Estimated reading time: 5 minutes
A seemingly plain black and white rosary hangs from my rearview mirror, catching the light as I drive my daughters to school each morning. To most, it might look like a simple religious trinket, but to our family, it represents something profound – a connection to a man who showed my girls what it means to lead with humility and compassion. Today, that rosary carries an even deeper meaning as the first Latin American pope dies at the age of 88, leaving behind a legacy that forever changed how I explain faith to my daughters.
I remember gathering my girls around the television in 2013 when white smoke rose from the Sistine Chapel. As a Latina mother raising Catholic daughters in America, I held my breath, wondering who would step onto that balcony. When Jorge Mario Bergoglio emerged and began with a simple “Buonasera” (“Good evening”), something shifted. Here was a pope who spoke our language – not just Spanish, but the language of humility, accessibility, and genuine warmth.
“Mamá, he looks like abuelito,” my youngest whispered, noticing his gentle smile. I couldn’t help but tear up. After centuries of European pontiffs, the first Latin American pope had arrived, bringing with him cultural touchstones that felt intimately familiar – from his love of soccer to his direct, heartfelt manner of speaking.
The Pope Francis humble papacy began with his unprecedented decision to live in the modest Domus Santa Marta hotel rather than the palatial papal apartments.
He chose simple, practical shoes over red papal loafers, rode in compact cars instead of limousines, and carried his own luggage – choices that made explaining the concept of spiritual leadership tangible for my children.
“Why doesn’t he want to live in a castle if he can?” my daughter once asked.
“Because he believes Jesus wouldn’t have lived in a castle either,” I explained, grateful for such a clear example of living one’s values.
Monday morning at 7:35, the Pope Francis humble papacy came to an end as he “returned to the home of the Father,” according to Cardinal Kevin Farrell’s announcement.
Church bells rang from Buenos Aires to Manila as the world absorbed the news that the first Latin American pope dies after a 38-day hospitalization for double pneumonia. Just one day earlier, he had appeared at Easter celebrations, offering a final blessing to thousands in St. Peter’s Square.
Born to Italian immigrants in Buenos Aires on December 17, 1936, Francis brought his Argentine perspective to the global stage. His pontificate embraced “todos, todos, todos” (“everyone, everyone, everyone”) – a phrase I’ve found myself repeating in our home when my daughters ask difficult questions about who belongs in our church community.
Through 12 transformative years, the Pope Francis humble papacy redefined what Catholic leadership could look like.
He prioritized mercy over judgment, famously responding “Who am I to judge?” when asked about gay priests. He washed the feet of prisoners, embraced the disfigured, and constantly directed the church’s attention to refugees, the poor, and society’s outcasts.
For our family, these weren’t abstract theological positions but practical lessons in compassion. When my daughters noticed a homeless person outside our church, Francis’s example gave us a framework for discussion beyond simply saying “that’s sad.” We talked about human dignity and our responsibility to see Christ in every person – lessons straight from the Pope Francis humble papacy.
His pontificate wasn’t without controversies. Some conservatives considered him too progressive, while advocates for abuse victims felt he didn’t go far enough in addressing the church’s failures. After initially mishandling cases in Chile, Francis did something rare for a pope – he admitted his mistake, apologized, and worked to make amends. In the end, we are all just fallible humans trying to do the right thing.
That humility in acknowledging errors became another teaching moment in our home. “Even the pope makes mistakes,” I told my daughters. “What matters is how we respond when we’re wrong.”
As the first Latin American pope dies, I find myself reflecting on what his papacy meant specifically for Latina mothers like me. Francis validated our cultural expressions of faith – embracing popular piety, recognizing saints like Oscar Romero who spoke for our communities, and demonstrating that leadership doesn’t require European origins or aristocratic bearing.
He provided me with endless examples of faith in action that resonated with Latino values of family, community, and care for the vulnerable. When explaining complex church teachings, I could point to Francis kneeling to wash feet, embracing the marginalized, or living simply – making abstract concepts tangible through his example.
Now, as the church begins the solemn process of mourning and eventually selecting a new leader, I find myself wondering how to explain this transition to my daughters. The Pope Francis humble papacy has been the only one they’ve known – a pontificate defined by warmth, accessibility, and a focus on mercy. He embodied his papa title.
Perhaps the lesson is in the continuity of faith despite changes in leadership. That blessed rosary in my car will remain, carrying memories of a pope who showed my Latina daughters that their culture, their language, and their expressions of faith belong at the very heart of the church. As the first Latin American pope dies, his legacy of humility lives on in the countless families like ours who saw our values reflected in his leadership.
For that gift – making faith accessible, relatable, and deeply human – this Latina mother will be forever grateful.
