Somewhere far away, in the stone heart of Rome, white smoke curled into the sky, and a new Pope was elected!
Maybe you noticed. Maybe you didn’t.
I did.
And so did the girls in my office.
Not all of them are Catholic. But when news came that the conclave had begun, they followed along—watching livestreams between patient rooms, sharing updates in whispers, waiting for that little chimney to finally give us an answer.
Why? Maybe it’s tradition. Maybe it’s curiosity.
But, I think it’s something deeper.
We want to witness meaning. We want to see a new chapter begin. We crave a moment that reminds us: the world is still turning, people are still choosing leaders, and something sacred still stirs.
How a Pope Is Chosen
When the papacy is vacant, up to 120 cardinals under the age of 80 gather in the Sistine Chapel—doors closed, phones off, the outside world locked away. This is the conclave, from the Latin cum clave, meaning “with a key.”
They vote in secret, several rounds a day if needed, until one man receives at least two-thirds of the votes. When that happens, the ballots are burned with a special chemical to send up white smoke. A signal to the world: Habemus Papam. We have a Pope.
It’s tradition at its most solemn. No debates. No campaigns. Just silence, discernment, and the weight of 2,000 years of history.
And this time, they chose someone unexpected: an American.
Pope Leo XIV—born Robert Francis Prevost on Chicago’s South Side—is the first American ever elected to the papacy. Before Rome, he served for over 20 years in Peru as a missionary, then as bishop of Chiclayo. He’s fluent in English, Spanish, and Italian, and has spent his life building bridges between worlds.
Until recently, he ran the Vatican department responsible for appointing bishops—a job requiring wisdom, patience, and diplomacy. Those who know him describe him as humble, pastoral, and justice-minded.
And his choice of name—Leo XIV—nods to Pope Leo XIII, who stood for workers’ rights and social reform. It’s a sign: this Pope may be gentle, but he’s not afraid of big things.
Because let’s be honest: heavy is the head that wears the crown.
Leadership is not easy. Not in Rome. Not in Montana.
It’s not about glory. It’s about service. It’s about stepping into roles no one else wants, and carrying burdens you didn’t ask for—because someone has to.
We don’t hold conclaves here.
But we do hold each other up.
We make hard calls. We carry weight. We show up when it’s cold, inconvenient, or thankless. We lead in boots and coveralls and scrubs, in kitchens and waiting rooms and wheat fields.
Every day, we choose leaders—or we are them—and don’t even realize it.
Not because of titles.
But because someone needed us to step in. And we did.
I’ve seen it a hundred times:
- A nurse stays past her shift because someone else couldn’t make it.
- A farmer replants after the frost stole his first shot.
- A roughneck kisses his kids goodbye at 4:30 a.m. and heads out to the rig.
- A dad holds a newborn so his wife can finally close her eyes.
- A woman screams and pushes and bleeds and brings a baby into the world with nothing but pain and power and courage.
That’s leadership.
Not the kind that gets applause.
The kind that quietly changes everything.
Living and working here in eastern Montana, I’ve learned:
Real leadership doesn’t come with robes or rituals.
It comes with calloused hands. With early mornings. With grit.
With the belief that what you do—out here, in the middle of nowhere—matters.
And maybe that’s the thing.
Whether you believe in God, or just in doing right by your neighbor, most of us believe in something bigger than ourselves.
We believe in the greater good.
We believe that showing up matters. That kindness matters. That how we treat people—even when no one’s watching—matters.
So no, the Pope’s election didn’t change my day.
But it reminded me what kind of person I want to be in mine.
May we keep rising.
Not in white smoke, but in strength.
In steadiness.
In small choices that ripple far.
You don’t need to be chosen to lead.
You just need to show up.
Right here. Right now. In this season. In this life.
“You don’t need white smoke to mark the moment. Sometimes leadership is a tired dad, a brave mom, or a neighbor who just shows up.”