A photo of Francisco
In my parents' living room, there's a photo that always caught my attention . It's a photo of my father with John Paul II. He looks very young—even younger than I am now—and the photo was taken in Rome, a few months after I was born in 1993, during a private audience he was fortunate enough to have. For me, who grew up seeing that portrait as part of the everyday family scene, the idea of being close to a pope had an almost mystical air, something reserved for very few. And while the portrayed image gave the impression of a formal, solemn moment, what struck me most was how my father, when recalling it, continually said something that etched itself in my memory: "I was in the presence of a saint."
Many years later, when, following a historic gift to our country, the distances with the popes seemed to have shortened—or at least that's how it felt simply because we shared the same nationality—I had the opportunity to visit the Vatican with my father and brother for a meeting with Pope Francis.
It was a cold European December morning , one of those when Rome still seems asleep. We walked early through almost deserted streets toward Vatican City, where we went through a side entrance and headed to the Santa Marta residence. There, we waited, seated in a small room with just four chairs and, on the back wall, a painting of John Paul II, which instantly revived the memory of that photo in my parents' house.
I was preparing myself internally for a moment I sensed would be momentous , not only because of my Catholic faith, but also because of the overwhelming influence of the papal figure, perhaps the most important Argentine in history. I wondered what that appearance, that "presence," would be like. Would it be different with Francis? Would it have that same aura of holiness my father had spoken of years before? Could I sense it? In the midst of my thoughts, the door opened slightly and a familiar head peeked out. Pope Francis, with a mischievous smile and a knowing tone, said to us: "Wait a little longer, the nuns are terrific..."
It was barely a second; I frowned in confusion . But in that instant, all the preconceived solemnity collapsed, replaced by an unexpectedly comical and endearing scene. And far from diminishing the moment's significance, it made it profoundly human, profoundly real. Perhaps, after all, holiness also has something of that: a closeness stripped of artifice and dissimulation, the simplicity of an everyday gesture that shatters expectations and leaves us, quite simply, smiling.
This is Francis's most important legacy, which perhaps contains a luminous paradox : that the deepest footprint can be left with the softest and most loving footstep. I'm slowly coming to understand this, although even more so after recently reading in a book: simplicity is not the result of subtraction, but the solution to an equation. By choosing the name Francis, the Pope traced, from the beginning of his pontificate, the outline of a style that would make humility a vital point of reference. Like the saint of Assisi, he sought to walk lightly, speak clearly, look people in the eye, and live in a minor key; like that saint, he sustained the Church in a moment of profound uncertainty. And he pointed the way, marked by a hope that never disappoints; by a culture of encounter that champions peace; by a love alive with the fire of youth and firm with the roots of history that tends, with an open heart, toward infinite mercy. Such is the cultivation of our Argentine pope.
Surrounded by the people, who made him feel so happy, Francis set out the day after Easter, as if he had been waiting for the announcement of the resurrection to take his last step on Earth and his first toward the mystery. And on that unknown and invisible threshold, interweaving a marvelous coincidence, the first word of the risen Jesus resounds: "Rejoice." Not as a simple consolation, but as a living promise of encounter, which contains a clear message for us: rejoice, because we had an Argentine pope. Rejoice, because he was extraordinary.
Today, in my living room, there's a framed photo that will always catch my eye. It's of my encounter with Francis, which began with that disruptive moment and then, when he finally returned to the living room, continued in the same human tone. A photo that isn't just a memory; it's a kind of mirror. Because when I look at it, I feel like I'm not standing before an unattainable saint, but before someone who, with simple gestures, taught that holiness can also take the form of shared laughter, a fraternal gaze, and palpable humanity. Like someone who leaves a mark, yes. But barefoot.
lanacion
