"Death is swallowed up (utterly vanquished forever) in and unto victory."  I Corinthians 15:54b TAB

Her room in the nursing home was large as rooms in nursing homes go.  As an added bonus she was the only resident.  She still had all her mental faculties and was able to walk around as she wanted to.  At 90+ years she was doing better than most I'd met in her age bracket.  So, here we sat, I on her bed, she in her chair, staring each other down.

"I'm the chaplain and I just want to visit with you if it's okay," I explained.

"I'd rather be alone," she said.  "I'm used to being alone and I like it."

She was speaking the truth.  She was widowed after 60+ years of marriage.  She and her husband had lived on a ranch and had never had any children.  They were each others joy.  Following his death she had lived on the ranch alone -- an aloneness that she relished and embraced.  She tended her flowers, chickens and ducks, sewed, and was active in her church.  One by one the friends she and her husband had died and she was truly alone.  I didn't know that at the time of our meeting.  It was only after months of persistent visiting, practicing active listening and the ministry of presence that the details of her life had come out.  Oh, she had family.  Two nephews who insisted she move "into town" as she was getting older and they were concerned about her out on the ranch alone.  So her world had shrunk from several hundred acres to this room.  She worked through the feelings of hurt, anger, resentment, and finally came to the place of resignation. 

She began to look forward to my visits.  Once or twice a month I'd pop in and we'd read the local paper together.  After all those years of living in the area, she could back fill any story the paper wrote with the personalities and histories of the people involved.  We'd talk about her flowers and how she loved to sew clothes.  She told me about the old church traditions she grew up with -- one of her favorites being the Easter Monday dance to celebrate the end of Lent (when dancing was strictly forbidden!).  Sometimes I would catch her playing bingo in the activity room and know she was settling in, in spite of herself.

On occasion we'd talk about her husband and their lives together.  It was obvious she missed him and looked forward to their eventual reunion.  Those were the times we talked openly about dying and what that would look like to her.  One day she turned to me and said, "I want to die alone.  I don't want anyone to have to experience that with me."  Protesting I questioned her, "are you sure you mean that?  I can't imagine anyone wanting to die alone."  Gently over time I would explore what she meant by the desire to die alone coming to the conclusion she didn't want to be a bother.  As a little girl growing up on a ranch she had learned not to be conspicuous or be a bother.  It was in her marriage she had found someone who wanted to spoil her but now that person was gone and she was back to her childhood habit of not leaving too big an imprint on the world.  I alerted her family and her pastor about her wanting to die alone feeling they could affirm her worth to her and share how they felt about her desire to be alone on her deathbed. 

"Sunny, you need to come now," the CNA's voice on the other end of the phone wobbled.  "She doesn't look right and I just can't leave her like this." 

I mumbled something, grabbed my bag and ran out the door -- stopping at the SW's office to tell them what was happening before I left.

As I entered the room, I saw in a glance it was the end.  She was in her bed, clean from the bath the CNA had just given her, shrunken in the space.  The CNA was holding her hand and looked at me with troubled eyes.  I sank next to the bed and took her other hand.  Speaking softly the CNA brought me up to speed on her changes in condition, nodding I began to sing one of her favorite songs to her.  A song that her husband would sing to her.  She was unresponsive but her hand fluttered for a second.  A facility nurse came in to take her vital signs and told us her family was en route.   We nodded our understanding and I kept singing. 

"Your nephew is on his way," I whispered.  "Can you hold on for him?"  Nothing.  "Do you see Jesus?  I think He is waiting for you."  A furrowed eyebrow.  "Do you see your husband?  He should be there with Jesus.  He is waiting for you too."  A sigh and deep breath.  Her last.  As she took her last breath, her nephew threw himself into the room and took my place at her side.  "She waited for me," he choked out gratefully.  "She waited for me." 

I'm not sure if she was waiting for her nephew or her spouse, but I am so glad she didn't die alone.

Lord, thank you for letting me experience the sacredness of this woman's life and her death.  Thank you for reminding me that no matter how solitary we think we are or how alone we want to be, we are all connected to each other and to You.  Help me to always remember that dying is as important as living.  Amen.