Word had spread quickly across the Celestial Realms: Pope Francis had arrived.

A long and winding path of rose-gold light unfurled before him as he entered, not as a man burdened by centuries of tradition, but as a humble servant stepping into the joy of reunion. Angels sang with voices that carried the laughter of children and the weeping of grateful hearts. The gatekeepers bowed not out of formality, but reverence for a life lived in service of love.

And then he saw Him.

Jesus stepped forward with a wide, radiant smile. “Francis! Brother of peace. You made it.”

Francis wept, not from sorrow but the overwhelming weightlessness of love fulfilled. “I tried, my Lord. I truly tried.”

Jesus embraced him tightly, whispering, “You did more than try. You softened hearts. You lifted the poor. You pointed always to love—and that is all I ever asked.”

Other spirits gathered, saints and sages from all faiths and no faith, their eyes shining with gratitude. But soon, Jesus and Francis walked away from the crowd, settling under a great tree that shimmered with all the seasons at once—leaves of spring and snow, fruit and blossom, green and golden light.

They sat in the silence of eternity for a moment.

Then Jesus spoke softly. “The Earth groans, doesn’t it? You felt it too.”

Francis nodded. “Yes. So many are lost in the fog of self—worshipping power, hoarding wealth, branding truth for profit. And that man… Trump… he turned the Resurrection morning into a theater of grievance.”

Jesus closed his eyes, remembering. “Yes. I was there. In the church he visited. I stepped into the heart of the Minister, if only for a moment. I tried to remind them—all of them—that resurrection is not about rising above others, but rising together.”

Francis sighed. “And yet… so many still kneel at the altar of the individual, as though salvation is a prize to win, not a light to share.”

“But,” Jesus said, his eyes gleaming, “something has changed.”

Francis looked up.

Jesus continued, “The suffering is birthing awareness. Across the world, small fires are being lit. Movements of unity, of rebirth. The Human Renaissance Movement is just one name for the same wind blowing through humanity’s soul.”

Francis smiled. “Yes… yes, I’ve seen it from this side already. Artisans of spirit, gathering in living rooms, digital spaces, community gardens, temples and schools. Some call it awakening. Others, revolution. But we know it as the return of the heart.”

Jesus nodded. “And it’s near. The veil is thinning faster now. I would say… no more than two Earth years before the shift becomes unmistakable. Consciousness will reach a tipping point. Systems will strain, yes—but it’s in the breaking that the seeds find the cracks to grow through.”

Francis was quiet, then asked, “And those who are still hurting others? Still clinging to the shadows?”

Jesus looked into the light-filled sky. “We mourn for their fear. But we do not stop the wave. We offer our hands, always. Some will grab hold. Others may fall back—but the current is love, and it flows forward regardless.”

A silence passed, full and rich. Then Francis chuckled.

“What?” Jesus asked.

“I was just thinking,” Francis said, “I don’t miss the Vatican meetings.”

They both laughed—a clear, golden sound that echoed across Heaven.

Jesus stood, brushing off his robe. “Come. There’s much more to show you. And when you’re ready, you’ll help guide the dreamers and builders still on Earth. Whisper to their hearts. Remind them: We are many, but we are one.”

As they walked away, the tree shimmered behind them, and from its highest branch a dove took flight, soaring downward through the layers of existence, toward a small circle of people gathered in a community garden, speaking of compassion, planting seeds, and dreaming of a world made new.

The Human Renaissance had already begun.