I didn’t vote for Pope Leo the Fourteenth,

but I felt a swell of Catholic pride when a

Chicago native was chosen to be the spiritual guide for the world.

I was raised Catholic—but not a practicing one—

so I was surprised by my reaction.

An American.

The first American Pope!

He didn’t have to score a touchdown,

nail a buzzer-beater,

or break some long-standing record.

No electoral college, no debates, no polls, no endless negative ads.

Just a two-thirds vote from a secret conclave of 133 cardinals.

Okay, I don’t love secrets, and I really wish women were in the mix.

But I have faith—a Mother Superior or super nun might just

break that stained-glass ceiling one day.

Where’s our Catholic Gloria Steinem?

Hey, it could happen!

Honestly, it feels like I’ve been in the TV and social media bleachers for two days,

not even knowing who I was rooting for.

If there had been a papal mascot, I’d have been cheering along—

hoping his crucifix necklace didn’t chip his teeth while he cartwheeled.

Somehow, with this election,

I feel like I’m part of a wonderfully weird religion-meets-pop-culture moment.

White smoke.

Balcony speeches in Italian.

Ringing bells.

Incinerated ballots—so no accusations of a rigged election.

And lots and lots of praying.

It's been an election of hope.

Mostly, I’m thinking of my beautiful, saintly mother, Patricia Anne.

She was devout.

She said the rosary—a lot—

and always asked if the boy I was dating was “respectful?”

“Of course!” I’d assure her.

Cue the Catholic guilt.

She elected to live a life of faith, hope, and love.

And for that, I vote yes.