When we talk about loved ones and how they lived their lives, we cannot ignore their spirituality. The dictionary defines spirituality as the vital animating essence of a person. These brief stories may shed some light on recognizing and honoring this essence.
Even though I was married to Collette for more than forty-four years, truthfully, I had no idea how she felt about her faith. We were both raised as Catholics, and our faith was a vital part of our everyday family life. Collette, however, was not one to share her feelings.
I like to share my feelings, but I learned, early on in our marriage, to respect that restrained part of Collette’s personality. I have no doubt that she lived according to her beliefs, but she never did articulate them. What I do know is that she was a good person who was faithful to her commitment to church, family, and me.

When time became short for Collette, I often thought about her life, our faith, and my wish that we had been able to talk about what life and death had in store for both of us. The only things that Collette told me were that she didn’t fear death and that, indeed, she didn’t mind dying because she couldn’t live in her body as ill as it was. These were important things for me to hear, but I longed for deeper communication about spiritual matters.

Then one night, just after we turned out the light, she turned to me and said, “I was just wondering how my next life is going to be.” I held her as she drifted gently off to sleep. At that very moment I realized that this remarkable woman, mother of five wonderful children, was going to be just fine. Almost at the end of our life together, she opened a tiny window and gave me a glimpse of her spiritual landscape.

****

I met Alice in Victoria in early 1941. We liked each other but soon understood that it would be best if our relationship continued as a friendship one. When Collette and I married in December of 1942, Alice was the first person whom Collette met here in Victoria. In 1943, Alice met and married Rome. After the war, we all settled down in Victoria and continued our friendship.
Two years before Collette’s death, Rome died of a sudden heart attack. At the same time, we learned that Collette had a mass of small tumors in both lungs. It was a terrible time for both families.

After Collette’s death, Alice and I spent many a pleasant evening visiting friends and families. We shared a passion for Dixieland music and attended many events at Herman’s Dixieland Inn in Victoria. The annual Dixieland Jazz weekend was one of the highlights of the time that we spent together.

Suddenly, Alice was taken ill for no apparent reason. Her diagnosis was multiple melanoma. Her health deteriorated rapidly. Alice eagerly sought every avenue of care for her condition. It was as if she never even entertained a thought that her life might be in danger. Upon reflection, I now realize that Alice feared death.

About a month before she died, Alice began to talk about her spiritual beliefs. In all the years that I had known her, she had never mentioned that part of her life. We shared long talks about life, beliefs, and church experiences. Alice wanted to express her beliefs but not in a Church setting. I suggested that she allow me to contact a clergyman of her choice, but she refused. I reminded Alice that Victoria Hospice had a Spiritual Coordinator whom I respected, but she refused to see him.

At one point, Alice told me that she wanted to believe what I believed. We talked about her observation. I reminded her that while we shared the same sense of responsibility to our families and knowledge about the difference between right and wrong, our beliefs about God and life after death were both different and our own.

I desperately wanted Alice to be at peace with her own spirituality, and I knew it would be wrong to impose mine on her. I then remembered my friend, Eileen King, who at that time was executive secretary to the board at Victoria Hospice. The two women became friends from the first moment I brought Eileen to visit Alice. Eileen had much experience with seriously ill people at Hospice, and I am sure that background enabled her to help Alice to become more at peace. I never intruded on their visits, and I have no idea what was discussed.

When Alice left the hospital simply because there was nothing more to be done, it was a sad day for all of us. I shared her last few days with her family. Eileen continued to visit when she was able. One night, quite late, Eileen led me into the living room, saying that she wanted to visit with Alice alone. After what seemed to be a long time, Eileen came out and said that Alice was asleep.

I returned early the next morning and sat quietly until Alice awakened. I asked if she had enjoyed Eileen’s visit and received a slow smile in return. Then I asked Alice to tell me what Eileen had said. After a very long time, Alice turned her face toward me and said, “She gave me a message from God.”

Those were her last words. I was mesmerized by the expression of this wonderful woman whose calm and gentle face spoke of an inner peace and understanding that was uniquely her own and reflective of her window on spirituality.

****

Most families have a friend resembling Chrissie, a very nice person who, nonetheless, manages to be an irritant at times. She never did anything really mean or wrong, but she certainly knew precisely when, where, and whose buttons to push. I used to compare Chrissie to the tooth that twinges every now and then just to remind one of its presence.

