What is it to die well? Some thoughts on St. Scholastica, my friend Carol, living and dying well – all on a snowy February day.

I awoke today remembering that it was the feast day of St. Scholastica. Then I looked at my email and found these words of wisdom from the Henri Nouwen Society, entitled Dying Well. Subsequently I recalled that I was having a mass offered in memory of a woman I knew named Carol. She died a few months ago, a long, slow death from cancer.

Carol was a parishioner at the parish that I work at and I only met her in December 2008. She was a remarkable woman with a big, round moon of a face that showed her weariness but showed her presence and love much more profoundly. These matters are of course connected – weariness and love. With her soft, soft voice she would enter the office and begin speaking to me in Polish. I know about 5 words in Polish, but that did not deter Carol, who would carry on a whole conversation while filling me in with a few words of English.

I would sit at my desk and watch her with wonder and delight, the round softness of her face, the light in her eyes, her brilliant smile and the ever-present turban that reminded us all of her cancer. It was the only reminder; she was ever bubbling over with life and spirit in her words and presence, even through this weariness that manifested itself as a light also, just perhaps slightly more dim.

Carol often spoke to me about her brother, a very erudite man who is a Catholic priest in another part of the country. If I were to publish his name, you could easily google it and learn about him. He is a scholar, a teacher and a writer. Carol was very dedicated to him.

Over the months Carol would dip down and come close to death. She would often call me from the hospital to say hello and give me an update. She knew exactly what was happening and I never heard or saw fear in her. She had a rich quality that combined deep and ancient wisdom with a childlike wonder. And Carol had no fear about meeting the God she adored.

It seemed that Carol might never die – a hopeful thought for those who knew her. Yet that was not to be the case. She kept dancing with death, but with a bit of a polka beat, as her Polish heritage dictated. Carol neither rushed towards nor avoided her death in my experience, she was in relationship with her life through her relationship with God and God’s people. It is utterly impossible to live well without being able to have some insight that this also means to die well.

That is pretty much the essence of Jesus’ life and death and also of our Christian faith. This is not static, this is not a strictly here or there proposition, but rather a dynamic. It is organic and alive – living and dying are elements of something much larger.

The time finally came, Carol was slowly going home to God. Her brother came to town and stayed for awhile, but God was not yet ready and Carol lived on a short while longer, maybe a week, with no further signs of active death.

It was in these days that I began to learn more about Carol’s brother and I learned that in a book he wrote, he dedicated it to “his Scholastica.”

The day came and we all wept. Carol was only in my life for less than a year, but she touched me deeply. The entire community came together and wept and wept.

Carol lived with intention and she died with intention. It was a gift to behold.

Today I remember Carol as I reflect on Saint Scholastica and on dying well. I am not sure how this is done, this dying – or living – well. I do know that I long to do both in their right time.

Rest in peace dear Carol. St. Scholastica, please pray for us.

(Our great friend Padre Mickey has some fine words for the Feast over at his place today.)

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