Years ago, I was a week in a retreat house run by a men’s monastic community.  Every evening after Compline had been chanted, the Abbot would offer a blessing that ended with wishing everyone a peaceful night and a happy death.  At the time, I thought that a bit morbid to hear every evening.  I also thought the exercise in the noviceship to plan one’s own funeral was a bit pre-emptory, thank you.

Since then, many many people I have known have gone onward, gone Home.  Many…hundreds.  Some of them close to me, some of them I had met once, twice, several times, at meetings of one sort or another.  I have been with people at the moment of their death, witnessing the slow and ultimate transition between here now and elsewhere beyond.  I asked my father if he was scared and listened to birdsong and flute with my grandfather.  Nancy couldn’t speak so people came and sang spirituals.  Mary was to have only clear liquids and someone in the house thought gin and tonics counted.  We had Thanksgiving around her as she lay resting in the hospital bed in the living room.  I kept vigil with others over Merle and Sally.  I’ve been the presence or the phone call for at least half a dozen people who were considering ending their lives.  And, I know what it is to fear for one’s own life—to encounter mortality in a mirror, so to speak, and not in the face of another.  And, not long ago, for reasons not connected to illness or any sort of inkling, I wrote my own obituary and dutifully filed it in the folder holding such papers.  Whether anyone actually sees it or not is out of my control—as is death itself.  But I feel good having composed it.  

Several days ago, I got word that a radiant, beautiful, woman was dying of brain cancer—Someone with a smile to ease a week, a laugh to warm you, and Presence, capital P.  When she would come in to the Centre, we greeted one another with an “Ehhhhhhhhhhh My Sister!” and an embrace.   I’d been to a local celebration honouring the anniversary of her vows and to a celebration of the life of her mother who died in a distant country.  We were not close, not in the conventional notion of it.  But when our paths crossed, there was light.  I will miss that.  

She will soon leave for her country of birth and family to die there, among them.  Because she had made a point of asking a mutual friend to be sure I knew, I thought to call her.  Not surprisingly, it rang through to voicemail.  

It’s a different experience to leave a last message.  Not sure if it will be heard or not, if her mind will allow her to connect message and voice to person. Then the beep…and the sudden realization of how much a gift this opportunity was.  

‘It has been a blessing to walk the Earth with you.  And I wish you safe journeys.  Safe journey home and safe journey Home again.  May you be welcomed with mercy, grace, and love.” 

As I sat at my desk afterwards, the words of that abbot, himself now surely with God, came back.  A peaceful night and a happy death.   I think Happy is the word that troubles me.  I have seen death come into lives and situations that are anything but Happy.  And still, death comes.  At the end of the day, may I, may we, live Ready.  Ready for the adventure onward, ready for the adventure homeward, Ready for Mystery no matter, because ultimately, we do not know. 

Amen.