I have attended Mass with Pope Francis in 10 countries across four continents over the past decade. As a Vatican journalist, covering his papacy has taken me from the heart of Rome to the farthest peripheries of the world. 

From Washington, D.C., to Papua New Guinea, I have chronicled his speeches, his reforms, his meetings with world leaders, and his press conferences on the papal plane. But my most enduring memories of Francis are not the official events or public addresses — they are the personal encounters, the brief exchanges, and unexpected humor that revealed the man behind the papacy.

Unlike John Paul II and Benedict XVI — both of whom I feel like I know because of how deeply I have been touched by their writings — Pope Francis is the only pope I’ve ever known personally. He is the pope with whom I have shared memories. 

Some moments were deeply personal. After my wedding, my husband and I joined the long line of newlyweds in St. Peter’s Square, eager to shake hands with the Pope and receive his blessing for our marriage. 

Four years later, I found myself on the papal plane bound for Mongolia — on the exact date of our wedding anniversary. My husband, unable to celebrate with me in person, sent a handwritten note in Spanish with prayer intentions for our marriage. When I mentioned the anniversary, Pope Francis, never to miss a moment for a joke, quipped, “Your wedding anniversary? Have you had some good fights?” 

That was Francis. 

Humor, I learned, was one of the ways he made himself relatable. He would spend hours greeting individuals in the crowds at his audiences, shaking hands, exchanging words, accepting small gifts — his favorites were Argentinian sweets, which never failed to make him smile or to make a joke about his weight. But beneath the humor was something deeper, a quiet attentiveness to the needs of the people before him, even in his later years while battling health problems.

That same anniversary flight gave me a glimpse of his pastoral sensitivity. “Pray to San Ramón,” Pope Francis told me. Hours later, when the plane landed and my internet access was restored, I discovered that San Ramon (or St. Raymond Nonnatus, as we call him in English) is a patron saint for one of the prayer intentions I had shared with the Pope. His feast day, as it happened, was also the date of our wedding anniversary. That saint has now become an important intercessor in our married life, thanks to Pope Francis.

On a shorter papal flight to Malta, I told the Pope about my cousin Bobby, who has cerebral palsy and, due to his disability, has never been able to walk or talk. Without hesitation, Francis paused to pray. Right there, in the aisle of the plane, he bent down, placed his hand on the photo I held of my cousin and prayed for him with me. It was a small moment. But for my family, it meant everything. 

And then there were the unexpected surprises. On that same Malta flight, I discreetly tried to snap a selfie with the back of the Pope’s head in the background, a little memento to send to my family. Just as I was about to take the photo, Francis turned around, caught sight of my phone, and, without missing a beat, gave a big smile for the camera.

Some of my earliest memories of Pope Francis are set in massive crowds. In 2014, I covered his visit to South Korea, where Catholics are a minority, but his presence electrified the country. 

I stood amid the crowd of more than 800,000 people who packed the streets of Seoul’s Gwanghwamun Square for the beatification of 124 Korean martyrs. I remember how Pope Francis captured the imagination of many Koreans by his example of simplicity and humility, including his choice to travel in a small white Fiat instead of the luxury cars befitting a head of state.

A year later, I found myself in Washington, D.C., chaperoning a group of Catholic college students for Pope Francis’ first and only visit to the United States. The night before the canonization of St. Junípero Serra, we passed by the apostolic nunciature where the Pope was staying. A group of young Latin American students were serenading the Pope with hymns from the street in front of the nunciature, so we decided to join in what became one of my favorite memories of the trip. The following day, we witnessed history unfold as the Pope presided over the first canonization on U.S. soil. 

Not all memories are tied to massive events. In 2020, as COVID-19 swept through Italy, I was locked down in my apartment like everyone else. One evening, I watched live as Pope Francis, standing alone in an empty St. Peter’s Square, gave a Eucharistic blessing to the world. The image of the Pope in the vast square — rain-slicked and silent — was an image of solidarity and faith that deeply touched me.

I wasn’t able to travel with Pope Francis to Iraq in 2021, but I followed that historic visit closely, knowing what it meant for a country where Christians had endured unimaginable persecution under ISIS. The images from that trip — Francis walking among the ruins, embracing those who had lost everything — were a powerful testimony.

If it was not for Pope Francis’ love for the peripheries and far-flung places, I would never have found myself interviewing a tribal chief in Papua, New Guinea or encountering hundreds of thousands of Catholics in East Timor, one of the least-visited countries in the world. Everywhere we traveled, it was clear: The Pope’s presence sparked great enthusiasm.

One of the most moving encounters I witnessed took place not in a grand cathedral, but in a prison in Rome. On the day after Christmas, I was one of two journalists present for a Mass that Pope Francis presided over with inmates. There, in a prison chapel, I saw guards and prisoners sing Silent Night together and exchange the sign of peace. After Mass, Francis took the time to speak to each prisoner individually, listening, looking them in the eye. 

In the years that I followed him, I saw him change. The Pope Francis I first encountered — walking with ease, energetic in his travels — was not the same man I saw at 88, moving with difficulty, speaking softly. But even in his final years, he would make the effort to greet people at the back of St. Peter’s Basilica, no matter how tired or frail he was.

Now, as the world reflects on his legacy, I find myself returning to those moments. I think of his humor, his humility, and his deep, unwavering attentiveness to those before him. More than anything, he made people feel seen, prayed for and loved.