The Grace of a Happy Death
© 2008 by Jean-Christine LeGendre

“ The grace of a happy death.”

I've heard this statement for as long as I can remember. I've prayed for the grace of a happy death during Intercessions at mass and morning prayer, but I can't honestly say I've ever really understood what I'm praying for. When I stop to reflect on the statement, I blush to admit that it strikes less of a prayer than an oxymoron--like jumbo shrimp. I mean, except in extreme situations, who's really happy about dying?

I realize I'm supposed keep my eye on the goal--salvation and eternal life. My faith keeps me focused on that goal. While I understand the premise, I admit I'm not nearly so detached from my worldly self to feel this way. In fact, I'm convinced I'll never be capable of detaching enough to truly rejoice over the loss of someone I care about. Not unless God sees fit to grant me that special grace. But while I haven't actually prayed for this grace, I found myself recently blessed with a little more insight when an uncle, who has been a huge part of my life, passed away.

Faith isn't a feeling. It's a choice.

I don't rejoice that my uncle is gone from this life. I'm going to miss him. Left in my hands, I'd have chosen to keep him around another fifteen or twenty years. And he would have been healthy during those years, too, not plagued with health issues that eventually impeded the quality of his life.

That choice wasn't mine to make. But believing my uncle is taking a step toward perfection to be with our Lord is my choice, a choice that means trusting what Christ taught, not manufacturing an emotion I don't feel.

I think C.S. Lewis really nails the concept when he talks about charity in Mere Christianity.

“Charity means love in the Christian sense. But love in the Christian sense does not mean an emotion. It is a state, not of feelings, but of the will.”

Faith is like that, too. It's recognizing that God is in my life, knowing what I need when I don't, and gracing me with His insight.

This time he used the unlikely circumstances of my uncle's death.

Obviously all deaths don't fall into the grace-of-a-happy-death category. In my forty-six years, I've never encountered a death like my uncle's.

My Uncle Tommy was so Italian. He loved good food--lots of it--and lots of family around him. And family didn't just have to be blood related. Not by a long shot. If Uncle Tommy loved someone, that person became part of the family. If someone who became part of the family loved someone, the other person became part of the family, too. And on and on. His door was always open to family.

Many years ago I embraced the phrase “family-by-love” to describe people whom God had brought into my life and generously allowed me to adopt into the fold. Close friends who have become honorary aunties to my kids. Older folks who step in as surrogate parents and grandparents. Younger folks who have become cherished cousins. Family gatherings and holiday celebrations are always loud and chaotic, frequently filled with drama, but always undeniably fun. I learned the concept of family-by-love from watching my uncle live life.

He loved to tell jokes--yes, particularly off-color ones that would embarrass me and make me vow to go to Confession because I laughed. He had twinkle in his eyes that could make me feel better no matter what life dished up and strong arms that could make a hug feel like the only safe place in the world.

And he loved unconditionally. I don't think I really understood just how much until he starting having health issues. The past decade saw him struggle with one serious illness after another. I can't even remember how many times he'd been in and out of the hospital, until a totally vital man traded full-time work days for dialysis and frequent doctors' visits.

But somewhere along the way, my uncle made the choice to deal with his illnesses the same way he lived his life--with love. He shared the reality of his deteriorating health situation. He didn't play the denial game, or let anyone else. He shared his aches and pains, the decisions he faced and his stubborn determination to enjoy whatever time he had left.

He bought the Cadillac he'd always wanted to shuttle his grandkids to and from school about the same time as the motorized scooter he needed to squire his wife--my aunt—shopping and out to dinner. He issued the decree that the family should get together for reunion weekends at the beach; so his eldest daughter coordinated the events and we all showed up ready for fun.

Along the way he found Catholicism again, his childhood faith, and shared that discovery with me, my sister and our families, all lifelong Catholics. We attended masses together and shared lots of special events like the Chrism Mass, Easter Triduum and other liturgical services. He allowed us to reacquaint him with the church since he'd grown up before Vatican II and, as a result, we shared quality time through the years that we wouldn't have had otherwise.

He crossed every T and dotted every I with finances and generally helped everyone he loved come to terms with the fact that his time was running out. He accepted the way each of his loved ones coped with his deteriorating condition; never with complaints or criticisms, only understanding. My uncle wanted to spare his family from making the difficult decisions, wanted to control as much of the process as he could.

And God generously granted him that privilege. Right down to the very end.

My uncle decided to discontinue dialysis. He decided to go to a Hospice house for his last days, so family could spend quality time with him instead of dealing with the gritty reality of care giving. He asked his favorite priest to visit for his last Confession and Sacrament of Anointing of the Sick. He even chose the memorial cards for his service.

His only request was not to be left alone while he died. He wasn't. And it was humbling to see how many clamored to be by his bedside. Family. Friends. Acquaintances. Even the tellers from the bank where he did business. He held court from that bed in Hospice house, and for four days people came and went, telling him how much he'd enriched and impacted their lives.

The hospice people were supportive, and very telling in their reactions. They'd come by and shut the door when the clamor began trickling down the halls, but whenever asked if we should limit the traffic as a courtesy to other patients, we were told in some variation: “Absolutely not! It's refreshing to see death as a celebration. Doesn't happen often enough.”

Yes, I'm going to miss him, but my faith tells me he's one step closer to our Lord, farther along on his journey to perfection. My faith also tells me I can continue to be a part of his journey. I can remember him in my prayers. I can have masses said. My uncle believed this, too, which is why he gave me his rosary beads and Bible before he died and asked me to pray for him. And he'll never truly be gone; not when he lives on in the hearts and memories of so many.

The grace of a happy death.

That statement makes so much more sense to me now. So the next time I pray for this grace during Intercessions, I'll also thank God for blessing me with the insight to understand that the grace of a happy death is proof of a life well-lived, a choice to live the way I one day hope to die, a choice that with God's help I can make.