POPE Francis asked to be buried with worn-out shoes. He did not choose new ones, nor solemn ones. He asked for the ones he was wearing, the ones that walked with him. And in that humble, simple gesture, an entire pontificate, an entire life, is enclosed.

These are the shoes that walked through villages of misery, refugee camps, hospitals, and prisons. The ones stained with mud in Lampedusa, the ones that stepped on the holy ground of Ur seeking peace between religions, the ones that walked silently through an empty St. Peter’s Square, praying for a wounded world.

Those shoes know the dust of the road and the weight of the heart. They are worn from use, from service, from the urgency to reach those who suffer. And there is no better mark of a shepherd than the footprints of his journey.

Francis did not want a solemn farewell; he wanted one that spoke of the road, of nearness, of the Gospel lived. Like Jesus, he did not leave monuments—he left footsteps. And like Jesus, looking at his tomb, he did not want to see power, but love that wears out, that is spent, that is given away.

Because in those worn shoes lies the soul of a pontiff who always chose simplicity, who did not seek thrones but open doors. A Pope who did not spare the dust of the road, who lived the Gospel without embellishment, and who now rests as he walked: with tired feet… and a full heart.