Image credit: Benwen Lopez
From the dusty streets where the barefoot walk, to the quiet corners where the hungry kneel in prayer, his voice reached them—soft, like bread in the hand, strong like the arms of a worker. He came not as a prince, but as one of them. He looked upon the world with tired eyes—not from weariness, but from a long vigil of watching over all.
He spoke of mercy as if it were food—and for one soul, it was. When he said God never tires of forgiving, tears came. For one who had so little, that word became everything.
He kissed the broken. He sat beside the forgotten. He called the nameless “brother.” And somehow, he made heaven feel closer than the rusted roof of a shack.
Now he sleeps, the good Shepherd, and the night feels colder. But his footsteps remain pressed into the hearts of the small ones—the ones like that soul.
Rest well, Papa. They will walk the path you lit until the morning comes.