The Death of Pope Francis: A Personal Journey Through Grief, Gratitude, and Hope

 

The death of Pope Francis has stirred a profound grief in my soul—a sorrow I struggle to articulate in words but feel deeply in every part of my being. As I reflect on his life, his legacy, and the light he brought to our often troubled world, I find myself overwhelmed by both the sadness of his passing and the immense gratitude for the life he lived so humbly and generously. 

For many around the globe, Pope Francis was more than a religious figurehead—he was a symbol of compassion, humility, and courage. But for me, he was something even deeper: a spiritual shepherd who seemed to understand the pain and beauty of the human condition, who reached out to the lost, the poor, and the broken with open arms, and who led not with power or prestige but with an open heart.

I can still vividly remember the moment I heard the news of his passing. My heart sank. I felt a chill, a sense of disbelief and loss. Pope Francis had always felt like a comforting presence in the world—a voice of calm in chaos, a bridge in moments of division, and a gentle reminder that above all else, love wins. The idea that such a light could be extinguished from our earthly world left me in tears. I was saddened beyond measure, and it felt like losing a beloved grandfather, mentor, and spiritual guide all at once.

One of the things I will miss the most is his humility. In a world that often rewards ego and ambition, Pope Francis stood as a testament to the power of humility. From the moment he stepped onto the balcony at the Vatican and bowed to the people for their blessing before giving his own, I knew he was different. He refused the opulent papal apartments and chose to live in a modest guesthouse. He rode in a simple Ford Focus instead of the traditional papal limousine. His actions, small as they may seem to some, spoke volumes. They weren’t just gestures—they were reflections of his soul.

But beyond his humble lifestyle was a heart so full of kindness and love that it moved millions. He embraced the marginalized with tenderness, washed the feet of prisoners and refugees, opened the doors of the Church to those who had long felt excluded, and continually preached about mercy over judgment. I remember how he once said, “Who am I to judge?” in response to questions about the LGBTQ+ community. That moment alone showed me a leader willing to shatter norms in favor of love and inclusivity. That was Pope Francis—always choosing love.

His kindness wasn’t just words—it was action. He stood up for the poor, the forgotten, and the voiceless. He called out greed and environmental destruction, challenged global leaders to think beyond politics and power, and reminded us all that the true Church is one that serves. His heart beat for humanity in all its forms, and his love transcended barriers—of language, nationality, and even faith.

I feel deeply blessed that I had the opportunity to attend the Papal Mass celebrated by Pope Francis in Singapore last September. That experience, in hindsight, feels even more precious now. To be in his presence, to hear his voice echo through the crowd, and to see his gentle smile with my own eyes—it was surreal. There was a stillness in the air that day, a kind of spiritual calm that enveloped everyone present. His words were simple yet powerful, his gaze was kind, and his blessing felt like a direct touch from Heaven. I remember closing my eyes during the final blessing, tears rolling down my cheeks, as I whispered a silent prayer of thanks for being able to witness such grace.

That day is now a cherished memory—one I will hold close for the rest of my life. At the time, I did not realize it would be the last time I would ever see him in person. But now, knowing that, I treasure it even more. That Mass was not just a religious event; it was a sacred encounter with a man whose life was a living Gospel.

As I mourn, I also pray with all my heart that the next Pope will carry on the incredible legacy left behind by Pope Francis. I hope and pray that whoever steps into the role next will do so with the same humility, gentleness, and wisdom. The world needs a spiritual leader who listens, who heals, and who dares to love radically as Pope Francis did. His shoes are large to fill—not just in size, but in spirit. But I have hope that God will raise another servant-leader, one molded in the image of Christ, much like Francis was.

Pope Francis was not perfect, nor did he claim to be. But in his imperfections, he reminded us of our own humanity. He apologized when necessary, admitted faults, and welcomed criticism with grace. He knew he was just a man, but one chosen to do the work of the divine. And he did that work with quiet strength and enduring love.