Chrissie’s husband, Tudor, and I were both members of the Naden Band during the war. We were very good friends. The four of us spent a lot of time together over the years, but it was always apparent that Chrissie was more my friend than Collette’s. Now and then, Chrissie would put me on that little list she kept handy for folks who had incurred her displeasure. As usual at such times, I never knew what I had done, and dear Collette would say that I was on my own. Then, out of the blue, usually in the wee hours of the night, Chrissie would phone for a chat, and I would realize that my name was off the hit list once again.

Tudor died far too young. We were avid baseball fans, and I still feel badly that Tudor never did see Toronto win back-to-back World Series.  Collette died a year after
Tudor, and about a year later, Chrissie had a recurrence of the tumor that ultimately caused her death.

Chrissie spent some time in the Jubilee Hospital. We knew that she had but a short time to live. The day that she was supposed to go home, she flatly refused to be moved anywhere but to Hospice. Fortunately, a bed was available.

At this point, I need to give you some background about Chrissie if only to set the scene for the rest of this story. She refused to become emotional about anything. She had very little time for religion, and she was always cute about taking little digs at our Catholic Church and the rituals that were important to our family. At times, I wondered why on earth we put up with her barbs, but Tudor was such a dear friend that I didn’t want anything to taint our friendship.

Now, Chrissie was in Hospice, and I visited her every day. The talk invariably drifted to her death and what she wanted done. At first, she wanted absolutely nothing to recognize her passage. “Just burn me up and forget all that other stuff,” was the gist of her attitude. A man of great patience, I nodded at the right times, and the days passed.

A few days later, Chrissie allowed that a funeral would be nice if only to make her death easier for the rest of us. Days passed; it was now just fine to have some flowers. In fact, I was given a detailed list of flower choices. The flowers would have to resemble the Queen’s wedding bouquet because Chrissie, much to my amazement, revealed herself as a fierce monarchist.
More days passed, and I received her permission for a clergyman to say the usual prayers, but the service, itself, was definitely not to be overdone. We then spent some time picking out hymns and a reading or two.

Then came the kicker! Chrissie whipped out a piece of paper and announced that she had written her own eulogy. I was instructed to read it at her funeral. I was quite shocked by this turn of events! Fortunately, I had both the intestinal fortitude and enough Chrissie experience to muster the courage to say that it would be a strange day when I would read the eulogy she had written instead of the one that I wanted to give.

Then a strange thing happened. Chrissie simply said, “Yes, John.” Her concession was followed by a pregnant pause before Chrissie finally acknowledged the fact that she trusted me enough to say the right things.

A couple of days later, I had my second heart attack, and while some clever doctors and nurses were saving my life, Chrissie died. The good people at Hospice prepared my eulogy for me, and another friend read it at Chrissie’s funeral.

When I think of Chrissie I remember the important lesson that she taught me. Here was a person who never once suggested that she had a single spiritual bone in her body. She didn’t demonstrate a commitment to any kind of religious inclination, at least not that we could see. Perhaps she just couldn’t let anyone into her private world. Chrissie made me realize that every one possesses spirituality in some form. It may not present as a version that we recognize easily through the window, but the evidence is there all the same.

****

During the Christmas season, Victoria Hospice holds an interdenominational celebration of the lives of those cared for by Hospice; usually, there is a guest speaker. One year, the guest was Bishop Remi de Roo. He gave a very thoughtful talk, and then he told us this story.

I have a very dear friend whose wife died quite recently. I have known this couple for many years and enjoyed their friendship and companionship. One day, towards the end of the afternoon, I went to spend some time with my friend. He poured us both our usual scotch and ice, and we chatted for a bit about the recent past and about how we both missed his wife. When I was visiting my friends, I usually sat in ‘my chair’ while they sat on the sofa. All of a sudden I knew that my friend’s wife was sitting at the end of the sofa. I had the eerie feeling that while I knew she was there, she sat a little apart. I said nothing to my friend about my feelings which to me are real to this day. What was amazing was that I could not see her, but I knew she was there. My friend and I visited for some time, and I was continually drawn to the end of the sofa. When I was ready to leave, I was conscious that his wife was leaving, and the moment passed. Once again, I had the wonderful feeling that I was privileged to have been part of one of the great mysteries that somehow we must accept but not necessarily understand.

Some time later I met Bishop de Roo and asked him for a copy of his talk. After a thoughtful pause he said, “John, I didn’t know what I was going to talk about until I stood up. It would be difficult for me even to remember correctly what I talked about. It came from my heart, and you know, John, everyone in that room knew what I was talking about. We are spiritual people, and I know that our loved ones are always with us.”