In this poem the poet describes how Mary Magdalene realised that the man she saw was Jesus the risen one when he called her name. She also hopes that at the end of her own life she will also hear Jesus call her name.

There’s only one sound
I aspire to hear,
one solitary sound,
just one word,
among all the audible words
that fill existence.

Only one sound,
harbinger of endless and perfect
love, joy and ecstasy.

Just this one sound
emitted by no one
but You.

I shall be ready
to surrender all
for that one sound,
that one word.

All, Lord, even life itself,
for the utterance of
my first name by You –
in the same way that
in the silent garden,
beside the empty tomb,
on that first Sunday morning,
you called Mary,
your famously faithful follower.

For it was the way
you called her name
she realised it was you ,
the Risen Christ!

And when I – oh hope of hopes! –
at the tolling of the bell,
shall hear that one sound,
that one word ,
my first name –
called out by You –
then I shall know
beyond any doubt,
that I have risen too.

Published: April 2019

Read more:
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It must have been late October or early November when I braced myself:
“How long does he still have to live?

The consultant’s voice was low, and her look searching:
“A few months.”

“So he’ll start next year, and then . . . it’s the end.
“Just so.

It was very sad. I had helped to bring him up and now he was slowly but surely nearing his end.

I wanted to journey the last few months with him

I had no doubt I wanted to accompany him as far as I could on this last leg of his journey. I telephoned him every day, and visited him every week. I unceasingly prayed for him. On my first visit after I talked to the consultant, I took him a small wooden crucifix. He received it silently and reverently, giving it pride of place on his bedside table.

He had just became a grandpa

He was no longer young but he earnestly desired to live. Some months before, he had become a grandfather, and I knew how eagerly , yet hopelessly , he wished to be spared long enough to see his only grandson grow, at least beyond babyhood. His favourite pastime was hiking, and I was also aware of how happy he would have been to go rambling again in the outskirts of the village where he and I and our siblings had seen the first light of day. But “there’s a time to be born and a time to die. (Ecclesiastes 3:2)

Gradually he accepted the hard truth

The denial phase had been long, but gradually he had accepted the undeniable truth, much helped by the fact that he was now on oxygen. Every time I went to see him he looked more and more emaciated.

One day on the telephone he told me resignedly: “It’s the end.”

Was I imprudent, or was it an inspiration by the Holy Spirit? I immediately blurted:
“Or is it the happy beginning that has no end?”

He sighed as if he sincerely wished it were so and ended our conversation.

He became too weak to hold a conversation

Soon afterwards he asked me not to telephone anymore because he was now too weak to converse. Then came several transitions – to hospital and back to the home; once more to hospital – where he spent Christmas – and then again to the home.

We were at the end of January. I was not surprised when I learnt that an ambulance had been called for him during the previous icy-cold night. The next morning I went to see him. As I did not know what had happened to the crucifix, I took him another, a friend’s souvenir from the Holy City.

I found him sitting in an armchair, not looking too bad, and quite calm. The nurses came to see to him and left him lying in bed.

“Shall we say the Rosary?” he said.
But he went only as far as the first two decades:
“That’s enough. I’m too tired.”

He looked sleepy and I thought it better to leave.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” I said, “but . . . before I go . . . I’ve brought you a crucifix.”

His emaciated face lit up and he eagerly put out his hands.
“Give it to me,” he implored.

He held on to the crucifix

He took it so very thankfully in his lean hands, clasped it lovingly, reminding me of the psalmist’s yearning: ‘”As the hind longs for the running waters, so my soul longs for you, O God” (Psalm 41:2). He then turned on his side, away from me, with his face to the wall, holding on to the crucifix for dear life – or better – for dear death.

When I left him it was late afternoon. Early next morning a telephone call told me he had passed away.

My sense of loss was deep but my heart was full of gratitude

My brother was four years younger than me and we were very close. In the following weeks and months my sense of loss was indeed deep but notwithstanding, my heart was full of gratitude, grateful thoughts and gratifying questioning flooded my mind and soul. What did the crucifix held so lovingly mean to him? Had he been abiding his time until he could make the mysterious passage fortified by the courage and comfort afforded by what the crucifix meant? Was it what encouraged him to let go? Did it help him to actually look forward to the homeland to which God calls his faithful to return? Did it help him welcome his final transition?

It’s beautiful – and one of the greatest privileges – to help a person die well.

Read more of this story in When Cancer Hits Your Brother.

Read more:
– The Art Of Dying Well

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We had always been very close, and his heart-breaking illness and passing away afforded me great anguish. This, however, was tempered by my belief that he was now with God, who dries up every tear, and regales us with a wreath of flowers which never dry up.

Though no longer young, he had not found it easy to accept the fact that he was terminally ill. He kept hoping he would meet some doctor who would be experienced and kind enough to help him, give him hope, and make him feel less unwell. This futile hanging on to hope made me suffer all the more.

Thankfully, I realised early enough I could help him by offering spiritual support. I could remind him of certain truths of faith that he had always known and assented to, but which, in the present circumstances, no longer seemed so attractive and inviting. So I did just that: at the propitious moment, when I felt he could take it, I would quote some words from the liturgy, or from the Gospel, or from Saint Paul in which he could find consolation.