I find comfort in believing that he is now with the Lord he served so faithfully. I imagine him reunited with saints and angels, continuing to pray for us as we journey on without him. My heart finds peace in the thought that Heaven has welcomed him with open arms: “Well done, good and faithful servant.” I am sure those words were spoken to him the moment he entered into eternity.

His death has left me more aware of the fragility of life, and also more convicted in my faith. Pope Francis once said, “Let us not allow ourselves to be robbed of hope.” And so, in his honor, I will choose hope over despair, light over darkness, and love over fear. I will try to live more humbly, more compassionately, more like he did.

Though the world mourns, I find that mourning deeply personal. He wasn’t just the Pope—he was *my* Pope. The one who taught me that faith can be kind, that leadership can be gentle, and that love can be revolutionary. I will miss him immensely. I will miss his warm smile, his thoughtful homilies, his compassionate gaze, and the way he always reminded us to pray for him—his humility so profound that he, the Pope, would ask the people for prayer.

Now, I find myself doing just that—praying for him. Praying that his soul is at peace, that his legacy continues to ripple through the Church and the world, and that his example lives on in each of us who were touched by his life.

In many ways, the best way we can honor him is not just with words, but with action. To be kind. To forgive. To serve. To include. To care. To speak up for the voiceless. To stand with the poor. To love without judgment. These were the values he championed, and they must now become the torch we carry forward.

Pope Francis may be gone from this earth, but his spirit lives on. In our churches. In our hearts. In every act of kindness we offer. And every time we choose humility over pride, service over self, and compassion over convenience, we keep his memory alive.

As I sit with my grief, I also sit with immense gratitude. I am grateful for the years we had him. I am grateful for his courage and clarity, his compassion and conviction. And I am especially grateful that, by divine grace, I was able to witness his holy presence at the Papal Mass in Singapore. That moment will forever be etched in the pages of my life story.

In this time of mourning, I hold fast to the words he himself gave us: “You have to dare to dream. Don’t be afraid to dream of a more just world, to ask for change.” Pope Francis dreamed such a world into being with every act of love. Now, it is up to us to keep dreaming, keep building, and keep loving—just as he did.

May his soul rest in peace, and may the love he shared continue to shine through us all.

My First Mission Trip to Vietnam – A Journey of Heart, Faith, and Transformation

 

This will be my very first mission trip to Vietnam—and it carries with it more than just excitement. It’s a long-held dream finally coming to life, one that has lived quietly in my heart for years. When my children were younger, I knew I couldn’t just leave them and go. My responsibilities at home were always my top priority. Their needs, their presence, their laughter and chaos—those were the center of my world. But now that they’re older, more independent, and walking their own journeys, I finally feel the nudge from within: it’s time.

Still, I’ll admit—this will be the longest I’ve ever been away from my family, and that’s not something I take lightly. I will miss them deeply. I’ll miss the rhythm of our home, the inside jokes, the everyday moments that seem ordinary but are really the threads that weave our lives together. Stepping away, even temporarily, stirs a quiet ache in my heart. Yet at the same time, it strengthens my resolve. Because I know I’m not just going away—I’m going towards something that matters.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried a desire to serve in a different country—to go beyond my comfort zone and extend help to those who have so little. Particularly children. There’s something about the innocence of children, their vulnerability and potential, that tugs at my spirit. I’ve always felt called to do something meaningful for them, to offer love and support where the world may have overlooked or forgotten them. This mission trip is the answer to that call.

But as I prepare, I’ve had to ask myself honestly: What can I really offer on this mission trip? I’m not arriving with all the answers or grand solutions—but I am bringing something just as important: a willing heart, open hands, and the desire to serve with love. And maybe that’s all I need to bring.

We often assume that mission work requires extraordinary talent or resources. But I’ve come to understand that the most powerful offerings are often the simplest ones: presence, compassion, and humility. A kind word, a listening ear, or simply showing up with genuine care—these small acts can become vessels for God’s grace. That’s what I hope to give: my time, my attention, my prayers. I don’t just want to give—I want to learn. To listen. To be changed. Because mission work is not a one-way act of charity—it’s a sacred exchange. We offer what we can, and in return, we are offered transformation.

