Sacred Dying Book
Chapter 1 –– Journey with the Dying
To everything there is a season,
A time to every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born, a time to die.
Ecclesiastes 3: 1-2
The Beginning Story
The phone rang.
“Megory,” the voice said. “It’s Laura.” My long time friend.
“I’ve decided to bring my brother to San Francisco to die.” Her voice was flat.
“LA isn’t the place for him. With Steve dead now, there is no one to take care of him. They were together for ten years, but AIDS got him too. Tom deserves to have someone who loves him take care of him. Mom can’t do it so I’m going down this weekend to get him.”
There was silence. I didn’t know what to say. “What can I do to help?” I finally asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Laura said. “I’ll have to see when we get back. He doesn’t have long; the doctors said maybe a couple of weeks. I’m bringing him home and putting him in the guest room.”
Three days later, Laura arrived with her younger brother, and tenderly settled the AIDS-frail man in her guest room. All the necessary hospital equipment had been rented and put into place. It was now just a question of trying to make him comfortable and help him to die peacefully.
Laura learned about all the medical procedures from a hospice worker, and her activities fell into a rhythm of nights and days. She called her parish priest, who promised to help in whatever way he could; he would bring over communion after church on Sunday.
“Megory,” she asked me. “You know all about these things. You’re a theologian and a good Episcopalian. What does the church do when someone dies?”
I thought for a moment. “Well, there are several sacraments that are used; communion, of course, and then there are the ‘last rites.’ That is basically confession and absolution and anointing with holy oil.”
“Is anointing the same thing that’s done when someone asks for physical healing?”
“Yes,” I said. “Although at the point of death it’s more for sanctifying the body, making it ready for death.”
I wasn’t entirely certain where the distinction lay, between using the oil for physical healing and recognizing that it was too late and having it used for a death ritual, but in Tom’s case, it was a bit too late for prayers for recovery. We were both worried that his death would drag out and Tom would have to suffer more than was necessary.
It was Thursday afternoon when Laura called to say she did not think Tom would last the night. She was beginning to panic. Tom wanted a priest with him when he died, but she’d only been able to reach an answering machine at the church office and there was no one home at the rectory.
I knew that I needed to help, but I was not exactly sure at first what I could do. I certainly knew plenty of clergy – I had worked in churches all of my life. Perhaps I would have better luck. I got out my address book and began making calls, but to no avail. When I reported back to Laura, she was in tears.
“Can you come over?” she asked hesitantly. “Maybe we can figure something out between the two of us.”
Laura was clearly distraught when I arrived at her home. Tom seemed frailer and whiter than he’d been even just a few days before. Laura was right; he wasn’t going to last the night. I sat down on the bed and took his hand. He opened his eyes a bit and recognized me. A small smile appeared on his face.
I asked Tom how he was feeling and what he needed.
He was quiet a moment and then whispered, “I want to go. I’m tired.”
Laura told him that we were trying to reach a priest, and assured him that we would find someone soon.
At that moment the doorbell rang. “Maybe that’s Father Peters,” Laura said.
Instead, standing at the door, there was a rather elderly woman, clutching a covered dish with two bulky potholders.
“Hello there, I’m Mabel Johnson, from St Paul’s,” she said. “I’m on the shut-in committee and I got a message that you had someone ill here –– I brought a turkey casserole.”
Laura and I looked at each other, speechless. After an uncomfortable silence, we invited her in, took the casserole, and led the small woman into the kitchen.
“My brother is dying,” Laura explained hesitantly. “I wanted a priest to bring the last sacraments.”
Mabel said that she didn’t know anything about that. “I just help out when I can,“ she explained. “Maybe the casserole will help.”
I couldn’t quite believe this was happening.
As Mabel walked out the door, she said “I’ll see you in church on Sunday. I hope your brother feels better.”
Laura turned to me as she shut the door, and asked. “Megory, will you take over? You do all those rituals with your women’s groups. This is what you’re about. Please help. I don’t know what else to do.”
