A Light That Continues to Shine: When Pope Francis Blessed Our Journey

Today’s post is by Jen Yontz-Orlando, MLIS, is a memoir writer, Roman Catholic, and dedicated LGBTQ+ ally whose work explores the intersection of faith and inclusion. Her writing reflects her commitment to building bridges and fostering dialogue within the Church community.

When Pope Francis died on April 21st, my son Nick and I shared a moment of profound grief. We weren’t just mourning a distant religious figure—we were remembering the man whose words had healed something broken between us. As the College of Cardinals prepares to gather in secrecy for the conclave, my thoughts return to that remarkable Ash Wednesday morning in 2015 when Nick and I sat side by side in St. Peter’s Square  waiting to hear Pope Francis’ catechesis..

It took tremendous courage for my son to make this journey—battling both his schizophrenia symptoms and his uncertainty about his place as a gay man in the Catholic Church. The trip itself was a fragile hope, a reaching toward reconciliation with a faith tradition that hadn’t always embraced all aspects of who he was.

We traveled with New Ways Ministry’s pilgrimage of LGBT Catholics and supporters, led by Sister Jeannine Gramick who had written to the papal household informing them of our prayerful presence for that day. To our surprise, we received tickets fora special section reserved for honored guests—a small gesture that spoke volumes before the pope had even appeared. As we waited among thousands, I noticed Nick’s nervous fidgeting, his eyes darting around the square, taking in the massive columns and the expectant crowd.

Our pilgrimage to Rome had been my idea—a desperate mother’s attempt to find common ground with her increasingly distant son. Nick had been withdrawing deeper into himself as he struggled to reconcile his sexuality with his faith, while his mental health challenges created additional barriers. When I suggested the trip, I was surprised by his cautious enthusiasm. 

“Maybe the Pope will have something to say to people like me,” he said, a fragile hope in his voice.

When Pope Francis appeared, something in the air changed. The diverse crowd around us fell into a reverent hush, punctuated by occasional exclamations of joy. Nick’s hand tightened around mine as the pope began to speak. Looking around at our delegation—people who had often felt marginalized by the Church—I saw faces filled with expectation, sitting proudly in seats that acknowledged our presence and worth.

Pope Francis began his catechesis on the sacred bond of fraternity, about being our brother’s keeper, about special care for those with unique needs, I glanced at my son. His focus had intensified, and his restlessness momentarily stilled. Drawing from the biblical story of Cain and Abel, the Holy Father reminded us of our moral responsibility within the human family.

“We cannot claim to love God whom we cannot see,” he said with conviction that seemed to echo across the ancient square, “if we do not love our brothers and sisters whom we see.”

A single tear was making its way down Nick’s cheek. At that moment, as the pope’s words resonated through the crowd, we both received the affirmation we hadn’t realized we were desperately seeking: Nick belonged in this family, too — God’s family, the Catholic family, our family.

After the audience, we silently walked through the Vatican gardens, processing what had just happened. Finally, Nick spoke.

“Mom,” he said quietly, “for the first time, I don’t feel like I have to choose between my faith and who I am.”

The Pope’s message of fraternity had created a space where my son could imagine belonging fully—both as a person with mental health challenges and as a gay man.

What struck me most profoundly was how Francis’s message of fraternity offered a counterpoint to the tribalism I witnessdaily in American society. Our political landscape seemed increasingly divided into camps, unwilling to recognize the humanity in those who think differently. Yet here was Francis, teaching us that true fraternity transcends these divisions. Loving Nick, who challenged many of my preconceptions, had already begun building spiritual muscles for bridging divides. Now, Francis’s words gave language to this practice of radical inclusion.

Jen Yontz-Orlando and her son, Nick, standing in St. Peter’s Square after the 2015 Ash Wednesday papal audience.

I recalled the Pope’s emphasis that what we learn about brotherhood and sisterhood at home enriches society as a whole. At that moment, I understood that my relationship with Nick wasn’t just a private family matter, but a microcosm of the larger human struggle to recognize dignity across differences. If I could embrace my son fully, I could extend that same recognition to those whose political views differed from mine, whose life experiences seemed foreign to my own.

“I think this is what America needs right now,” Nick said unexpectedly as we left the Vatican grounds. “People seeing each other as family even when they disagree.”

His insight startled me—here was my son, whom I had brought to Rome, hoping to help him feel included, now teaching me about the broader implications of Francis’s message.

When we returned home to the U.S., something had shifted. Nick attended Mass with new confidence. Sensing this change, our parish priest made extra efforts to welcome him. Some parishioners who had kept their distance before now seemed to see Nick through the lens of Francis’s teachings—as their brother in Christ, deserving of dignity and inclusion.

As the world focuses on succession politics and who will follow this remarkable Pope, I am compelled to share how his inclusive vision created a sacred space for healing between a mother and son who had been searching for belonging. Pope Francis’ impact goes beyond documents and decrees—it lives in transformed relationships like ours.

Our family album has a photo of Nick in St. Peter’s Square, his face alight with newfound peace. It reminds me daily of Francis’s greatest gift to us: the assurance that the Church is big enough for all of us. As the cardinals gather to choose his successor, I pray they remember how Francis’s light touched the margins, reaching those who had felt forgotten.

That light continues to shine in our lives, a testament to a Pope who taught us that authentic fraternity is not just a nice idea but the transformative force of Christ’s love in the world—a tough act to follow indeed, but one whose lessons will guide us forward as we continue our life-journeys together.

 —Jennifer Yontz-Orlando, May 7, 2025