In truth, while I go with a heart ready to serve, I am aware that I will also receive—perhaps even more than I give. I may receive new perspective, as I step into a different way of life and see how joy, faith, and love thrive even in places where material things are scarce. It’s easy to get caught up in our own world and forget that abundance is not always visible. Sometimes, it’s found in the strength of a mother who sings to her child despite hunger, or in the laughter of children who have so little yet radiate so much light.

I may receive wisdom from the very people I hope to help. Their stories of endurance, of grace under hardship, will no doubt humble me. And I may also receive healing—because in stepping away from my routine, I’m making space for God to whisper, to restore, to move in my heart in ways I may not expect. And perhaps most beautifully, I will encounter Christ in others—in their hospitality, their hope, their struggles and triumphs. These sacred encounters are what make a mission trip not just something we do, but something that changes us from the inside out.

As I go, I am also more aware than ever of the posture I want to carry—not one of pity, but of mercy. This difference matters deeply. Pity, while well-intentioned, can come from a place of distance. It can feel passive—feeling sorry for someone without truly seeing them. Mercy, on the other hand, is active. It gets close. It walks alongside. It costs us something—our time, our comfort, our assumptions. Mercy is rooted in love and humility, and it sees the other not as less, but as equal, worthy, human. I don’t want to serve from a place of feeling sorry—I want to serve with a heart willing to be moved, to be inconvenienced, to kneel down and love as Christ would.

In reflecting on this upcoming journey, I’ve also been thinking about the ways I’ve already encountered Christ’s love in my own life. There have been seasons where I was broken, when grief and pain clouded everything—and yet, even then, love found me. I remember one particular time when a friend simply sat with me in silence. No fixing, no advice—just presence. They held space for me, prayed with me, and reminded me that I was not alone. That was Christ, showing up in human form. That was Christian love in its most powerful expression.

And so, I carry that memory with me as I go. I want to be that kind of presence for someone else. I want to be the person who doesn’t just show up to help, but who sees, listens, and loves. Who respects and learns, who receives and gives in equal measure. Because that’s what mission is. It’s not just about doing good—it’s about becoming good, becoming more like Christ in the way we relate to one another.

I don’t expect this mission trip to be easy. I know I will be challenged, perhaps even shaken. I know I will cry, and I know I will laugh. I know I will miss my family and long for home. But I also know that I will return changed. With a fuller heart, a broader vision, and a deeper sense of God’s presence in the world.

This is my first mission trip to Vietnam, but it’s not just a trip—it’s the beginning of something more. A new chapter of faith in action. A dream long delayed, finally fulfilled. A gift I’m both giving and receiving.

And I pray that in all of it—in the going, the serving, the missing, the loving—I may carry the heart of Christ wherever I step. That in every smile, every story, every shared meal or prayer, God’s love will be made known. That’s all I could ever hope for. And that’s enough.

From Spa Bliss to Sales Blitz: My Weight Management Trial Wake-Up Call

 

Curiosity led me through the doors of a Weight Management company not too long ago. Like many others trying to make wellness a priority, I was open to exploring treatments that could support my health goals in a gentle, non-invasive way. I had heard about their XX treatment—a relaxing session supposedly designed to reduce bloating and target stubborn fat areas without needles, surgery, or sweat. On paper, it sounded like the perfect complement to a relatively healthy lifestyle. But by the end of the session, what began as a calming experience turned into something else entirely: an aggressive sales pitch with a jaw-dropping price tag.

When I first arrived, everything looked and felt reassuringly professional. The center had a spa-like atmosphere—clean, calm, and softly lit with that signature air of quiet luxury. My consultant greeted me with a warm smile and led me into a private consultation room where we discussed my lifestyle, eating habits, exercise routine, and body goals. I appreciated the attention to detail and the personalized approach. It didn’t feel rushed, and I felt heard.