I thought a moment. I had spent four years as an Anglican nun in a monastic order. I had been on staff of so many churches I could barely remember them all. I had begun working on a doctoral dissertation in theology. But the past few years had changed my life radically. I had gotten sick with a chronic illness and I had been living in a very different reality.
I thought back just a couple of years. At the start of my illness, when it was at its worst, I contracted meningitis and I had come within inches of dying. In fact, the experience was so powerful, that to this day I remember what it was like to move closer and closer into that place where the darkness takes over. I vividly remember the place where I was sure that death would come. It was what I have since termed the “in-between place.”
Something within me changed irrevocably after that experience. Having gone to the brink of death and come back from it, it was no longer something foreign to me, or even to be feared. It was awe-filled, and I think always will be. There was no comfort or ease in that in-between space, but I am not afraid of it anymore.
“All right, Laura,” I said with resolve. “Let’s do it. I think I know how to manage what to do.”
Feeling bold in my insecurity, I told Laura to get some candles and some oil, and I went into the kitchen and got some bread and wine.
“We can’t celebrate the Eucharist without a priest, but we can certainly gather around the breaking of the bread.”
We needed some music – something calm and soothing, strong but not distracting. I found a few things, kind of New Age-y and meditative. I also found one of my favorite recordings,
Yo-Yo Ma’s performance of the Bach unaccompanied cello suites, and said a prayer that my friend Yo-Yo would be with us in spirit as well as in cello, with all his healing and inspiring qualities.
I glanced through Laura’s book shelves, found a Bible and some poetry, and added those to the pile.
I met Laura near the guest room, she with her stack and I with mine. We looked at each other with a bit of fear and trembling, but mostly with reassurances and determination to do what was ahead of us.
“Are you ready?” I asked her. She nodded. “All right. Let’s go to Tom.”
We went to the bed where Tom was dozing off. Laura touched his arm.
“Tom,” she whispered. He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Megory is here, and we’re going to help you through this. She knows about ritual and I think she can help us with what to do.”
He nodded, his eyes brimming with tears.
“Let’s start,” I said, “with a few minutes of being quiet. Let’s try to ready our inner selves, preparing us for what we are about to do. Let’s ask God to help us with this.”
The three of us, finding a comfortable place to be, sat in the quiet room. I listened to my breathing, in and out, and that of Tom’s. I regulated my breath, and then attempted to match it with Laura’s. I tried to quiet my thoughts and focus on the stillness. I asked for God to be with us, and for guidance in what we were about to do. When I opened my eyes, I saw a lovely peacefulness on Laura’s face and Tom showed an even calmer look than before. I began to pray out loud, once again asking for God to be with us in all ways.
As I closed the prayer, I began placing the candles around the room. I explained, “It’s important, as we begin to do ritual, to create a space around us that contains the sacredness. We need this room and this space to hold a lot of powerful things for us. So let’s make this room holy. Let’s make it comfortable. Let’s make it inviting - for us and for God.”
We had at least ten candles and I put them in a circle around the room. The sun was going down so the light in the room was soft and flickering. Laura worked on straightening up the clutter around the sick bed, removing cups and paper and anything that wasn’t needed. She then began attending to Tom, pulling the sheets together and fluffing his pillow. I found the CD player and put on soft, relaxing music. Laura got a bouquet of flowers and added them to our space. Tom was alert and looked at us with anticipation.
“Tell me what it’s like to die,” he asked. Laura and I caught each other’s eye. Silence.
“Tom,” I ventured. “We don’t know. Maybe that’s the reason we’re all so afraid of it. Are you scared?” He nodded. “Well, then let’s talk about God, because I think God is the one in charge of it all. And the one waiting for you on the other side.”
Laura reached for the Bible and began leafing through it.
“Tom, remember all those stories from Sunday School? Let me see if I can find some of them.” She took a few minutes, then smiled and said, “Here’s one I remember. It talks about Jesus on the Sea of Galilee with his disciples when a huge storm came up. The boat began filling with water and the fishermen were all afraid. The storm got worse and worse, so the disciples woke up Jesus who was sleeping through it all, and cried to him to save them.
