Beautiful Death: Freda

"exhale." by Katie Smith Design, on Flickr

The phone rang as I was sitting by myself at a huge table in the back of Java John's, with a plate overflowing with pastries. I was the guest facilitator for the weekly before-school high school Bible study, but no youth had shown up yet.

The phone rang, and when I saw that it was the church office, calling me before nine o'clock in the morning, I knew that something out-of-the-ordinary was happening.

"Steve just called," Monica said when I answered, "and asked if you would come over to the nursing home, because his mother Freda is actively dying."

A perk of being a regular customer at a small-town coffee shop is that you know the baristas well enough to ask them favors. Favors like, "if any high schoolers show up for Bible study, can you let them know that I was called away for an emergency?"

I swung through church long enough to tuck my communion kit, my anointing bowl, and my Book of Occasional Services into my bag, and then arrived at the nursing home just as Freda's daughter in law, Edie, was returning to the facility with breakfast and snacks.

It was clear, as soon as I walked into Freda's room, that she was, indeed, actively dying. Her beautiful smile was now a mouth held wide open, as she gasped laborious breaths that shook her chest and shoulders. Her eyes held no focus and eventually closed in exhaustion from the effort of breathing. Her nurses came through every half-hour to reposition her and to continue to increase her pain medication.

Steve and Edie shared with me the story of the morning, the way that they had received a phone call shortly before six o'clock in the morning that Freda had suffered what appeared to be a heart attack, and was failing rapidly. This news, just fifteen days after Freda's husband, Ted, had died just one room over from her.

It is one thing to hold vigil and anticipate your grief when a loved one is dying. It is another thing to hold vigil and anticipate your new grief while still tending to the raw edges of such a recent lingering grief.

Steve told me stories about Freda's childhood, and asked me questions about my own father's death. We talked about church things and we talked about the class that Edie was taking at the college in town. We were all biding time.

I'd been there close to two hours when Freda's daughter Karen arrived. She and Steve surrounded Freda and embraced her, kissed her and held onto one another. When all other perfunctory conversations had taken place and there seemed nothing else to do but wait in the quiet, Karen reached over to the shelf next to Freda's bed and pulled out Freda's personal, monogrammed copy of the green Lutheran Book of Worship. Karen opened up the hymnal and started to sing.

First, Freda's favorite hymn, "Behold the Host, Arrayed in White." And then "Children of the Heavenly Father." And then "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling." And then "When Peace Like a River." Steve moved to Karen's side to sing with her. I hummed along from across the room. Edie sang and wept.

"Pastor, I think it would be a nice time for a prayer," Steve said quietly.

I pulled out my anointing oil and my little red book, and began the prayers for commendation of the dying.

Almighty God, look on Freda, whom you made your child in baptism. Comfort her with the promise of life with all your saints, the promise made sure by the death and resurrection of your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord...

Freda's fever began to wane.

Holy God, creator of heaven and earth; Holy and Mighty, redeemer of the world; Holy and Immortal, sanctifier of the faithful; Holy, blessed, and glorious Trinity, one God, deliver your servant...

Freda's face started to soften, as if her body were no longer feeling any pain.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy...

Freda's breaths slowed and relaxed. Long gaps of time stretched between one breath and the next.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...

We were all praying together, our hands touching Freda and our hands touching one another. Steve and Karen kept whispering to Freda that it was okay to let go. That it was time to be at peace. She took another slow and gasping breath.

I dipped my thumb in oil, and traced the sign of the cross over her forehead as I said the final blessing.

Freda, child of God, go forth in the name of the God who created you; in the name of Jesus Christ, who redeemed you; in the name of the Holy Spirit who was poured out upon you. Remember that in both life and in death, you are a blessed and beloved child of God, who has been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever. Amen.

Her body was still. We watched, expectantly, waiting for another labored breath to break the silence. But that next breath never came.

Deaths do not usually happen like this. Body and soul are often not in such close agreement. I do blessings and commendations for the dying, who then hang onto life by a thread for hours or days. Or I learn of impending deaths only after the deaths have occurred, when I am called by funeral homes to set up funeral planning meetings. To be present at a deathbed is rare. To be present at the moment of death is even rarer. And to literally pray a dying soul out of this world is unheard of.

But something about the reassurance that all the necessary visitors had arrived, all songs had been sung, all the prayers had been prayed meant that Freda could let go of this life precisely as we were blessing her to do so.

I cannot imagine a more beautiful way to pass out of this life than to leave this earth with blessing marking our heads and hearts. Where blessing and release are one in the same, and where the light of blessing beams brightly as the light of mortal life is extinguished. It is a seamless hand-off. A glorious exchange. A transport and a commending.

Blessed and beloved now.

Blessed and beloved forever.

This is the divine exhale from this life and the divine inhale in the next.