Spiritual relief was long in coming, but I firmly believed in its eventual efficacy and I went on, endeavoring to do it prudently, briefly, and only when I felt the occasion allowed it, or clearly asked for it. And of course, I prayed. I was fully aware of prayer being an essential condition at this most difficult time of his cancer experience.

Almost a year had passed since the diagnosis. I knew my dear brother had only a few months left. By now he had fully accepted he would go. I continued to pray, visited him regularly, and tried to be of more spiritual help, which he now accepted gratefully and philosophically. The day before he passed on, I had the consolation of knowing, from what he said, he was fully prepared to meet his Maker.

Then came a gratifying experience.

The beautiful, inspiring liturgy was all over. Many flowers had been sent. The men were now clearing the bunches, giving them to relatives to carry to the cemetery. A large, beautiful, white carnation dropped from one of them. I love carnations. I did not want to see it flattened under some man’s heavy weight.

Slowly and unobtrusively, I left my place, went up a few steps, picked it up, and held it, just held it. I never thought of doing anything with it. I had saved it. That was enough. Presently, I quite forgot I was carrying it.

At the grave, the priest said a final prayer, and the grave diggers started their work. I looked on, thankful that I had accompanied my brother all along the final leg of his sacred journey on earth. He was now God’s, and God was his, forever.

While musing along these consoling lines, I saw that one of the men working on the grave was looking up at me. I wondered why. Then he took a few steps towards me. In a hushed voice he said:

“Madam, would you like to throw in your flower; we’re closing.

I did. Very willingly, most thankfully, so lovingly.

Later, I remembered Saint James’ words: “every good gift and every perfect gift is from above” James 1:17. That loving last touch (the physical, as well as the metaphorical) will always seem to me to have been a good and perfect ending to a sad, yet beautiful, story of my brother’s cancer experience. To me, it was a gift from above.

Read more on this story in The Death of My Brother

For cancer support please visit The Hospice Movement.

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Two days after Christmas, she had not woken at half-past six, as usual, to recite the rosary with the radio, and then, hear mass through the same medium.

“Mother . . . . mother . . . .”

There was no answer. She didn’t even move. I looked into her face: her eyes were an expressionless chink; her face, absolutely blank.

It was time to act: I rang up my brother and sister, and then the doctor.

In the three weeks she spent at hospital, she never uttered a word, except once to call me. At her age, ninety-nine and three months, it was practically impossible to recover.

When I went to visit her, I sang to her, because some time before, she had told me:

“When I’m dying, I’d like to hear some of the songs we sing at church.”

Though of course, I could not be sure, because the very little eye communication had completely ceased, I took her to be listening, enjoying, believing, and I went on singing day after day, telling the Lord I trusted him, and wanted to follow him in all weathers, asking him to hold my hand on difficult days and restless nights.

Now in a steady, calm voice, the nursing officer said:

“Your mother is bad. At this point we call the family.”

“Is she bad?” I asked, needlessly.

“Very bad. You’d better bring her clothes.”

I should have known better. As it was, I hoped to reach her before she passed on, so that my prayers would accompany her on the very last leg of her journey on earth. I quickly called my siblings and John, and in a very short time, was at the side door of the small hospital.

“You’d better wait for your sister,” John advised.

I did not heed him. I ran up the stairs, pushed the heavy door open enough for me to pass, found myself in the corridor, and ran towards the four-bedroom ward where my mother was. There was no mistaking it, because hanging above the door was a crucifix.

No sound could be heard. All along the corridor, no person could be seen. Perfect silence pervaded the place. In the ward, the other three patients were in bed, ready for the night. Near one of them, I now perceived a nurse. I couldn’t see my mother: the curtain which separated her compartment from the rest of the room had been drawn, and was hiding it altogether. I found the parting and entered.

Mother was dead: her face was drained of colour; the breathing had stopped; the Ryles tube, which had bothered her so much, was nowhere to be seen. I needed confirmation: I went to speak to the nurse, who came over the moment she saw me.

“Has she died?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered, almost inaudibly.

I went in again, put my hand up to her still partly open eyes, and brought the lids down. That was the end. I ardently prayed God to welcome her in his heavenly abode, whatever it was.

Then, standing still, in front of my dead old mother, I reflected: we had lived together for so long, but I was not with her when her time came. She had always relished the fact that Father had died with us all encircling his bed – but she had to die alone.

Up to an hour before the hospital called me, there had been my sister and her husband near her. My sister had said Mother was calm, her hands, still, under the bedspread. She was not agitated as she had often been after the stroke. That had put my mind and heart at rest.

She had died all alone . . . But then . . . my eyes rested on her face . . . and understood: alone, she was not! It suddenly dawned on me that she could not have been alone. The face of this ninety-nine- year old woman exuded serenity, sweetness, deep calm. It was a picture of great peace and perfect composure. I suddenly felt convinced that He, for whom she had lived, and loved, and suffered had not left her alone.