Then what did Jesus do but turn to the disciples and say, ‘Where is your faith? You should have known better. Don’t be afraid.’ And it says that the disciples were still frightened, but they marveled at what he did.”
“I wonder, Tom,” I said, “at how many times the Lord needs to tell us again and again not to be afraid. But we still are. I guess it’s human to be afraid. And worried. And filled with all kinds of questions. But it says in Scriptures that God loves us. No matter what we have done; no matter how hard it has been; no matter what we think we deserve. My favorite passages when it feels too hard for me are in Isaiah:
Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name and you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
and the flames shall not consume you.
Because you are precious in my eyes, and honored,
and I love you. (43: 1a-2, 4)
I could barely keep my voice steady as I read that, thinking how very much I needed to hear it for myself. I looked up and found I was not alone. Both Laura and Tom were in tears.
“Tom,” I asked. “Do you feel as if something is holding you back? Is there something you’ve done or said that we can help with?”
He nodded. His voice was scratchy.
“There were things I did,” he said. “and shouldn’t have.” He went on to talk about the things in his life that pained him, all the little things building up over a lifetime.
As I sat and listened to him, I realized how very small the things are that weigh us down. But they do get in the way, and over time they become too heavy to carry. It was time for Tom to put them down. When he got to things about family and about Laura, I walked over to the window. This was between the two of them. They held each other, sobbing, and saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over. All those years of pain and separation, and now was their chance to come together and experience forgiveness and healing. I don’t know how long we were there. Time was forgotten. But the sun went down and the shadows around the candles became deeper.
When words were finished, I returned to the bed. We sat in silence. “I know that God loves us as much as we can possibly imagine,” I eventually said, “and when you love, you forgive. Tom, please know that whatever you did or said or were, God sees you only in love, and we do too. That is the only way we can be with God. In love.”
I had a thought. “Your inner soul has been cleaned this afternoon. Why don’t we help you clean your outer body? Remember when Jesus was about to die, at the Last Supper, He washed his disciples’ feet? Why don’t you let Laura and me wash you now? It will make you feel so much better.”
His tearful eyes lit up and he said, “Yes, that would feel good.”
Laura went into the bathroom to find a basin and some cloths. When she returned we organized it so that we each had a side of the bed. Very, very gently, we began washing Tom’s arms and legs, and then his face and hair. All the while, there was a look of joy on his face, almost like a small baby, pure and gentle. Laura began humming to herself, and then singing out loud, no particular tune, just a quiet chant. I joined her, and we continued adding words about being clean and pure and ready to begin the journey. It was lovely. I have no idea where the melodies came from; they were just there.
We must have washed him for over an hour. He didn’t want us to stop. But finally he became tired and we let him sleep. We waited and watched, the candles still flickering in the dark.
Some time later, in the night, Tom awoke. He appeared to be peaceful. I asked him if he would like to break bread. He said yes. I brought the bread and wine to the bed. I began talking about this ritual being the central ritual for Christians everywhere. Bread and Wine. Fellowship. Communion. Being with each other and with God.
“At the Last Supper, Jesus and the disciples celebrated the Passover festival. He knew that it was time for him to die. He looked around the room, at all the people he loved, and told them not to be afraid, that he was going on ahead of them. He told them how much he loved them and because of that, they should know how much God the Creator loved them.
“But for now, until he comes back for us, or until we go to be with God in heaven, we have each other. And we have God’s peace, so our hearts won’t be troubled.
“This bread represents the bread that Jesus offered, when he told us that it was his Body.” I held out the piece of bread. And then I poured some wine from the bottle into the wine glass.
“And this wine, he told us is his Blood.
“When we’re together, and when we break bread, God is here with us. This is how we can be a part of God, and God a part of us, here on earth. And pretty soon, Tom, you are going to experience being with God in a much fuller way. A more complete way. But for now this is how we can share God’s fullness on earth.”
We broke the bread and we ate it. And we shared the cup. And we knew that God was with us.
