Pope Francis, a memory

The day Pope Francis died, my phone, perhaps like everyone else’s, was swamped with messages. Shared and forwarded expressions of grief, gratitude, quotes, on the universal feeling of mourning and adoration to our Holy Father. 

In our family of four, who are presently continents apart, the pope brought us together, albeit virtually at the early hours in New York. Our children felt the urgency to inform us. The hubby and I, half awake, took the news almost in disbelief, because the day before, we were discussing in awe how the wheelchair-bound pope appeared tireless doing what he loved most: visiting inmates, blessing children and uplifting the spirit of his flock. As if these were not enough, he took time to meet briefly with US Vice President JD Vance.    

I couldn’t keep up with the messages inundating my phone. I felt the need for solitude in order to be in solidarity with the rest of the world in grieving the loss and celebrating the life of our pope. After attending mass at our parish, I soaked myself in reading news updates, features and re-read lines I annotated from my books about and by Pope Francis. What is it that I want to know more and remember most about our rock star pope?

Jason Horowitz and Jim Yardley, current and former Rome bureau chiefs of The New York Times, co-wrote an exhaustive obituary of his legacy. How could they be so fortunate and blessed to have covered and traveled with the pope during his 12-year papacy! Mr. Horowitz and Mr. Yardley’s in-depth story chronicles the “legacy of the first Latin American pope.” In reverential, analytical and sometimes critical terms, they explored on, among others, his life of simplicity and humility; his emphasis on climate change and his views on war and peace; how he regarded polarizing issues like abortion and homosexuality, clergy abuse and church reforms; why he visited places and countries he felt to be in the fringes and the plight of migrants.  

After having read his autobiography “Hope,” I surmise that revealing narratives from Jorge Bergolio’s early life have largely influenced his stance on subjects he was most passionate about as pope. Published only this year, “Hope” is replete with never before seen photographs, anecdotes, extracts from literary pieces and biblical passages the pope loved. His unparalleled compassion toward people displaced by wars, economic strife or climate change is fundamentally enlightening.

His forebears had similarly sailed along turbulent seas almost a century ago to escape war and in search of a better life. In “Hope,” he narrated how his grandfather and family, with his father Mario, were spared from a shipwreck. His grandfather was unable to use the ticket he initially bought to sail to Buenos Aires for they couldn’t sell whatever little they owned before leaving Piedmont, Italy. “That is why I’m here now,” Pope Francis wrote. For that, he profusely thanked Divine Providence.

Writing about his roots as Italian, he acknowledged he’s “also an Argentinian and Latin American.” He spoke of “the great body of Universal Church,” his pains for the devastation of wars and his hopeful joy for peace. I ponder on how the quiet world he imagined was taking shape, although momentarily, as bereft people around the world paid homage upon his death. 

At St. Patrick’s Cathedral here in New York, the church is festooned with immaculate Easter lilies elegantly protruding from their emerald leaves – a traditional church décor in Eastertide. As daylight beaming from the illumined stained-glass panels glowed along gleaming chandeliers, there prominently nestled by the radiant altar steps, is the framed photograph of the disarmingly smiling Pope Francis, donning his familiar white cassock with only a pectoral cross adorning his modest garb.  

I was seated in between two ladies who I chatted with before mass. The lady to my left said, “I came very early to pray for Pope Francis,” while the lady to my right was lovingly sketching the heavenly scene of the altar. I admired her nearly done artwork, to which she replied, “trying the best I can.” What special ways these ladies honor our pope, I said to myself. As guests and the congregation, men and women of various races and religions, trickled in (Imams, priests from the Orthodox church, men in Jewish skullcap, ladies in veils and hijabs, the mayor of New York and civil servants), I sensed how the spirit of ecumenism, which Pope Francis has fostered throughout his papacy, all the more endures.

It was along the theme of unity that His Eminence Timothy Cardinal Dolan, Archbishop of New York, started mass, with perhaps 50 or so bishops, priests and deacons in attendance. His opening prayer was of deep gratitude for everyone’s presence in the special mass for Pope Francis as he “happily joins our Father in heaven.” 

The avuncular cardinal consoled his heartbroken flock in a comforting voice to remind us that when someone dies, we pray for that person. We gathered to pray for Pope Francis and “the mass is the most sublime form of prayer,” he assured us. And we all came together in prayer irrespective of our religions.

Shifting from somber to celebratory, Cardinal Dolan in his brief homily eulogized on three points: mercy, consolation and thanksgiving. He enjoined us to pray for the soul of Pope Francis, for God’s mercy to be upon him as he enters the heavenly kingdom. He marveled at the consolation of the pope’s serene dignity amidst his suffering and pain. Sounding effervescent, Cardinal Dolan bade us to pray in thanksgiving for Pope Francis’ extraordinary life of service to God and his flock.

Still on his autobiography “Hope,” Pope Francis, by quoting a Mexican poet, said,  “Memory is a present that never ceases to pass.” If only our beloved pope realized that for us now and the whole of humanity, whose life he has profoundly touched – he is that present, that memory.