With the memory of our beloved Francis still fresh in our minds, Catholics opened their hearts anew to Pope Leo XIV, joyful over his backstory and his roots in Chicago, moved by his work as a missionary and bishop in Peru, impressed by the many languages he speaks. As he offered his blessing to those in person and watching via TV or some other screen, we could all feel a sense of awe that the Holy Spirit continues to work so powerfully in our Church, giving us what we need at just the right moment in time.

Of course, within hours, there were critics trying (fairly desperately, it seemed) to “dig up” some dirt on the new pontiff, attempting to tarnish the shine before we even had a chance to soak up the joy of the moment. I remember when Francis was first named pope and I wrote a blog post about my hope and excitement, another writer immediately came after me claiming I was turning a blind eye to his flaws. Our pope — every pope — is human. Of course there will be flaws, but how about we take a breath and watch and listen before we judge and criticize. It’s the American way to tear down, especially on social media these days, but we Catholics would be wise to pause and pray rather than join the fray.

The day Pope Leo XIV was elected, my husband, Dennis, who is executive director of the New York State Catholic Conference, was interviewed on Capital Region television regarding the breaking news. At the end of the conversation, the interviewer asked if he thought Pope Leo was “more of a liberal or a conservative under the umbrella of Catholicism.” He responded with a reminder that Catholics are not so easy to categorize, as we do not fit any label. “The terms ‘liberal’ and ‘conservative’ don’t really work as much when it comes to the Church … We are very liberal on some issues, like immigration, and very conservative on others, like abortion,” he explained. “I think he’ll be a Catholic, rather than a liberal or conservative.”

I loved that statement because it is a reminder that we are not a Church of “sides,” but rather one that is literally “universal” in its reach, its mission, its makeup. We are, in a sense, a Church of both/and, not either/or.

When I think back over the popes of my lifetime, I have loved each one of them for different reasons. Born under John XXIII, I love the fact that I was a child of Vatican II. John Paul II was the rockstar pope of my teens, and when I saw him at Madison Square Garden in 1979, you’d think I was waiting for the Beatles to appear. Pope Benedict XVI was a favorite for entirely different reasons, and if you haven’t read his beautiful and accessible encyclicals, they are worth your time even all these years later. When Francis was named pope, I practically swooned with joy, and I could not imagine another pope would so quickly fill me with hope and excitement for our Church. And then along came Leo XIV, whose first words out on the balcony of St. Peter’s made me declare: It’s a great day to be a Catholic!

We don’t know what’s coming. We never do. But we trust in the work of the Spirit and the wisdom of our new pope to guide us through whatever is ahead. After all, this pope is one of us, and if a kid from the South Side of Chicago can become pope, anything is possible with God.

This column originally appeared in the May 14, 2025 issue of The Evangelist.

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And while they look so delicate, so easily broken from the outside, they are, in reality, incredibly strong and ferociously tough. How else could they push through the winter-hardened ground and withstand freezing temperatures and snow and, often, the trampling of little feet. They are deceptively resilient. And that’s why I love them. I can see them now, way out in the yard, only four inches off the ground but towering above all the other brown, withered plants.

As I mentioned, I’ve been sick for more than a week, a nasty sore throat that turned into abscesses, that turned into swollen tonsils and more. It left me unable to work, unable to move, unable to think. I just sat on the couch, like a zombie, staring forward. And so I did something I almost never do. I watched endless amounts of TV, mostly cooking channels but every so often a certifiable “chick flick.” And my favorite of the week was “Bright Star,” the story of the tragic love affair between John Keats and Fanny Brawne.

First let me say that Dennis should be thanking his lucky stars that I streamed this one from Netflix while he was at work. He would have fallen asleep in the first fifteen minutes, but I thought this film by Jane Campion was just beautiful. And it reminded me that I once spent an entire semester studying Keats and his Romantic counterparts — Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Coleridge. Remember those days of spending an entire semester on one slice of something? No wonder I can’t remember stuff anymore. Maybe if I had an entire semester to take notes and read commentaries on every novel I read, I’d remember more about the books I read nowadays. Or I’d at least remember I read them at all.

I think back to my days at Pace University now and marvel at the fact that I could take an entire semester of Russian lit, Irish lit, Shakespeare (although I did at least two on Shakespeare) and still only scratch the surface. Remember those days? Weeks on end of Irish literature but still not enough time to handle Ulysses, which was a course unto itself. Anyway, Bright Star made me want to revisit those Romantic poets — and some of my all-time college favs, like Anna Karenina — from my more mature vantage point. What subject or book would you go back and revisit if you could return to your college days?

Finally, a little faith story to go with the sore throat nightmare. Friday night did not look good for me. After more than a week of illness, three different antibiotics, four doctor visits (including two that felt like something out of a horror movie thanks the procedures that were required), seven pounds lost in seven days due to my inability to eat, and endless amounts of pain and lost sleep, I thought I was going to the Emergency Room. My tonsil had swelled to the point that I felt as though my throat was closing up. I moved my head this way and that and found a way to avoid the ER. I slept sitting up in a recliner since laying down cut off my airway. Dennis checked on my breathing throughout the night. It was a little ridiculous.

When I woke up on Saturday, things didn’t feel much better. Dennis and Noah had to work at our parish school all day, so I was alone with the girls. I had the phone in my hand in case I needed to call 9-1-1 at a moment’s notice. It was that bad. I assumed that at some point I was going to the ER no matter how hard I tried to fight it.

Then I went upstairs, dug around my closet for a bag I brought back from Italy this fall, and pulled out a Miraculous Medal. It’s not an expensive or fancy medal, just one of a few I purchased in time for the papal audience so it could be blessed by Pope Benedict XVI. But this medal is extra special for one reason: Later in my trip, I brought that medal to the tomb of Blessed Pope John Paul II and asked the guard to lay it on the tomb for me.

I took the medal from the bag and pinned it to my shirt as close to the my swollen tonsil as possible, and I prayed to John Paul II. About 90 minutes later, my throat felt clear. No difficulty breathing, and, for the first time in about eight days, no difficulty swallowing. I ate lunch. Lunch! I could talk without struggling. I kept waiting for the throat problems to return, but they never did. By afternoon I made a big tray of baked ziti and a giant salad and sat down to a feast for dinner. Dennis and the kids stared in amazement as I wolfed down cheesy pasta. Every other time I’d try to eat dinner with them for more than a week I would leave the table, unable to take more than one bite. And I usually cried through that from the pain.

When I went to bed last night, I figured that was the test. I would lay down and realize that I still couldn’t breathe properly. Wrong. My head hit the pillow and I slept undisturbed for about eight hours straight. As I said on Facebook, I’m not saying all this is cause for canonization or anything, but, as far as I’m concerned, it’s my own personal miracle. I was headed to the ER one minute and whipping up dinner the next. Thank you, John Paul II.

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