[REFLECTION] A pope’s zucchetto and the quiet grace of being Filipino

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I held out a small white zucchetto — the skullcap worn by clergy... As he neared, I said 'Padre Jorge, please accept this zucchetto—the gift of the Filipino people working at the airport.' He reached out, took the zucchetto, and placed his own into my hands.

When the world learned of Pope Francis’ passing, a quiet grief swept through the Philippines. It wasn’t just about the loss of a global religious leader—it was something far more personal. We lost someone who saw us. Someone who came not just to speak to the Church, but to walk with the wounded. Someone who stood in our rain, cried our tears, and reminded us that we are never forgotten.

For many Filipinos, his 2015 visit is something we still carry in our hearts. But for me, it’s also tied to one specific moment—brief, unscripted, and life-changing.

Back then, I was working as part of the ground handling team at the airport. My job was to lead the ground handling services around the Pope’s departure flight after his trip to Leyte. We were working under tight security, heavy protocol, and a ticking clock. My head was all work. I didn’t think I’d have a moment of any kind—certainly not a personal one.

Earlier that day, Pope Francis had traveled to Tacloban, determined to celebrate Mass and meet with survivors of Super Typhoon Yolanda. Despite worsening conditions from Tropical Storm Amang, he pressed on. He stood under dark skies, drenched and vulnerable, and delivered a message straight from the heart. But as the storm grew stronger, his visit had to be cut short. He boarded a plane bound for Manila earlier than planned, leaving Tacloban with a heavy heart.

I was there when he arrived back in Manila. You could see the emotion still sitting on his shoulders—the weight of the stories, the suffering he had witnessed.

That’s when he approached our line.

Rappler and other media outlets were covering every step, and moments from that day were already spreading across social media. The whole country was watching. But in that vast tarmac, something deeply personal unfolded.

I held out a small white zucchetto — the skullcap worn by clergy. I had brought it with me, just in case. I wasn’t expecting anything, but I had said a quiet prayer when I tucked it into my pockets.

As he neared, I found myself saying, almost without thinking, “Padre Jorge, please accept this zucchetto—the gift of the Filipino people working at the airport.”

He paused, looked at me gently, and smiled. He reached out, took the zucchetto, and without hesitation, placed his own into my hands.

I was stunned. Tongue-tied. Breathless. All I could manage to whisper was, “Bless me and my family.”

And he did. With just a look. With kindness in his eyes.

No grand ceremony. No official words. Just a quiet exchange that felt like the whole world had slowed down. In that moment, I wasn’t a staff member. I wasn’t in uniform. I was simply human—and seen.

That zucchetto, which I’ve kept safe ever since, isn’t just a souvenir. It’s a reminder. A reminder that grace often arrives not in cathedrals, but on tarmacs. Not during holy days, but in the middle of a work shift. That holiness sometimes meets us in our routine, when we’re simply doing our part.

That’s something Pope Francis understood better than most.

He saw the sacred in the ordinary. He reminded us—especially Filipinos—that joy can live even inside suffering. That faith doesn’t have to be grand to be real. And that to serve with love is already a form of prayer.

Since then, I’ve carried that lesson with me.

Today, I work as a logistics manager for a humanitarian organization. We respond to emergencies — typhoons, landslides, floods. We move relief goods, coordinate teams, and reach communities in crisis. It’s not easy work. But it’s deeply fulfilling.

On the hardest days — when the roads are gone, the needs are urgent, and sleep is a luxury — I remember that moment on the tarmac. I remember his simplicity. His presence. His example.

Because what Pope Francis gave us — what he gave me — wasn’t just inspiration. It was permission. Permission to live our faith in small ways. To find meaning in showing up. To serve others with dignity, even when no one is watching.

And maybe more than anything, he reminded us that the heart of the Filipino is something holy in itself.

We are a people of resilience. We find laughter even after loss. We rebuild, help each other, hold on. We carry each other through floods and fires and funerals. And through it all, we smile.

Pope Francis saw that in us. And he honored it—not with speeches, but by walking beside us. Standing in our storms. Accepting our gifts.

So yes, we grieve his passing. But we also celebrate the light he left behind. A light that continues in every act of service. Every quiet kindness. Every Filipino who chooses hope, even in the dark.

And every time I remember the zucchetto in my hands, I hear again the quiet truth he lived so well:

“What does the Lord require of you but to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God?” — Micah 6:8 – Rappler.com

Marc Lim is a Filipino humanitarian worker with 18 years’ experience in service, logistics, and leadership. His encounter with Pope Francis deepened his belief that true leadership begins with humility.