I sat in silence this morning, envisioning a scene: a humble room in the Vatican, daylight filtering through stained glass, and a box of handwritten letters laid before the Holy Father. He opens one. He reads. More. His eyes well up. At last he pauses, the room heavy with the pain of distant voices.
That was the scene this week when Pope Leo XIV received Bishop Mark Seitz of El Paso and a small group of migrant advocates at the Vatican. They brought him hundreds of letters and a short video from migrants here in the U.S.—people afraid to leave their homes, people separated from family, people simply asking not to be forgotten.
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One woman wrote that she hasn’t gone outside in weeks, terrified that if she’s stopped or questioned, she’ll never make it back home. Another wrote, “Please tell the Pope to pray for us. Please tell him we still have faith.”
And when he read those words… the Holy Father wept.
It’s easy to see news like this and move on. But something in that moment feels holy. When a pope cries for the forgotten, the Church remembers what it’s for.
Reflection
There’s a moment in Scripture that this brings to mind. In John 11, when Jesus arrives at the tomb of Lazarus, He doesn’t preach first. He doesn’t correct anyone’s theology. He simply weeps. The Son of God, standing face to face with grief, allows His own heart to break.
That’s what compassion literally means, to suffer with. To feel someone else’s pain and not turn away. And that’s what Pope Leo did.
He wasn’t just reacting to sad stories. He was acknowledging something sacred: that every migrant, every refugee, every person living in fear, carries the image of God. That their pain isn’t “someone else’s problem,” it’s the world’s moral mirror.
When the Pope told Bishop Seitz, “You stand with me, and I stand with you,” it wasn’t a slogan, it was a covenant. A reminder that our faith isn’t just about believing in Jesus, it’s about belonging to His Body. And that Body includes the migrant, the poor, the imprisoned, the stranger at our border, the neighbor afraid to open the door.
I’ll be honest, I have moments where I feel small in the face of so much suffering. What difference can I make from my little corner of the world? But then I remember that faith doesn’t require us to fix everything, only to show up with love where we are. That’s what Bishop Seitz did. That’s what the Holy Father did. That’s what you and I are called to do too.
Call to Faithful Action
If you want to honor that moment—those tears—here’s where to begin:
Start by listening. Find a local organization that works with immigrant families. Offer your time, your prayers, or your voice. Write to your representatives. Speak with compassion when the conversation turns cruel.
And in your own heart, let it start there. Let your prayer tonight include those who live in fear of being seen. Let your heart break a little, because the breaking of hearts is where mercy enters in.
Closing Prayer
A Prayer for the Migrant and the Church
God of all people,
You crossed every boundary to reach us,
And so we pray for those who are crossing borders today
For mothers who carry their children toward safety,
For fathers who hide in fear,
For families torn apart by cruelty and politics.
We thank you for the tears of Pope Leo,
For Bishop Seitz and all who refuse to look away.
We ask you to make our hearts soft again,
That we may see Your face in every stranger
And hear Your cry in every child.
Teach us to live the Gospel, not as an idea,
But as a way of love in the world.
And when we are tempted to look away,
Remind us that You are right there—
In the hungry, the homeless, and the afraid.
Bless those on the journey,
Comfort those who mourn,
And strengthen us to walk beside them
Until every tear is wiped away.
Amen.
Further Reading… Yours Today
When Pope Leo XIV wept for the migrants, he reminded us what the Church looks like when it remembers who it is. The Message From the Margins carries that same spirit. It’s a heartfelt collection of reflections written for anyone who’s ever felt unseen, unheard, or unwelcome in the pews. In its pages, you’ll find the Gospel brought back to where it began: among the poor, the forgotten, and the beloved children of God who still cry out to be seen.
This isn’t a book of lofty theology. It’s a companion for the journey — a modern epistle from the edges of faith and society, calling us home to compassion. Each chapter blends Scripture, story, and prayer to help you rediscover the heart of Jesus: the one who wept with the grieving, lifted the broken, and embraced the stranger without hesitation.
If this week’s story of the Holy Father’s tears touched your heart, The Message From the Margins will take you deeper. It’s an invitation to live that same compassion in your own life, to stand with those who stand alone, and to find hope in the holy places the world forgets. Download your copy today — and receive five companion e-books as my gift to you.