she described her relationship with an older sister, who had died many years earlier. “We never really connected,” she said. “We competed for attention. There was a chasm between us. I never knew my sister.” And then she added, “I don’t want to meet her with all these barriers between us.”
This hardworking, resilient, Italian-American mother with no formal education beyond high school showed me her intuitive understanding of good mental health—born out of her spiritual life. I began to see that I represented the church—the presence of God in her life. I was not prepared for this at all. It wasn’t counseling. I did not probe. I did not process her feelings. It was her journey—a moral inventory. She was a prayer warrior.
During the last two months of her life, we met about six times for an hour. Each time the meeting was totally guided by her. Sometimes she would elaborate on her feelings; sometimes she would speak very simply. She never used any notes. She was never repetitive. She never asked for pardon. All she wanted from me was to be with her as she walked the road, owning and taking responsibility for her life.
Near the end of her life, I asked Maria to carry something to God for me. I told her, “I want my ministry to dying people to be the focus of all that I do.” She said she would tell God, and I trust that she did.
She died just before sunrise at about 8 a.m. on a Saturday. Her bedroom had windows above her bed; the sun broke in at the moment of her death. Her husband was there. There’s an old Italian proverb: “The person who goes quietly, goes with health and goes far.” So it was with Maria. Her death was very peaceful. She simply stopped breathing.
I learned an enormous amount from Maria. It was the most profound experience of my ministry. Nothing comes close to it.
I learned that even though I felt very close to Maria, the process of dying is so powerful and personal that someone else can’t feel the intimacy. The last journey was all hers, not mine. I could have run one hundred kilometers around her bed, but she had to run the race alone. Her moral inventory—her prayers of reconciliation—taught me that we sometimes think we have so much time, but in reality, all we have is now—each day, each hour—to live with God and others and find restoration.
Death is a sacred space. I really don’t know what dying is all about. I can’t know exactly what it is, and I don’t have a clue. I can have my head on a person’s chest—be that close—and still not know.
All I can do is help people fall into the mystery of faith. Death is falling backwards into the arms of the ultimate mystery of God—the reality of love.
It was easy to celebrate her funeral Mass. I still feel connected with her. We have a relationship beyond death. I’m a much better priest because of Maria. I am much more sensitive to people and their dying. As best as any human being can do, I learned what it means to be reconciled with God and with others. From Maria, I learned what it means to prepare to meet God.
I know Maria is part of the communion of saints.
It was my privilege—and a blessing from God—to know a saint.
Reflection
Maria’s journey was a determined effort to set things right before meeting God face to face. In her heart she carried regrets, broken promises, and barriers of all sorts. The weight of her life experiences needed to be lifted from her heart so that she could meet the One who loved her. Her last days were filled with honesty and prayerful surrender in the company of her family, whose love was her strength.
Prayer
God, please keep us honest and hopeful in our journey home. Give us wisdom and confidence in your forgiving love, and keep us aware of all that we must surrender in order to meet you face to face. May your love encourage us with the gift of peaceful surrender and grant us joyful reunion with you. Amen.
Ben
The Man Who Could Have Been a Monk
I returned to Kentucky in the late 1990s. It was a big transition for me. I had buried my mother and sold the family home in 1998. After two and a half years of struggle over whether to remain a priest because of my childhood sexual abuse by a priest and other issues that surfaced during therapy, I decided to leave the diocese of Trenton in New Jersey. There I left behind a large suburban parish community of thirty-two hundred households and more than twelve thousand people where I had been pastor. At my new parish in Kentucky, I was an associate pastor again. I was number three in seniority on the staff behind the pastor and senior associate priest. I knew absolutely no one.
One of the good things about my new assignment was that I enjoyed a lot of free time. In my homilies, I began to mention the spiritual retreats I had developed in New Jersey. I described them as a time for people with chronic or serious illnesses to reflect on the presence of God in their lives. Two people immediately latched on to the idea. At my invitation these two parishioners went to New Jersey to experience the retreat firsthand. They came back enthused. Their leadership and organizational skills became the driving force that gathered a nucleus of volunteers for the retreats. After showing my concern for the sick, I began to receive calls from parishioners who were seriously ill. I met with them initially for sacramental ministry, primarily the Anointing of the Sick. Gradually, I felt that I had found my niche in ministry again.
Ben was one of the first people I met. A short, stout, balding man in his early sixties, Ben had been diagnosed with liver cancer but looked good for his age and condition. He was retired from working for an automaker, and he and his wife Mary had recently moved to the Louisville area to be near their only daughter and grandson. His father had also spent his lifetime working for an automaker, and because of that family legacy, Ben was especially fond of an old Buick that he had brought with him from Michigan and was now stored in his garage.
I had met Ben and Mary several times after Mass. Mary was very pleasant and gracious and always talked for the two of them. Ben would stand slightly behind her and say nothing. Mary eventually called and told me that Ben needed me. When someone calls in behalf of someone else, my antennae go up because I don’t know who really needs ministry. Mary was very anxious and verbose, hardly giving me a chance to respond during her nonstop recitation of Ben’s needs. I’m always alarmed when I hear someone tell me what someone else’s needs are.
I agreed to visit with them in their home. They had bought a modest patio home near the church, and when I pulled up in front of the house, I paused because I was unsure whether to park in the driveway or in front of the house. Mary immediately came outside and directed me into the driveway. Now this is a terrible thing to say about someone I barely knew, but the thought ran through my head, “Oh God, I know who’s in control here.”
When I entered the house, Ben was sitting in a lounge chair on the sunporch at the front of their home—his favorite place, as I later learned. Mary immediately sat down next to him. My first impression was that if this gentleman had a lot to say about his illness and impending death, it was being overwhelmed by his wife. I decided to move slowly during this first visit by using the sacramental rituals for Anointing of the Sick and Holy Communion. All three of us prayed together and then began to talk. I asked Ben about his life. Ben spoke briefly about his background, the move from Michigan, and his illness. I asked him if he would like me to come again, and he said he would like that very much.
I promised to visit, and as I left I thanked Mary for the opportunity to visit and added that I hoped that Ben would feel more comfortable talking about his illness. I suggested that Ben and I probably needed some time alone. She agreed, and on subsequent visits she graciously welcomed me to their home and after a few minutes together excused herself so that we could be alone. I knew that she was concerned and even worried
