Mystery, wrapped in compassion

This week, strangely and awkwardly, has been a week full of death and dying. In the space of a couple of days, I’ve found myself staring death and the dying directly in the face over and over. It is a disconcerting experience.

After a week without a funeral—a relative rarity in our aging demographic—I’ve had several encounters that were both troubling and consoling, if those two words can ever go together.

A man I’ve known for years and years, who suffered a psychotic break some months ago triggered by PTSD that dates back to Vietnam, is also afflicted with unrelated serious medical conditions that make integrated treatment all but impossible. He is approaching the end of the trail, though I’m not sure how clearly he can conceptualize that, at least not yet.

The 102-year-old father of a high school classmate died late last week, and his family needs a simple funeral in short order, to fulfill his last wishes. That will fill up Wednesday between a meeting with the Catholic Schools Department in the morning and our finance committee in the afternoon.

Last Saturday night I got an email from a couple of dedicated parishioners, whose close friend and former law partner is in town wrapping up his life as he faces uncurable pancreatic cancer. They asked me to visit with him at their home on Sunday night, during his short visit from another state to say good bye and put his affairs in order here. He is in hospice, a clear-headed and sophisticated lawyer who wants to get himself right with the Church before he passes into the mysterious beyond. When I went to meet him, his clarity and calm was uncanny, just this side of supernatural. Grace and hard work combining. It was very moving talking to him.

On Sunday morning two different wives came up to me after Mass in short order: one whose husband starts chemo tomorrow, just a couple of days short of their 43rd wedding anniversary, the other whose husband is in ICU at Kaiser. Two visits on Monday, both full of touching stillness. Oil and prayer and Holy Communion, touch, words of absolution, blessings for what’s to come.

In the middle of Sunday afternoon, the phone rang, and it was Fr. Paul Cochran, telling me that a former member of our Sacramento Jesuit Community, 84-year-old Brother Dan Corona, had died unexpectedly in Los Gatos, just 6 weeks after his arrival there from Sacramento. His death sent a shock wave through our little Jesuit community, and our younger members were tearful as I gave them the news. It’s harder when the one you lose or are in risk of losing is someone you shared a significant portion of your life with. Danny was a simple, holy, hardworking man. He had been plant and facilities manager at Jesuit High for more than 20 year ages ago, and had returned to retire here about the same time that I returned to town six years ago. A tender-hearted man who had suffered his own trials with mental illness, he was generous to a fault.

Another call, another appointment set for Thursday, another anointing for a dedicated former teacher and devoted husband whose health is in shambles. And so it goes. Fortunately, holy oil, prayer and the Eucharist are in abundant supply, and moreso, God is merciful.

For all that, there is life abounding here. Last Friday afternoon before the chaos of this week descended, I got to witness the marriage of two of our young people at the Cathedral. They went through their OCIA conversion experience at St. Ignatius. A soon-to-be grandmother visiting from Texas came by to set up a baptism for her as-yet unborn “grandbaby” in the next few weeks before Grandma has to return home to the Lone Star State. A whole roster of new programs, classes, and presentations is rolling out as we speak, and in a few weeks we will celebrate that most Catholic of gatherings, the Fall Family Festival. Life and death, growth and diminishment accompany one another, hand in hand. We die a little with the dying, and grow into life a little with the little ones.

It’s all a mystery, wrapped in compassion, bathed in tears, and punctuated with occasional laughter. It’s the mystery of being alive, children of Spirit, water, and blood.