The treatment itself was just as pleasant. It started with a full body composition analysis using high-tech equipment that scanned my fat distribution, hydration levels, and metabolic age. From there, I was guided through the session, which began with a thermal heat therapy designed to boost circulation and promote fat burn. The warmth was intense but soothing—like being cocooned in a heated blanket. After that, the detox wrap was applied, tightening gently around targeted areas while I lay down to relax. I could feel the tension in my body release, and by the end of the session, I genuinely felt lighter, less bloated, and surprisingly refreshed. The therapist was kind, communicative, and professional throughout, explaining what each step was supposed to do.

And then... everything changed.

As soon as I stepped out of the treatment room, barely back in my clothes, I was whisked into a different space to “review my progress.” But instead of a post-treatment reflection, I was hit with a hard-sell package that knocked the air out of me. The recommendation? Seventy sessions—yes, seventy. They suggested thirty sessions for my waist, twenty for my arms, and twenty more for my thighs. At $700 per session, this totaled $49,000.

Let that sink in for a second.

I’m not overweight. I didn’t come in with drastic body concerns or expectations of dramatic transformation. I simply wanted a gentle nudge in the right direction—perhaps a one-off indulgence or the occasional treat to go alongside my efforts to eat clean, move more, and take care of my body. But instead of support, I was handed a glossy brochure listing a price that could fund a luxury holiday, a new car, or a year of elite personal training, clean eating programs, and spa sessions combined.

There was no time offered to reflect or wait to see how my body responded over the next few days. It was all about signing up immediately, locking in the package before I could back out. The pressure didn’t ease. The tone shifted from friendly to transactional, and it became clear that the treatment was just the bait for a very costly hook.

The experience left a bitter taste in my mouth—not because the session itself was bad, but because I felt reduced to a dollar sign. The nurturing, wellness-focused atmosphere had turned into a high-stakes sales floor.

What’s even more frustrating is how these places often hide behind glossy marketing and celebrity endorsements. You’ll see familiar faces—usually actresses or models with flawless skin and flat stomachs—beaming in promotional posters, telling you how great the treatments are. But let’s be honest: many of these ambassadors have never been overweight a day in their life. They’re not the ones struggling with hormonal changes, emotional eating, post-baby weight, or the impact of sedentary work life. They don’t represent the average person walking in looking for genuine support. Instead, they represent a beauty ideal that feels out of reach for most of us.

And when that ideal is being used to sell expensive packages to people who may be feeling vulnerable about their bodies? That’s where it starts to feel manipulative. Because if someone like that “needs” seventy sessions, what hope does that leave for the rest of us?

But here’s the question that kept echoing in my head long after I left: Even if I wanted to toss that kind of money towards this—would this be a sustainable way to lose weight?

The answer, in my opinion, is no.

Yes, treatments like XX might help you feel lighter temporarily. They might reduce water retention or give the illusion of inch loss for a day or two. But they don’t tackle the real work of long-term health. They don’t change your habits, heal your relationship with food, improve your gut health, build muscle, or give you the mental discipline to maintain results. What they offer is a band-aid—not a cure. A temporary fix, not a lasting transformation.

Sustainable weight management doesn’t come wrapped in plastic or warmed under infrared lights. It comes through consistency, movement, nourishment, hydration, stress management, and sleep. It comes through understanding your body and showing up for it, day after day, even when the progress is slow and unglamorous. And most importantly, it comes from loving yourself enough to seek health, not just aesthetics.

So would I go back? No. Not because the session was terrible—it wasn’t. It was actually quite soothing. But the experience that followed broke the trust. It felt like a bait-and-switch, wrapped in lavender oil and soft towels.

Would I recommend it to others? Only with a strong warning: go in with your eyes wide open. Know what you're getting into. Enjoy the pampering if that’s what you’re after, but don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re broken or “less than” unless you fork out tens of thousands of dollars.

There are far more empowering, accessible, and lasting ways to take care of your body. Ways that don’t involve high-pressure sales, celebrity illusions, or unrealistic price tags.

Because real wellness doesn’t cost $49,000. It costs time, commitment, and a little bit of self-love.