The Acutis Code

I vividly remember sitting in the Adoration chapel, contemplating the upcoming journey to Milan for the canonization of Blessed Carlo Acutis.

If that doesn’t make sense—it's because it never happened.

Except for the part about sitting in the chapel.

The trip to Milan never came.

But at the time, to say I was stressed would be an understatement.

I had pitched the story to my friend Shannon Mullen, a veteran newsman and Editor-in-Chief at the National Catholic Register. My angle was simple: I wanted to be in Milan—not just for the canonization—but to spend time in the places where Carlo lived, prayed, received the Sacraments, and fell in love with Christ.

Surely there would be festivities in Milan.

"Or," Shannon mused, "it could be a ghost town…"

After all, it was only a two-hour drive from the Vatican, where the main celebrations would be taking place.

I kept hoping I was right. I prayed. A lot. And then I prayed some more.

But somewhere in the silence of that chapel, I imagined Carlo smiling at me, saying:

"Come. It'll be great!"

Maybe I imagined it.

Maybe I didn't.

But I took it to heart.

I went to bed with every bag packed, the suitcase by the door, ready for the early morning flight.

The flight that would never come.

At 5:00 a.m., I blinked away the sleep and reached to silence my alarm. I glanced at my phone. The first notification. Then the third. Then the thirteenth.

All bearing the same news:

"Pope Francis has died…"

I laid back down in the pre-dawn darkness and let the moment wash over me. The carefully planned pilgrimage to celebrate a new saint had transformed overnight into something entirely different.

I thought back to that night in 2013, standing in the rain with a sea of journalists in St. Peter's Square—so packed you couldn't lift your hand to your face—when Pope Francis was first introduced to the world.

I remembered his first ride in the Popemobile.

The look he gave me as he passed.

The blessing.

His visit to New York, when the air in St. Patrick's Cathedral was electric with hope and gratitude and awe.

My alarm clock went off again, shattering the reticence of the moment, and the present snapped back into focus.

Did I still have a plane to catch?

Was there still a canonization?

The chaos that followed was something like spiritual whiplash. The Church was reeling. The world's media scrambled. My plans dissolved like morning mist.

And a few days later, I boarded a plane—not to Milan, but to Rome.

Not to witness a canonization, but a conclave.

I had absolutely no idea what was coming.

Why would I?

But the moment white smoke poured from the copper chimney and curled in the breeze above the Sistine Chapel, tens of thousands in St. Peter's Square—and countless millions around the globe, erupted in a symphony of earth-shattering joy.

And I broke down.

Tears of joy streamed down my face, epically inconvenient for someone supposed to be photographing other people's reactions to this historic moment.

And yet, there I stood.

Paralyzed with joy.

Paralyzed by the Holy Spirit.

I wiped my eyes, raised my camera, and saw that same Spirit alive in the faces around me.

I wasn't alone in this.

I was in the best company imaginable.

All swept up in the embrace Holy Spirit, the source of all joy.

Habemus Papam.

Praise God.

By Saturday, the fever pitch of the conclave had settled. Pope Leo XVI was now leading the Church, and Rome, after holding its breath for days, finally exhaled.

And I found myself without much to do.

So I went to Mass.

I prayed.

I thought back on the chaos and beauty of the week, and that one moment from before it all began came rushing back:

"Come. It'll be great!"

Shannon's voice echoed behind it:

"It's only two hours away…"

Two hours. Not from Milan to the Vatican, but from Rome to Assisi, where Carlo's body rests.

That was all I needed.

After the final blessing, I found a rental car agency, a place where many adventures begin, where a cheerful Roman woman handed me the keys to a car the size of a lunchbox, chuckled, and said, "Watch out. Italians are crazy drivers..."

With that warning ringing in my ears, I plugged the destination into the GPS: Assisi.

I’d never driven outside Rome before.

The city gave way to olive groves, wide fields, and hills that seemed to breathe with centuries of prayer. It reminded me of Upstate New York…if Upstate had medieval castles, sun-warmed vineyards, and gas prices that could make you weep for different reasons.

And then it appeared.

Assisi.

