Take Care of Her, Dad!

          As part of my priestly ministry, I try to visit those members of our parish community who are sick or homebound, the large majority being elderly.  I’ve asked all of those who do home visitations to give me a list so that I, too, can accompany them (when I’m able).

          On one of those visits – last Friday, in fact – I met a sweet lady named Divolda.  Seventy years old, Divolda was diagnosed earlier this year with cancer, and unfortunately the treatments didn’t really help her very much.  When I met her she was in her bed in a very simple house located in one of the favelas of the parish.  A small, hot bedroom had become the extent of her world since it hurt too much to get out of bed anymore.  Because her children often had to work, the small whir of the fan in the corner was the only noise she would hear for many hours.  But she held on to her rosary and she enjoyed looking at a nice statue of our Lady the Mystical Rose.

          As I sat down at her bedside, she grasped my hand and tried to smile.  We talked a little bit about her family, about where she had grown up (in a little village in the forest on the banks of a tributary river to the Amazon), and she told me all about how much she loved Jesus and Mary.  I was touched to the depths of my being how this suffering woman was very concerned about her children and the nieces and grandchildren that she had raised.  “I can’t go, Father.  Who will take care of them if I’m not here?  Who will look after my autistic grandson?”

          When the conversation quieted down and the only sound in the room was the whir of that fan in the corner, I asked her if she wanted to receive the sacrament of reconciliation.  “Father, that would make me very happy.”  I was humbled by the simplicity of her confession and the great devotion she shared with me.  Here was a bed-ridden widow who, with simplicity of heart, made one of the most loving confessions I think I’ve ever heard.

          After celebrating absolution, we invited the rest of the family members in to celebrate with us the sacrament of anointing of the sick.  Divolda was so happy to receive the sacrament, and she participated very actively.  When she received communion a single tear rolled down her cheek.  I asked her why she was crying, and she said very simply, “I love Jesus.”

          Together with the visitation team and the family members we talked a bit more and, in its simplicity, the conversation was actually quite happy.  I left feeling very grateful to our loving God for having had this opportunity to share these sacraments with this lovely lady.

          On Tuesday morning I decided to check in on Divolda… I’m not really sure why.  I called up the visitation team and together we went to visit Divolda and her family.  Though poor themselves, the visitation team put together a basket with basic foods and coffee to help out Divolda’s family during this trying time.  We arrived at Divolda’s home and her neice told me that unfortunately her aunt really wasn’t up to receiving a whole bunch of visitors today… she was still sleeping and had been since the day before.  We talked for a few minutes and I let the niece know that I understood her concern for her aunt, but asked if I might just go in for a moment to say a prayer for Divolda and give her a blessing; the niece consented.

          I entered the room and the first thing I noticed was how hot it was in there, and how silent it seemed with just the whir of the fan.  I went and sat beside Divolda’s bed and reached for her fragile hand.  Holding it gently, I began to stroke her forehead and I asked her if she could hear me.  She didn’t respond nor did she open her eyes, but it seems to me that her hand every so softly tried to squeeze my hand.  In the silence I noticed that her breathing was quite labored and irregular.  I said a prayer for her… and then something inside of me took me back to my own dad’s bedside nearly 18 years ago.  And I remembered something that a very special cousin of mine had told me I needed to do as my own father was preparing to enter into eternal life.

          “My dear Divolda, you’ve run the good race and you’ve fought the good fight.  You shared your love not only with your own children but even with other people’s children, raising them to be good people.  You’ve done everything that God put you here on earth to do.  Now you can go home.  Jesus is there waiting for you with his arms open, ready to give you a great big hug when you arrive there!  And Jesus is just waiting to show you happiness and joy without all of the pain that accompanied this illness.  My dear Divolda, you’ve done all that you possible could, and your family will be fine.  They’ll be sad, but they’ll be happy that you don’t feel the pain in your body anymore.  Divolda, when you are ready, feel free to go home to be with Jesus and that beautiful lady that you’ve been admiring, the Mystical Rose.  When you’re ready, don’t be afraid!”  I gave her a kiss on the forehead, gave her a blessing, and I left.

          The visitation team invited me for coffee since it was mid-morning.  They shared their plans for their community with me and we talked about politics a little bit.  As we were finishing, we said a little prayer together.  And at the end of that prayer I said, “Dad, whenever she decides to come home, please take care of Divolda!”

          Later that afternoon I received a phone call that shortly after our visit Divolda passed from this life to the next.  Just as they are right now as I write this, goosebumps appeared on my arms and legs and my eyes welled up.  I thanked God for having given me the honor of celebrating – quite by chance! – the last days and the last moments of Divolda’s life here on earth.  I thanked God for the privilege of having had that one last moment to “give her permission” to go home.  And looking up into the sky I said, “OK, Dad.  Now it’s your turn.  Take care of her, Dad!”

From 1998: Dad celebrating as Deacon at my first Mass.

Mom, Dad, Michelle, my nephew Matthew and I at a family barbecue in 1998.