A death in the family

Brother William Sibley died on Tuesday morning. He had been in gradually declining health for some years, but over the weekend he fell at least once, his temperature went up, his breathing became heavy and labored, and so the EMT squad was called, and they took him to the hospital in Kingston. Robert, the Superior, went with him, and stayed until 11pm, when he was taken from the emergency room to intensive care. He died about 7:30 in the morning.

On Tuesday morning I barely made it to Matins. I had had one of those nights that is becoming more frequent as I get older -- waking up in the middle of the night, unable to get back to sleep till 5 or so, then dead to the world until something wakes me up. In this case it was the monastery church tower bell calling us to Matins. It rings 5 minutes before the office. I leaped -- well actually, it wasn't really a leap, but it felt like it -- out of bed, dressed, and made it to the church on time. I knew something was up because Robert wasn't there, and then I saw the printed order for the Office of the Departed on the stall in front of me. No details yet, but in regard to prayer, the details can wait. Our job was to pray the Divine Office for William. And so we did.

After Matins Bede, the Prior, called us together in the sacristy to tell us what had happened. As the day went on, decisions were made, and by mid-afternoon things were pretty much in place. The funeral itself will be on Tuesday, Oct. 28. Our custom is to cremate and place the ashes in a columbarium in the crypt where Fr. Huntington's tomb is. But we also want to honor the body, so we decided to have the body brought on Wednesday afternoon for a vigil, and then to have a requiem mass instead of Vespers at 5pm. Those observances were very simple, and very moving.

When you've known someone as long as I knew William the memories are bound to be complex. He was in charge of the Guest House when I started visiting Holy Cross, and when I spent most of one summer at Holy Cross he put me to work with some of the brothers. We painted the dark wood in bright primary colors. Very 70s. It was a happy time. It's probably then I realized I might have a vocation. And then I joined, and over the years more involved interactions with William ensued. He was, among other things, Superior of OHC for 9 years.

It's no secret that William had a problem with addiction. He practically made his it his trademark. He did a lot of wonderful ministry as a result of his efforts at recovery. A lot of lives were changed for the better. I think this is what lay at the core of his gifts -- his knowledge of himself and his limitations, and his ability to be empathetic with others.

When I was a parish priest I presided at a lot of funerals. I almost always ended up saying something like this, which is true of all of us, and certainly true of William:

The human mind and heart are a mystery. Just about the time we think we know someone through and through, there's a surprise. We never know each other completely. But God does. He knows everything about us, and not only the things we have done and said and thought, but the things we might have done and said and thought, and all the infinite consequences of each of them. He knows every road not taken, and somewhere in his wisdom knows what we might have been, if only. And the miracle is, knowing all that, looking straight into our heart and knowing it complete, in fact, better than we know it ourselves, he loves us. That's the miracle.

So, end of sermon. Or at least until the next time.

The interesting thing is that as I have gone through William's death time, I find the complexities of my relationship with him softening. Perhaps at times like this God gives us the grace of a little bit of his wisdom. When someone we have been involved with much of our life dies, we can recast our minds and hearts, and in just a small way, with the eyes of God, see the person God loved and loves. I'd like the grace to do it more often and earlier.