When the white smoke rises above the Sistine Chapel, I will most likely be sitting with a cup of coffee in my hands, checking the news, scrolling through my thoughts - and, perhaps, praying, like a child before going to bed: sincerely, confusedly, truly.

Perhaps, it will seem strange to you, reading this - to be worried. But for me, the Pope is not just a religious leader. He is a symbol of hope. And responsibility. This is someone who holds in his hands not power, but the pain of the world. And decides what to do with it.

I was once sure that the Church is a rock. Eternal, unshakable, clear. And then I began to notice cracks. Some from the wind of time, some from all-too-human decisions. I was afraid to admit it, especially to myself. Because faith for me is not just rituals or a moral compass. It is a home. And who wants to admit that the roof of their home is leaking?

I remember one confession, when an old priest suddenly told me: “Daughter, faith is not knowledge. It is trust. And trust is always a bit of a risk.” Since then, I have been trying to live exactly like that: not with answers, but with trust.

So, with the new Pope, it is exactly such a moment. Trust. Or, to be honest, hope that everything is not in vain. That we do not waste time on slogans, do not simplify, do not lose the main thing.

I am not one of those who quotes Scripture in every conversation (well, maybe only if my soul really burns). But I often catch myself thinking that I want to.

I would like you to feel that this is not about politics or even religion. It is about an internal shift. About how in a world full of noise and self-confidence, I still believe in the power of good. That a man in white walking out onto a balcony can be not just a ceremony, but something alive. As a reminder: being kind is not old-fashioned.

Maybe the new Pope will be just like that. Maybe he will open the doors wider, say to the world: “Are you tired? Come in. You can rest here.” Or, on the contrary, he will be strict, call for repentance and order. I don’t know. But I am scared and interested - as if I am waiting not just for news, but for changes within myself.

When I think about faith, sometimes I want to have someone nearby who understands - not because he goes to the same church, but because he is looking for it himself. Someone who is not afraid of silence. Someone who knows how to pray even when the words get stuck in the throat. Who can just hold your hand and not explain anything.

Too many thoughts, too few answers. But that's okay. Because, in the end, faith is waiting. With love. With pain. With hope. And with a cup of coffee in your hands.

Have you ever prayed for someone you don't know personally?

Lana Banana