And now what? My immediate family was gone. From that moment on, I would live on my own. But presently, in that cubicle, enclosed by that curtain, immersed in the peaceful, mysterious stillness of the night and of death, I saw clearly what I was to do: take up what my mother had laid down. That is how it should be: the children should continue from where their parents have left off. Mother, after raising seven children, and caring for three old relatives until they died, had still to do: to pray, to love, to suffer.

An episode from Acts came to mind: the Angels telling the Apostles, immediately after Our Lord ‘s ascension:

“Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up to heaven?”

It seemed to me then they were urging them to go and complete Jesus’ work. There was a holy life to be lived, his word to be preached, a most beautiful vision to be shared, a great mission to be fulfilled.

Non omnis moriar. We shall not die completely.

Read more:
– Top Pope Francis’ Quotes on Death
– Does Time Heal Grief?

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“Lord . . . culture, custom, art, science, literature, can all serve as conduits of your Spirit . . .”  This is part of a prayer in my Lent and Easter book.  Books have always been my great love, and grace rests on nature.

I shall always feel indebted to the great Russian writers, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, in whose great novels, as I read once, “there is more sacred intuition than in whole theological tracts . They have been most welcome spiritual mentors to me. Tolstoy’s “Anna Karenina is a crystal clear and most emphatic literary proof of Jesus’ statement “The Truth will make you free .

Then, in his famous short story, “Martin the Cobbler , he offers the best piece of advice you can ever receive on how to live.

It’s in the conversation between Martin, a widower, who has also lost his only child, and so is living alone, and feeling lonely; and a holy man who has come to his workshop for his services. Martin confides in this good man, telling him of his loneliness, which sometimes intensifies into despair. He ardently wishes the Lord had chosen to take him, instead of his son.

“There is nothing at all in this world which can render me at all happy, As long as I live, I shall not desist from asking the Lord to take me from this life, because I have lost all hope.”

“Martin, don’t talk like this. It’s not up to us to criticise God’s will. If he thought it best that your son should die, while you live on, it must be for the good.”

“But now there’s nothing left for me to live for.”

“For the Lord; you must live for Him. He gave you life so that you live for Him, and if you do this, you will discover the beauty of living.”

Martin stops to think and then says: “In what sort of way must I live in order to please Him?”

“In the way He has taught us to live. Can you read?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Well, read the Gospel, and it will teach you the way to live.”

Maltese Cathecist

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The young man’s reason for coming to see me was not particularly plausible. I answered his question, but he did not leave. He wanted to talk, though not about a particular subject. From what he said next, I learnt he was twenty-two, and had just been released, after a month in prison. He had lost his temper and become violent, when taunted by the new boy-friend of the girl who had just jilted him. He went on to speak most cynically of girls, men, and society in general. According to him, girls could not love: they just played games to make you fall for them. It was clear he thought of the world as a sad, corrupt reality. I could easily sense his deep unhappiness; his great longing to be loved, to find meaning in life. How could it be done? Was it possible?

Having, in the past, experienced this same most unpleasant of moods, I felt I now knew the answers to his unspoken questions, but looking at his strained face, pugilistic physique, his sleek black hair, the two large rings in one of his ears, I hesitated. But then I decided to dare speak, convinced that I was giving the one true answer, though, not necessarily, the one he expected to hear. I even feared it would put him off. I said we all needed God: without him, we would never feel fulfilled. A relationship with God was what so many, without knowing, were yearning for. He listened and, to my relief, his facial expression showed he tended to agree. Then he said, for three years, he had refrained from entering any church, but lately, being so thoroughly dejected, he had tried confession, and, for a time, felt much calmer. He left me then, but did not leave the premises. Some time later, I saw him again in the grounds, puffing away at a cigarette.

That evening, in the quiet of my room, I thought: Andre Frossard entered a church an atheist and, after five minutes, left it a firm believer; but sometimes it takes longer than that to find God, and be able to say: God exists: I have met him.

Written by  Maltese Catechist
Published: 2017

Read more from the Maltese Catechist:
– Finding God In Literature
– When Cancer Hits Your Brother
– Easter Poem: One Solitary Word

The post An Experience Of Working With Young People – A Moment Of Accompaniment appeared first on Universe of Faith.

I met her again after many years at a school reunion for ex-pupils. We sat happily at the same table, and talked: rather, she talked, and I listened. She had much more to say than I. Unlike me, she had married, and her three children were now young adults, with good jobs. However, she was soon telling me of the bitter disappointment her marriage was to her.

Her children, especially two of them, girls, behaved quite unlovingly. She was old-fashioned enough to expect them to help in the home, as she had done, but they never did. It was always time to go to the beach, or somewhere else, or they brought some other excuse. Their rooms were always topsy-turvy. This lack of sensitivity on their part was rendering their mother very unhappy, and, on account of their “irresponsible behaviour , there was continual bickering even between herself and their father.

What could I, single, teacher, catechist, say to all this? I felt there was only one thing I could say, that could, perhaps, give her some hope, and bring her comfort:

“We need to pray. Prayer never goes unheeded.

She paused, then looked at me with sad eyes, and said something, which though commonplace, has remained with me all these long years. In a subdued voice, she whispered:

“You know, in my family we never pray. We never find time for it.

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