As I surf various blogs, I find one, which seems to be nothing but memories of deceased famous people. It seems strange to me. I find another blog dedicated to the loving memory of a sister who died a year and a half ago in a tragic car accident. This one is much more real to me.

I did not intend to write two posts in such quick succession to one another about death, but that is the way life, and death, sometimes is.

They say that only two things are certain in life, death and taxes. Yet even these are less certain than they appear. Sure, we all face death and we all face taxes, but the amount of the taxes owed varies as our income changes and as various tax bills go through congress. Likewise, the hour of our death remains uncertain, whether it be in a tragic car accident in our twenties or a slow lingering death from Alzheimer’s in our eighties.

When we see someone slowly waste away, we learn about special things. We learn about a grief called ‘anticipatory grief’. This is the grief that we feel as we wait for a loved one’s final hour. It can be especially painful, for we don’t know when the final moment will come, and we are torn. We don’t want it to come too soon, but we don’t want to see misery prolonged. And, we learn about hospice, that care which a loved one receives in the final days that are aimed not at prolonging the life, but making the final days as comfortable as possible.

Those who have read my New Years post know that we have been struggling with anticipatory grief. New Years Eve, Kim went to the hospital to sit with her grandfather. He had been fighting Alzheimer’s for quite a while. He had been going slowly down hill for years, and now he had gotten a cold that looked like it would be his last. He was in great pain and Kim and her family sat with him and tried to bring comfort.

Over sixty years ago, Joe had fought in World War II. World War II. If ever there had been a just war, this was the war that people cited. What Joe saw and what Joe did on the battlefields so many years ago, we shall never know. But we did know that he feared meeting God because of what he had done during the war.

New Years Eve, Kim and her Aunt Susan sat with Grandpa Joe. At one point, he became afraid, pointing at something, something in the air. Kim looked. She saw it too. All that Kim saw was some sort of disturbance in the air, sort of like the way roads look in the summer as the heat rises off of them. Those who wish to reduce everything to some scientific explanation are likely to suggest a similar sort of illusion caused by heated air. Kim’s training is as a scientist, yet she has been close enough to people in their dying hours to believe in something else.

Kim, Susan and Joe talked about the angels that had come to care for Joe in his final hours, to prepare for his arrival in heaven. They were sure that his wife Helen was amongst them, as was his daughter, Susan’s sister, and Kim’s mother, Janice.

Without the authority of the cloth, but with the certainty of a saint, Kim told her grandfather that God forgives him. Kim and I are blessed with a belief in a gracious God that does forgive our sins, even though we don’t deserve it.

Joe relaxed and all of them waved to the angels, to Helen and to Janice.

That was Friday night. Joe made it through Saturday, and Sunday they sent him back to the Alzheimer’s house. Kim and I drove to Kim’s father’s house and one the way we got a message that Joe was heading back there. We were also told that there would be prayers with Joe that afternoon. So, instead of having a quiet day to rest and recuperate at Kim’s dad’s house, we went to the Alzheimer’s home. Joe was in a special room that they use for medical situations. Today, like, I imagine has often been the case other times, it was a hospice room. Kim, Fiona and I entered. There was Joe, the strong tall man, once a soldier in World War II, now shrunken, breathing oxygen through a mask. The immediate family was there; Joey, the oldest son and his wife Lorna; Bob, the younger son with his wife Cindy, his daughter Jen and their little dog Mikey; and Susan, the surviving daughter.

Mikey was very happy to see Fiona and the two of them played as the rest of us talked in hushed tones, and people sat beside Joe, holding his hand, and placing cool cloths on his forehead. Nurses talked with us about what was going on, and how they treated people in these situations. The goal was to keep the person as comfortable as possible. Fiona was great. She didn’t get all of what was going on, but she got a lot of it. She played fairly quietly with Mikey and spent some time being with her great grandfather. When the nurse spoke, I went over to be with Fiona so she would stay as quite as possible.

Other times, we walked around the lobby and spoke with other residents. If any of you read this blog have young children like Fiona. Two or three years old and well behaved, please consider taking them to an Alzheimer’s home. Fiona brought great joy to many of the residents. A few knew what was going on. I spoke with one man who knew his condition. He knew that one day he would be in that room. He was coherent and sad. He wished us all the best. Others didn’t know what was going on and were simply overjoyed to see a beautiful young girl come up and say, “Hi, my name is Fiona” and “I’m three” as she held up her three fingers.

The prayers were an experience that everyone and no one should ever have. The priest knew what she was doing. My guess is that she has said goodbye to many people. She sat next to Joe and spoke loudly and clearly to him, right in his face. She spoke about God’s forgiveness with stories about soldiers who had taken glee in killing only to face remorse in their final hours. We all hear about the horrors of war. We read about the shell-shocked soldiers who run for cover when there are fireworks on New Years Eve, with visions of Baghdad still too recent in their minds.

Here, I saw a good man, who had fought in the most justifiable war in a century, struggling horribly with what he had done over sixty years ago. The memories of war are a horrible burden, and we need to be sure that war is a last resort, not taken lightly and that the veterans are well taken care of afterwards.

She spoke about Jesus’ final hours and his how hard it was for him to face death. We said the Lord’s Prayer and Fiona joined in as much as she could. We said a Hail Mary, and the words, “pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death” had special meaning.

We left. We went back to Kim’s father’s house where we had dinner and then drove back to our house. Around 8:30, Kim became nauseous, too much stress. First Auntie Anna, now, Pa. We were exhausted and went to bed early. We knew that the next few days would be hard. The phone rang, and we missed it the first time. If it was important, they would call back. I got the portable phone and put it on the bed stand.

Soon, it rang again. It was Susan. Grandpa Joe died peacefully. His son Joey was there as were two priests. There were more phone calls, and as I finally put down the phone, the grandfather’s clock chimed nine. The clock had been Joe and Helen’s and it came to our house after Helen had died and when Joe went to the Alzheimer’s home.

“But it stopped, short…”

Rest in Peace, Joe, a father, a grandfather, a great grandfather, a soldier, a man who now knows the fullness of God’s forgiveness.