My finest memory of Pope Francis is from January 2015, when I watched him celebrate Mass in Tacloban, in the eastern Philippines. Wearing a disposable rain poncho over his vestments, as the winds of a tropical storm battered the outdoor altar, he preached to survivors of the 2013 Typhoon Yolanda.
The congregation listened, many of them in tears, as Francis commiserated with them over their loss of homes and loved ones. He said he could not fault them if the ordeal had cost them their faith and admitted he could offer no other comfort than the Cross. “But I see Him there nailed to the cross,” he said, pointing to a crucifix. “And from there, He does not disappoint us.”
That sermon was Pope Francis at his best, displaying his well-known compassion for the downtrodden but also a grave, even somber, side that he showed less often. He was best known, worldwide, for his cheerful, thumbs-up persona, especially when greeting children, but he seemed more deeply himself that day.
I have been covering the Vatican since 2007, a span that includes Francis’s entire pontificate—which began with his election on March 13, 2013, and ended with his death on Easter Monday at the age of 88, mere hours after he appeared for a final time in St. Peter’s Square on Easter Sunday.