The morning sky was gray, mirroring Tacloban’s grief. Sheets of rain lashed the Daniel Z. Romualdez Airport tarmac, where thousands stood, drenched but resolute, their eyes lifted in search of solace, not spectacle. They awaited hope, healing, a man in white bearing not a sword, but the weight of their prayers.
Among the rain-soaked crowd was the Philippine Information Agency-Eastern Visayas media team, then led by Alicia E. Nicart. Alongside hundreds of local, national, and international journalists, they documented what many deemed a milestone of Christian faith, second only to the First Mass held centuries prior.
Pope Francis’ arrival in Tacloban, still reeling from Super Typhoon Yolanda (Haiyan), was more than a papal stop. It was an act of profound compassion for a city that had become the epicenter of one of the deadliest natural calamities in recent history, leaving over 6,000 dead and entire communities flattened. The trauma remained fresh, and the survivors’ struggles seemed endless.
Despite the torrential rain and fierce winds, the crowd stood firm, many clad in yellow raincoats distributed by volunteers—a color now synonymous with papal visits and the city’s resilience.
Lourdes Abayan, who lost her husband and two children to the typhoon, clutched her rosary, tears mingling with the rain.
“Even the rain is a blessing,” she said. “He is here. God is with us.”
Standing before the crowd, visibly moved, Pope Francis spoke in Spanish: “So many of you have lost everything… I don’t know what to say to you. But the Lord does.” His voice cracked, his actions speaking volumes. There were no grand gestures, only raw empathy.
The Mass, celebrated under the relentless downpour, became a symbol of faith amid hardship. The altar swayed in the wind, the chalice nearly toppled, and the Pope’s cap was swept away. Yet, he continued, his resolve unwavering.
“You have a special place in my heart,” Pope Francis told the crowd. “When I saw that catastrophe from Rome, I felt I had to be here.”
For Tacloban, his words were a balm, a source of strength.
A local priest described the visit as divine intervention: “We don’t expect to be remembered, but he came. He came not to be safe, but to be with us.”
Tragedy struck hours after the Mass, when 27-year-old volunteer Kristel Mae Padasas died in a scaffolding collapse, a stark reminder of the lingering dangers. Pope Francis later called her “a martyr of love.”
As his plane ascended, Tacloban was left not with despair, but with a sense of peace. He had come, witnessed their pain, and stood with them in their suffering.
The visit was a pilgrimage of mercy, a moment of profound connection.
In the years that followed, the memory of that day remained a beacon.
With Pope Francis’ recent death, the 2015 visit resonates even more deeply.
That rainy January morning remains a defining moment in Tacloban’s long journey to healing, a time when the world’s spiritual leader stood, soaked and unguarded, in their greatest sorrow. (RSV/PIA Biliran)
