I'm not sure what prompted her, but while sitting with a hospice patient one day, the woman looked at me and asked, "So, how many people have you watched die?"
I didn't know what to say, because in all honesty, I don't know how many people I have been with as they took their last  breath.  I wish I could say I could remember the names, their faces, and their families,  but I can't.  There have been literally thousands of people from all walks of life, and all ages.  The younger the patient, often the more I remember, whereas, the older the person, the same.
The `101-year-old woman that raised two daughters alone, who boldly shared of her relationships with men in order to survive while two 80-something year-old women listened in disbelief as their mother shared of compromising circumstances.
The 92-year-old woman who was a nurse that bought 23 and me kits after I made the suggestion when she asked about gift ideas for Christmas, and the shocked look on her face when her oldest child called and asked why her two siblings asked, "Why is your dad different than ours?"  The conversation leading back to a memory of a woman who had a fight with her fiance and the night she spent with her  best friend who left to be a soldier in Europe, who never returned.  Her tears, as she told me how, "God lets us live long enough to realize all of our sins."
The conversation I had with a man who had a tattoo across his back shoulder that spelled out, "GUILTY," who in his final hour of life shared with me how he had been drunk with his best friend, and how an argument turned into the man pushing his best friend from a bridge, and then never telling anyone.  The friend's death had been ruled a suicide, and how I spent weeks looking, only finding a sister of the friend, to tell her of what I had been told, and the sound of the woman's cries as she realized the truth.
The forty-six year old woman with six grandchildren who asked me to help her talk to her grandchildren about what it means to die, and how she wanted to be remembered.  The woman then telling me that I had to write a book to help others have the same conversation, and then years later, sitting with the woman's mother, and showing her my book, "Remember Me When..."
The afternoon I sat with the daughter of a woman who had become more than just a patient to me, but had welcomed me as part of her family.  Her daughter and I had talked in another room for nearly an hour when we got up and walked into the room where the patient was quietly sleeping.  The patient had not taken in any nutrition in literally weeks.  Her daughter sat on one side of her, and I on the other, each with a hand in ours.  All of a sudden, the patient sat up, looked at both of us directly in the face and let out a loud cry, falling back into bed.  There was a rush that both the daughter and I felt throughout our entire body, and how the hair on our arms was still standing as we looked at one another, trying to understand what had just happened.  We didn't know what to say, except that we knew the woman had just died and we had felt as her spirit was freed.
The woman's question cannot be answered because I do not know the answer.  
What I can share is that I can honestly say  that death looks the same with every individual.  It's existence creates chapters that end, milestones that signify change, and that the lives of others will never be the same.
Death neither confirms nor denies the existence of eternity, nor the validity of one's faith.  
The afternoon I sat with my cousin, John D. as he watched me enter his room at Houston Hospice, and then silently followed me with his eyes, and without words told my spirit that he was about to die, will forever remain with me.  As I watched him swallow really hard when I spoke.  "You're dying."
Not a question, nor a statement.  It was the moment a tear rolled from his eye, as a tear rolled from mine as well, and I placed my hand on his chest, feeling the gentle slowing of a mechanical heart valve, while staring into his eyes.  
And then as his heart simply stopped, and without a sound, or movement. his face relaxed, and his eyes lost their focus and he was gone.
There is something significant about last words that are lasting words, and last moments, that last a lifetime in my memories, my dreams, and with sacred spaces that hold truths that I will carry with me until I am met by my own last breath.
The thousands I have been with have taught me about courage, remorse, and most of all, love.  That life is not about amassing wealth, or even the number of friends that one might accumulate.  The disappointments that can overwhelm accomplishments at times, or the last minute reconciliation between a father and a son.
It is, however, the man hanging next to another on a hillside, on a wooden beam, when he turns to the other and asks to be "remembered,," and the response, "Surely today you shall be with me in paradise," is spoken.
None of us may have that type of encounter, but in my faith, there is One who will always know the moment, I ask to be remembered as well, and find that the One who responds remembers every single person who has died, and doesn't need to stop and think about the answer to the question I had just been asked because there is no answer.
"I have come so that all may have life," will always be the answer to the question from the One I know as the Christ.
Stay in God's grip!
Todd

Rev. G. Todd Williams, MDiv. (c) 2024

A few years ago I was providing chaplain support for a local hospital during the holidays so that their staff could be off, and patients and their families would continue to have spiritual care support.  During these times, I always knew that I could be called to the bedside of a patient at any time.

Late in the evening, I received a call from the hospital's switchboard operator, noting a request for a chaplain had been received, and that it was an "unusual" request.

I always try to enter these conversations with an open heart, and an open mind.  "Unusual," is not a word that I think of immediately when a request is received.  I then called that patient's spouse and soon learned that a child was about to be born, and that the child would not survive.  The baby was both premature, and had a number of birth defects that would not allow for the baby to even survive the birth process.  When I asked what the parents wanted for the child, the man shared, "I just want someone from a church to bless my child."

I agreed to come and offer support, and soon was dressed and on the road to Galveston where the hospital is located.

About thirty minutes later I entered the room where I soon discovered a young mother holding a baby wrapped in a blanket, with her husband by her side, and a few staff persons from the hospital offering support.

The couple had been crying, and the room was very quiet, except for the occasional opening of the door as staff continued to care for a number of families that were currently on the labor and delivery unit.  I asked the father of the child to introduce the child to me.  

Even though the child had been born dead, up until this day there had been plans made, and a name picked.  "His name is Thomas."

I asked the mother if I could hold the child, and the mother reached out, allowing me to take the baby from her arms.  The room was dimly lit, but even in the darkness, I could see that the child was deformed.  I smiled and welcomed the child into the world, while realizing the sacredness of the moment.  I offered a blessing, proclaiming the child's name, and prayed for the child's parents.  I noted that they loved "Thomas" so much that they wanted to make sure that he was affirmed, and in doing so, validate his existence.  

I opened the blanket and took a small shell I had picked up from an earlier trip to the beach, and filled it with water.  I gently poured it over the baby, allowing it to flow freely, and undisturbed.  I then invited that parents to pray with me, with them touching the child as I began, "Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name..."

I gave the shell to the dad, and placed the child back in the arms of his mother, and thanked them for invited me into a very sacred moment in their life.  They thanked me for coming and I was soon back on the road, heading home, where I would wait for the "next" call.

As I crossed the Causeway from the Island back to the mainland, I thought of my own children and grandchildren, and what an amazing blessing they are, and offered a prayer of thanksgiving.  

I have often wondered about the couple since that evening, and like so many people I have met while on-call, I simply pray that all is well with them.

I remember how Thomas Merton once wrote: “God is mercy in mercy in mercy.” This means that the more we come to know ourselves, the more we come to know God’s mercy, which is beyond the mercy we know. 

The Kingdom of God arrives around us in so many ways.  Each encounter helps to define it's presence.  No matter the joys or the sorrows, I am reminded just how sacred each of us are to God, and that in the times we are "unable," God makes all things possible.

Stay in God's grip!
Todd

Rev. G. Todd Williams, MDiv., (c) 2024