Office of Communications>Weekly Reflection > July 29, 2010
I stood by his bed, holding his cold bluing hand and wiping his mouth as he thirstily gummed a water-soaked sponge. It wasnt much, but seemed all he needed. His family surrounded his bed, stroking arms and legs, praying great prayers of faith, singing hymns of peace, and giving him the painful permission to go.
The day before, the doctors canceled a treatment meeting, deferring to a higher power they could not dissuade. He mostly slept, awakening for minutes at a time, but instantly alert and unfailingly himself. His humor never flagged, even in the shadows of his gallows. When a nurse brought him a Diet 7 Up, he reached for her and asked, Do you really think Im worried about calories at this point?
Now, they had just removed his oxygen. The slow rhythmic pump of the machine no longer pushed his fleeing life back into his cancer-ravaged lungs, the sound replaced by his own irregular and labored inhalations. He had been in a coma for hours, stirring only when his support was removed, but then he rested, calm and willing.
With each small breath he exhaled, his life left him -- the years of his mission; the ties to family and friends he tended over global divides; the great works he had done for the poor and uncounted; all the visits and calls of concern he had made to those in their own distress; the volumes of history he had read and lived; the laughs that seasoned every conversation and followed every argument; all the visions of a better kingdom all that was this man slipped quietly away, ushered out on the frail wings of waning breath.
In tears, I felt the hard but sustaining grace in that moment when a loved one ends their dying. We memorize their features and see the little signs of saintliness shine through their flaws and failing. We sense that Incarnation thrives even in rocky ground. We know that it is not in vain. All good news for us still struggling in terminal lives.
