“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

Often attributed to John Lennon, this quote from American journalist Allen Saunders speaks to me especially this week of April 21, 2025, as I write this piece. In recent months, since November 20, 2024, when the Canonization of Carlo Acutis was announced to take place during the Jubilee of Teens on April 27, 2025, many people have been making plans.

Authors and their editors have been finalizing texts, and publishers have been selling books and booklets on the young soon-to-be saint. Liturgists have been preparing prayers, liturgical settings, and environments for services and celebrations. The faithful have made travel arrangements and have paid for tickets for plane fare, train fare, bus fare, lodging. For many this involved significant saving and planning to redirect hard-earned money to experience a once-in-a lifetime event: the canonization of the first millennial saint.

But life—and death—happen while we’re busy making plans.

The world woke up on Easter Monday to the news that Pope Francis had died. With his passing, a new celebration started, one filled with the mixed emotions of grief and gratitude, both sown with faith in new life with Christ and in time, resurrection.

Given that the proclamation of sanctity requires papal authority, the canonization of Carlo Acutis has been suspended.

What do we do with this suspended time?

I have been reflecting on real presence for many years: the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, yes, and my own capacity to truly be present in situations that are unsettling or unexpected. I admit that I sometimes expect things to go a certain way and when they don’t, I can brood or feel disappointment. Sometimes I can get flustered and even angry if I have put a lot of planning into the preparations of a task or event that ends up going in ways other than I expected. If I cling too tightly to those expectations, I can lose sight of the hope that might be found in what transpires. 

In reading about the life and faith of Carlo Acutis in recent months, I have naturally been impressed with the faith of this young man. But I have also noticed the faith of those around him, especially his nanny, Beata Sperczynska, when he was a young boy. In reading about Beata in Courtney Mares’ book, Blessed Carlo Acutis: A Saint in Sneakers, the brief passage on Beata points to the profound effect of being deeply present with her faith and with those around her.

According to Mares, Carlo was just three when Beata came to work for the family as his nanny. Having traveled from her native Poland to work in Milan, she brought with her prayer cards and a fervent hope in Christ’s love. She was the first to teach little Carlo in the Catholic faith, showing him that it is a faith of relationship and presence. She took him with her to Mass and also taught him to drop in churches as they passed by and say “hi to Jesus.” To me this brief anecdote relates a possible influence on Carlo and explains how he came to be so social and interactive in his faith as a youth, showing up to greet strangers and offer them food or clothing that they needed, for example. 

Did Beata expect little Carlo to become a saint? Not likely. But there was great hope that he might discover faith through these small acts of devotion and relationality that she brought into his life when she was his nanny. This was not so much an expectation that he would take on her Catholic faith as much as her own buoyant hope in Christ that could not be suppressed. 

This hope spilled over onto Carlo who in turn shared it with so many through his short life and now as many more flock to Assisi to pray near his body. 

There could be a tendency now to wait in expectation of the announcement of a new canonization date after a new pontiff is elected by the Cardinals. But I wonder if while waiting in expectation, we could miss the opportunity to spread the hope faith gives us that Carlo and before him, Beata, showed in their presence with others. Perhaps that’s the invitation of this time: show up and be really present with all we encounter. That is a faith that gives me hope.

I recently recalled a story from my maternal aunt. She had a home with a beautiful agrarian space, complete with a natural creek running through the property. My cousins and I became naturalists and explorers in this space, traversing the bubbling waters and small inhabitants enshrined by the willows and shrubs around it. When my aunt’s son was quite young, upon one such expedition, he found a new visitor in the stream. “Mom, I think I found God in the river!” he told her.

What he actually found was a concrete statue of St. Francis of Assisi, somehow carried down the stream and mysteriously deposited in the banks. This statue remained with my aunt until this past Easter Sunday, when he was bequeathed to me; this legendary stone holy man, whose serendipitous arrival had captured family lore for some time. “St. Frank” has been a mysterious companion in my life, presenting himself in the most unlikely ways in my journey to the Franciscan School of Theology and beyond. Little did I know the continued significance in what was to unfold in subsequent hours.

Another Francis, Papa Francesco, was to enter into the promise of the Resurrection a few hours after I happily perched this gifted statue in my home garden. There is much to say—more than word counts could ever accommodate—to encapsulate the humility, wisdom, and authenticity of our spiritual leader. This Holy Father was paternal, not patronizing; bold, yet merciful; meek, yet strong. I called to mind his entry into the papacy. I was in college discerning next steps and which theology school to attend.

All signs pointed to the Franciscans, so much so that when Pope Benedict stepped down and the conclave commenced, I remarked out loud to colleagues, “Wouldn’t it be ironic if this Jorge Bergoglio chose the name Francis, since I keep getting all these signs lately?” I can’t take credit for such an overt affirmation in my life but was warmed by the providential alignment of that day. As his papacy began, I was astounded and moved by the ways Pope Francis would touch even the most unlikely places. An atheist in my dorm even sought me out to congratulate me on the “new guy” who seemed to be doing good things for the world. 

As his papacy continued, he called for a visceral and pastoral love of neighbor, the forgotten, family, Creation, and what was to be his next work on the needs of children throughout the world—this “field hospital” and recognition of the need for healing in brokenness. This inspired my chaplain heart. Years later, while attending World Youth Day and working in pastoral care, I was struck by his tone of compassion and how his remarks inspired a need for community. And I will never forget the twinkle in his eye as the motorcade went by, like a benevolent grandfather, truly the Holy Father, as the teaming crowds of young people clamored around him and chanted, “Papa Francesco!” and “Esta es la joven tuth del Papa!”  

In these days when the daily headlines of despair and injustice can overwhelm even the most hopeful of the faithful, it feels especially heavy to lose such a global treasure and north star, guiding us and grounding us in the tumultuous and unknown. But as I continue to grieve and recall this legacy of one who indeed “smelled like the sheep,” I remember that story of my cousin “finding God in the river.”

Is that not what we are called to do in the memory of Pope Francis: practice this kind of horizontal theology where we find God among us, where we encounter the Imago Dei at the intersection of all living things, where we belong to each other and our common home, where we become stewards of goodness and welcome the stranger and the outcast with radical hospitality, as embrace our vulnerability in asking for forgiveness and in turn, show this mercy to others? We are to serve rather than be served, to live as if all were a gift, and be attentive stewards who create a place that is para todos . . . for all.

This was the message of Franciscus, a Jesuit called by the name of that mendicant preacher from Assisi who said the same, both reflecting the message of Christ, our Brother. So, look around. Easter is certainly a time of the unexpected, the wonder of what was, is, and will be forever.