Originally published on Altar Call.
Mary K Perkins died Monday, November 25.
Six weeks earlier she called to tell me that she had been diagnosed with cancer and that she was dying. As with everything, she was matter-of-fact and stoic. I still have the voicemail from October 15, “Hi Fr Steve, Mary K, when you have some time today, give me a ring. I have something to tell you. Bye-bye.”
I don’t think she would mind me telling you this, but our relationship wasn’t always the best. She was the only person, in 20 years of preaching, who has heckled me from the pew. Relationships are complicated things and, oftentimes, our feelings for someone else have nothing to do with the person.
Over time, those complications were simplified. And one day, while in my office, she became my grandmother and I became her grandson. She did not have any grandchildren and I no longer have any grandparents. We agreed and it was settled. As always, matter-of-fact and stoic.
She was once a dancer and, even as an octogenarian, she was ever the ballerina. Once she showed me an album of pictures and newspaper clippings. She had a dance studio in St Louis and worked extensively with the school for the deaf in the city. She helped the students speak by helping them coordinate sounds with movement. They were performing plays and speaking with the help of bodily movement. Extraordinary.
In the past six weeks, I was at her home four times. With each, she made further preparations for her death. I’m not speaking about legal matters or financial matters. She made preparations by watching the birds on her deck. The female cardinals would come first, she said, and then the boys would come in. There were also the squirrels and the dances for dominance they all put on for the birdseed. It occurred to me that when you know time is short, you notice everything. I realized how much I never noticed. Before she closed her eyes for the final time, they were wide open to the world around her.
Twice she received Holy Communion. The last time, four days before her death, she spontaneously said the words of administration with me: “The Body of Our Lord Jesus Christ which is given for thee, preserve thy body and soul in everlasting life. Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on him in thy heart by faith, with thanksgiving.” Normally I would have reminded her that those were, in fact, my lines. But at this moment, these were, in fact, hers.
I try to always bring a crucifix with me when I visit the sick and especially in giving Communion. This one was a large crucifix, made of wood. She admired it the first time I gave her Communion and when she did so again, I asked if she wanted it. “I do.”
As long as I live I will never forget what happened next. She took the crucifix, looked at her Lord, and kissed him on the mouth. I hugged her and told her I loved her. As I showed myself out, her final words hung in the air, “And I love you.”
Days later I anointed her and commended her soul to God, “Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world…”. An hour later, she did.
I feel compelled and empowered to share these beautiful moments because she was, according to our arrangement, my grandmother. I did not have the privilege to know her for the vast majority of her life. But I knew her well as she prepared to die. And she taught me so much.
Before I left, I said good-bye. And thank you.
Today I will look for the birds. And tonight I will kiss Our Lord.