As we sat in the quiet, and thought about God’s Presence and the future, I walked over to the dresser where Laura had put the oil. I opened the bottle and put a few drops on my fingertips. I went over and sat at Tom’s side.
“I would like to anoint you, Tom. It is an ancient ritual, going back to Biblical times. The Israelites used oil to sanctify. Remember when the kings were crowned? King David? King Solomon? They were anointed to prepare them for great things. And the priests too. They were anointed to sanctify their bodies and their souls.
“Christians use oil too, for healing, as well as for readiness for death. We want to prepare you, Tom. We want to sanctify your body as it gets ready to give itself up to God.”
I made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and then on his hands and on his feet. We prayed for blessing on Tom’s journey to God. Laura stood at my side and I spilled some oil in her hands.
“Take some, Laura, and rub his arms,” I said.
She looked at me, surprised, but followed my instructions. The move seemed easy, from anointing the extremities to a massage of his arms and legs. Tom had suffered greatly from this disease and his body must have suffered horribly. Perhaps this was a way we could help ease the pain so that he could begin to let go.
We rubbed his arms, his legs, his back, his feet. He sighed with pleasure. Little by little, I watched all his pains and stiffness ease. We would stop for a bit, and Laura would sit at his head and rub his forehead with it resting in her lap. The evening had turned into night, and we could sense that Tom was losing strength, but he asked again and again to have his back rubbed, his feet massaged, his forehead stroked.
Finally, he slipped into unconsciousness, his breathing growing more shallow. We covered him with his blanket. I brought a candle, the largest one we had, and put it near Tom’s head. Laura and I sat on either side of the bed. I listened quietly to the rhythm of his breathing. With my hand on his chest, I tried to match his with my own, to make it smoother. He was gasping, making noises as he fought for air. Laura was crying quietly, and I began praying softly that God would take his soul into His arms. Time passed. And Tom’s breathing stopped.
I think I must have stopped breathing myself. It all seemed to be so still. I felt warmness though, and a very, very strong presence of God. There was no doubt that God was in that room and that Tom’s soul was being received by the Light. Every nerve inside me was electric with that Light.
I asked Laura to take Tom’s arm, as I held the other, and we prayed that Tom’s soul would find peace and joy as it moved into his place with God. And I also prayed that we could find strength as we dealt with Tom’s body and prepared it for burial, knowing it was only a shell. Laura stroked the body once more and then she covered him with the sheet. We blew out the candles, except for the one at his head, turned off the music, and left the room.
How many hours had passed? I don’t know. Maybe seven or eight, but it didn’t matter. Time was fluid. I went home after being assured that Laura was all right, and that she had some other friends to be with her and to take care of some of the details for the burial. I crawled into bed, exhausted but strangely invigorated.
The experience of vigiling with Tom haunted me. For days, I kept thinking about what had happened. It was the first time I had ever seen a person die, and I knew that dying was much more than the process of the physical body shutting down. I also knew that I instinctively understood what was happening to Tom spiritually and emotionally.
About a month later, I received a call from someone who knew about Tom’s death. Would I please come and help his partner when it was time? “Just do the same sort of thing you did when Tom died,” the man said. I agreed. And once again, I sat vigil and helped with the spiritual process of letting go.
My name got passed around, and soon I had calls coming from people, asking for the same help. Then someone left my name with a hospital nurse, and I began going to hospital beds. Each time I sat and vigiled with someone, I learned something new. Each experience was different and each person wanted and needed different things. No one who sits with the dying ever remains untouched. It is a holy experience.
I have tried to share in this book what I have learned about death and the sacred act of dying through hands-on information but also through stories.
Rachel Naomi Remen begins her book, Kitchen Table Wisdom, by saying that, “Everybody is a story. When I was a child, people sat around kitchen tables and told their stories. We don’t do that so much anymore. Sitting around the table telling stories is not just a way of passing time. It is the way wisdom gets passed along... It’s the way life teaches us how to live.” [1]
And I would add that it teaches us how to die.
