Jerusalem is where I first saw him. Israel’s Ministry of Tourism had arranged for me and the two other journalists with whom I was traveling to cover a meeting between Pope Francis and President Shimon Peres of Israel at the presidential residence.
I reflected on the experience recently in the days leading up to the anniversary of Francis’ death. It was 2014, and I was working for the Los Angeles archdiocesan newspapers and figured the event would be the one time I’d see this pope in my lifetime. I was multitasking—writing the story and taking my own photographs—like most other diocesan media professionals. Francis and Mr. Peres were about to emerge from their meeting space, and I jockeyed for position among at least two dozen journalists.
I first saw Francis in the reflection of a glass door. He came out and walked past me, and I took more photos than I could count. He smiled as he always did and waved warmly at us.
I didn’t notice it at first. I was too focused on getting the right shot and then on filing my story on deadline. I only realized afterward that I’d felt something in that brief encounter: the sacred presence of the Vicar of Christ.
As it happened, I saw Francis a few more times. I covered his visits to the United States and Mexico, and my father and I saw him while we were in attendance at a general audience when our parish went to Rome on pilgrimage.
Francis kissed babies in every city I saw him, and I can tell you that included before the Mass in which he canonized St. Junípero Serra. I saw him from a great distance after he addressed both houses of Congress, and he came outside on the Capitol building’s balcony to greet the thousands gathered. He looked like a small white speck from where I stood. (I also watched him on a screen with hundreds of other journalists at the United Nations.)
In Philadelphia, he kissed at least three babies outside of Independence Hall, right in front of a stage set up for photographers. After he had passed by, I looked over to a videographer who worked for Al Jazeera. He had tears in his eyes. He said something like, “I’m not a Catholic, but that man has helped me believe in God.”
In Mexico City, I sat with other journalists on the balcony of the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, waiting for what must have been hours. Then, we heard the hum and roar and deafening cheers of those gathered as Francis approached and finally entered the basilica. He celebrated Mass before the miraculous image the Blessed Mother left on St. Juan Diego’s tilma. In Ciudad Juárez, I stood in that dusty field where Francis celebrated Mass on the U.S.-Mexico border and recognized the dignity of a land where too many have been dehumanized.
Like others, I will always remember his words, and even more his actions. But what I will remember most is how I felt each time I was in his presence. Perhaps I was just caught up in the buzz of excitement, the electric anticipation, the ovations. But I believe it was something else.
My father and I went to Jerusalem with our parish a few months after I started working at America. There was a Rome “add-on” to the pilgrimage, so we spent a few days there and attended a general audience. It was raining, so they moved the audience inside the Paul VI Audience Hall.
Well, I’ve seen the pope before, I thought. I won’t push too hard to see him or shake his hand. But as the moment arrived, and he walked down the center aisle, I found myself pushing against the railing. I had my camera and took some photos. I was transfixed, as if I’d never seen the man before.
Francis was on my side, only feet away from me, and I reached out my hand. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a group of religious sisters on the opposite railing. He went over to them and bypassed us. He always seemed to have a soft spot for sisters. Our group could do nothing but laugh and rejoice with the sisters from our side of the aisle.
Are there other human beings like this? People whose mere presence makes smiling irresistible? I felt joy, excitement and somehow at the same time a deep tranquility. This beautiful man touched all of those who gathered to see him because he revealed to us the abiding presence of God.
Last year, I was part of America’s team that covered the conclave. The day before the papal funeral, I joined the faithful who lined up to see Francis’ body lying in state. The line moved slowly; finally, his body was in view. We had the shortest of moments to pay our respects and utter a prayer to ourselves before the ushers rushed us past.
That presence I’d felt before—in Jerusalem, in the United States, in Mexico and there, in Rome—that presence was gone. While covering the lead-up to the conclave, not a day went by that I didn’t feel like something was missing. Or someone.
On the afternoon of May 8, 2025, I took my place early in the piazza of St. Peter’s Basilica. I wanted to be close enough to take a photo of the next pope, were he elected. But I also wanted to get to know the people in the crowd so I could interview them for reactions.
Those moments before the white smoke finally emerged, it felt electric. Somehow, we just knew it was about to happen. And then, yes, finally, we were right: white smoke, billowing from the chimney. And the thunder of cheers. Cheers like I’ve never heard, louder than anything at any stadium. But somehow of a different kind. And the bells.
And tens of thousands rejoiced and raised their hands to the sky. Before seeing anyone dressed in white emerge on the balcony, we felt that sacred presence again.
The Holy Spirit had chosen Christ’s vicar.
[Behind the scenes: What it’s like to interview Pope Francis]
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