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.

In making this journey with my trusty sidekick, my own mother, the road’s moniker became even more aligned to this idea. As the odometer ticked on, I thought of the similarities between my earthly mama and heavenly one (both named Mary as it turns out). These formidable women were always bringing together—across all landscapes and terrain—even the bumpy and rocky parts, shining as timeless and classic as a Cadillac. I think of the warmth of motherly hospitality ready to welcome strangers rolling in at any time. This is evidenced by the retro diners and shops still lining the roadway, reminiscent of a dusty neon welcome one would have received long ago in the heyday of this commute—ready to top off your tank and fill your tummy with a “famous cheeseburger with cheese” or “dead chicken” (the daily specials at SnowCap Drive-In since 1953).

With the wit and whimsy of the colorful gimmicks, goofy road signs, and celebratory attitude of those who still greet visitors coming through (I mean, what could bring more of a smile than a fiberglass cartoon figure randomly placed by the side of the road?!), I reflected on the joy at a mother delighting in her children in an atmosphere of joy, laughter, and mirth as we grow and thrive. And with the long stretches when legs start to cramp and the desert looks endless, I call to mind the unwavering patience and grace of the steady guidance of maternal wisdom that encourages you through to the next stop on the journey and reminds you to pause and stretch along the way.

On our own earthly journey, how blessed we are to have those around us, especially the mothers and mother-figures in our midst, our Blessed Mother most of all: observant and honest when we may need a tune up, admonishing if we we’re going too fast, polishing up scrapes and scratches incurred along the way, and courageously paving a foundation of love and grace that is lasting and true, even when it feels we are stuck in the middle of nowhere. We hear often that Mary is always turning us to her Son, drawing us closer to our ultimate destination in His presence and love. There is something reassuring about this, returning to the focus and staying on the road that links us always to Him. No matter how off course or lost we may seem to be, there is always a way, and our Mother helps us get back on track. So sure, go ahead and “get your kicks on Route 66,” but remember to always give thanks to your (and my) dear mothers, both here and above—stay on the Mother Road, and she’ll see you through. 

If I were to leave behind an epitaph, it would most certainly read, “Follow St. Francis!”

Where did this phrase come from? While discerning my vocational path, I started receiving providential signs that became sometimes humorous as much as they were awe-inspiring. When I was 22, I first met “St. Frank.” We were introduced by my college chaplain who jokingly, but with a side eye of insistence, overheard me talking about chaplaincy and plans to look at the Jesuit graduate programs. “Oh no,” she shook her head, “the Franciscans are your people, you need to check them out.” After that moment, Francis and Franciscans were suddenly everywhere! One day my GPS literally told me to “follow St. Francis, follow St. Francis,” insisting despite clearly going opposite the direction to the onramp. Turns out, it took me on an unnecessary u-turn down St. Francis street (and despite being Irish there’s no hyperbolic blarney here, I promise you). 

Bizarre signs like this kept showing up, to the point that even secular colleagues were noticing there was a coincidence that couldn’t be denied. This culminated in the fateful white smoke announcing that former archbishop Jorge Bergolino was now to be Francis…the first pope to take the name. A year later, I was accepted and began my studies at the Franciscan School of Theology. I was indeed, as Rev. Laura had pointed out, with “my people.” But, I had no clue that this moment would impact the rest of my academic, professional, and personal pilgrimage of spiritual and intellectual growth. 

The call to follow St. Francis came at the most pivotal time in my life. It was overwhelming going through immense grief with the loss of a close loved one while also navigating coming-of-age thresholds in that season. The draw to the Franciscan charism was a seeking for something to fill a broken heart and a passion to reach out to others going through the pain I had felt. This way of being part of the Incarnation in the world was a clear vision for what, as St. Francis often remarked, “to do what (was) mine to do” in this weary yet wonderful world. 

This concept of integrating one’s own journey into practice and gaining the practical and theological formation of sacred soul work became the hallmarks of a Franciscan education. This pedagogy was derived from its original founders, Francesco and Chiara, because this was—and is—a movement that didn’t remain in Assisi. The outward ebb and flow in this movement constantly elevates our understanding in acting as the Body of Christ in the human family around us. I was transformed by this framework in my own ministry, being educated by the transitus as Sister Death taught me to accompany the sick and dying as a board-certified chaplain after I graduated.  

While twists and turns have developed along the way, I often look into the images of this gentle soul of fierce devotion, and pose the musing, “What is coming next St. Frank, where am I being called?” Whatever lies ahead, I trust that so long as I return to the path to “follow St. Francis” he will lead me to our brother Christ. I am forever grateful and spiritually bonded to the anam caras—the soul friends—of teachers and colleagues who guided me along the road, especially at FST. I truly can only lead, as much as I follow.