I'd never seen anything like it before.

A medieval city, perched high atop the surrounding farmland like a crown of stone and Sanctity.

Everything I'd heard was true: the narrow, cobblestone streets built for horses and sandals, the staircases tucked into impossibly narrow alleys, the homes built directly into the hillside as if growing from the rock itself. And that view…rolling green Umbrian hills stretching beyond the horizon, dotted with olive trees that had witnessed centuries of pilgrims.

I parked the car and climbed.

The Italian sun was unforgiving, and the incline steeper than expected, but I made my way slowly up to the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore, where Blessed Carlo Acutis rests.

But I went towards the wrong church.

The towering Basilica of St. Francis dominates the skyline, and “naturally”, I assumed that's where Blessed Carlo would be laid to rest.

I was wrong.

Carlo is entombed in a much smaller church…Santa Maria Maggiore…a more intimate, humble space. A place for pilgrims, more than tourists. A place that somehow felt right for a teenager who wore jeans and sneakers to daily Mass.

And pilgrims were everywhere.

Young and old, locals and foreigners, families with children, teenagers with backpacks all shuffling slowly toward the glass tomb that held the boy saint.

Some paused to pray.

Others simply stood in awe, as if trying to absorb holiness through proximity.

He was taller than I expected.

And he looked… asleep.

Not dead. Not gone. Just resting. Waiting.

His face peaceful, almost smiling, dressed in his favorite jeans and sneakers—the uniform of every teenager, made sacred.

I found a place nearby and sat down to pray the Rosary.

And in that quiet, sacred moment, after weeks of uncertainty and disrupted plans, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time…

Peace.

Joy.

Kinship.

Not just spiritually, but personally.

As if he were someone I'd known for years. As if we'd been friends all along, and I was just catching up with him after some time apart.

But there was something more. As I moved through the Glorious Mysteries I felt that same gentle invitation I'd sensed in the chapel back home. That same encouragement to trust, to follow, to say yes to whatever Grace was unfolding. Here was this teenage boy who had lived so fully, loved so completely, and now seemed to be extending that same enthusiastic welcome to everyone who came to meet him.

If everything else had fallen apart, if every plan had unraveled, this moment alone would have made the entire journey worthwhile.

Eventually, I had to leave.

It was still a two-hour drive back to Rome, and my basinet of a car was waiting, parked at an angle on a cobblestone slope that I was pretty sure violated several traffic laws.

As I coasted down the winding hills of Assisi and the green fields rolled by, I thought back to that first moment in Adoration. That flicker of a smile I'd imagined. That invitation I'd heard in my heart:

"Come. It'll be great!"

It echoed now with even more clarity.

Because that's who Carlo was…

Is.

A boy who radiated joy. Who loved video games and built websites about Eucharistic miracles and God above all else. Who showed the world that holiness wasn't about leaving life behind,it was about living it fully, freely, Faithfully.

And I can picture him, even now, inviting his friends to Mass…

"Come on. It'll be great!"

Or perhaps encouraging someone to go to Confession:

"Come on. You'll feel amazing after!"

Or maybe, just maybe, calling out to a tired, overworked photojournalist who stumbles forward on the spiritual road, trying to share a glimpse of Jesus with the world…

"Come on, Jeff. It'll be great!"

That's the Acutis Code.

It's not a complicated algorithm. It's not a growth hack or a viral strategy.

It's simpler than any line of code he ever wrote.

To bring people to Christ joyfully, enthusiastically, and in love.

To say with your whole life: "Come on. Meet Jesus! It'll be great!"

And to mean it.

He’s right, you know.

It is great.

And that’s why he’s a Saint.

And there’s little doubt he’s inviting you to be one too…

“Come on, it’ll be great!”

Thanks for reading! This is a truly independent, reader-supported periodical. Your support is crucial. If you are able, please consider a paid subsciption or making a ‘Patron of the Arts’ donation of any amount. By doing so, you are not just supporting this effort; you’re a vital part of this mission.

You have my heartfelt thanks for your generosity and support and please keep me in your prayers, and know of mine for each of you. God Bless, Jeff