who could forget how he gently and lovingly embraced a little girl from Tulay ng Kabataan, who broke down when she asked him why children had to suffer despite their innocence and why only a few were reaching out to help. His response was, “We must learn how to cry … We can’t be good Christians if we don’t know how to cry … Jesus understood the situation when he cried.”

Last Saturday, we watched as he was laid to rest. His coffin, simple and unadorned, was symbolic of the man he was. His final sendoff lacked the grandeur that would have been fitting for his position, as was his place of burial. These were in accordance with his wishes.

Thank you, Pope Francis. You led by example and showed us that we will always have a God who is merciful and kind. You sought to provide us with stability amidst the increasing confusion, reminding us to hold on even if we don’t fully understand His plan. We may have fallen short, remiss for not having prayed as hard for you as you did for us. Imagining how you would respond to this last line, the tears begin anew.