I never had the chance to say hello. But I stood in line to say goodbye.
After Pope Francis died, my editors asked me to fly to Italy in advance of a move next month to take up the post of Rome bureau chief. I recently finished an eight-year tour in Tokyo and had thought I would cover the twilight of Francis’s term.
Instead, after arriving Thursday night to help report on the funeral and upcoming Conclave to elect Francis’ successor, I wandered over to St. Peter’s Square on Friday morning. I wasn’t planning to linger. I hadn’t picked up my press badge yet, and had read my colleagues’ stories about people waiting for hours to pass before Pope Francis’ coffin.
Once I joined the flow of the faithful, I didn’t want to leave the line. I felt an undeniable pull to stay.
It was a holiday in Italy and many locals stood to wait along with thousands of tourists and pilgrims. I heard Italian, Spanish, English and many other languages. There were nuns in their habits, older people in wheelchairs, youth groups dressed in identical T-shirts and carrying matching drawstring backpacks.
Despite the heavy police presence, the order was loose, with some people weaving in and out and passing ahead, as if on a congested freeway on a weekend. There was not much grumbling, perhaps in deference to the solemn reason we were there.
I heard a group from Croatia chant a prayer, repeating after a leader who spoke into a small microphone. We passed through metal detectors to enter the square. A volunteer wearing a lime green vest directed us with a desultory wave, pointing one way and intoning “Papa,” and gesturing in the opposite for “uscita,” — exit.
The mood was more tranquil cheer than mournful. In some ways, it was like any long line, where a mother handed her phone to a restless young daughter to distract her with a video game. At one throttle point, a woman harangued the volunteer holding us back with her arm. The volunteer smiled her way through a skilled de-escalation.
I noticed a man wearing a polo shirt with an insignia from the Oakland sheriff’s department. A long line being an easy place to start a conversation, I asked him if he was from California, since I grew up not far from Oakland. Michigan, he said.
The man, Shawn Hopkins, 57, a sheriff’s deputy in Pontiac, was on a short vacation with his mother and his sister, Katrina, 60, who had traveled from Florida. His mother, Julya Hopkins, 85, converted to Catholicism when she was 20 and married their father; it had been her dream to come to Rome.
Mr. Hopkins, who attended Catholic schools and has been a police officer for 37 years, told me that his work schedule prevented him from regularly making it to mass, but his childhood in the faith tethered him here.
Mr. Hopkins also wanted to honor his partner, who was lost in the line of duty last year. He gave me a medal commemorating his partner, Deputy Sheriff Bradley J. Reckling. He had swapped them for badges all week with police officers around the city.
As for the pope, he said, “Seemed like a decent guy. I didn’t get that into the politics of it all.”
Francis was a divisive pontiff: many loved him, many wished he did far more, and some believed he was too liberal and already had done too much.
Paying respects did not require agreement. Katrina Hopkins, who said Francis was “kind,” observed that people stood in line “not so much because they are faithful but because they want community.” This was the pope’s last gift, she said, bringing us all together.
I met a young woman from Taiwan, Chelsea Yu, 27, who described how strangely emotional it had been to see the pope’s body.
She had spent the last few months exploring death, visiting a cremation temple in Nepal and contemplating how to prepare for the eventual passing of her grandparents. Nothing approached the gravity of death. Seeing the pope in his coffin made her feel genuine grief, in part because she admired his values of inclusiveness and calls to protect the environment.
Inside the basilica, people hoisted their phones for photos of the opulence, until a security guard sternly ordered us to stow our devices. Just before I stepped in front of the altar, a baby dressed in a suit and cradled by his father grabbed the handle on my belt bag, yanking me close. I was reassured by this vibrant sign of new life.
I had stood in line for two and a half hours and had five seconds to bid farewell. I caught a brief glimpse of the pope in his red cassock, lying in the simple coffin he requested, tilted slightly forward but not on an elevated bier. Two members of the Pontifical Swiss Guard flanked the coffin, stiff as the Queen’s Guards at Buckingham Palace.
I am not religious, but I bowed my head and pressed my hands together. Addio, holy father.
