Thank you, Bishop Jugis, for the Year of St. Joseph. He is the patron and protector of the Church, patron of the sick and patron of fathers, among many other titles. But another patronage may have puzzled some of you as it did me, at least when I first heard of it: patron of a “happy death.”
Over the years I have lectured on and written books about grief, what it is, and the many ways it manifests itself in our lives. So, naturally, I have an interest in St. Joseph, but when I first heard of this patronage, I thought it a little odd. I was thinking from the viewpoint of those left behind. Aside from the great sadness and sorrow that accompany the death of a loved one, I could relate to the relief felt at the death of someone who has struggled through a protracted illness. But a happy death?
A priest friend laments the infrequency of black vestments and the true sorrow that comes with losing someone you love for the modern trend of wearing bright colors and “celebrating” one’s life. He is of the mind, and I agree, that we lose something personally and as a culture when we don’t express our sorrow. So the prospect of a “happy death,” though it might fit the modern mindset, somehow didn’t ring true for me. When I think of my own death I am fearful and anxious, not having grown spiritually enough to be at peace with the great and mysterious inevitability.
I remember my father calling the family together when we were looking for nationally known clinics that might help discover more about his chronic illness. He informed us he wouldn’t be traveling all over the country or looking for any more “expert” doctors. Then he said something to us all I’ll never forget. He said, “Listen, family, I don’t enjoy the prospect of dying, not in the least. But all of you need to know, I’m not afraid of death.” And then, not too long after that, it happened: in bed with his beloved wife beside him, his sons all around him, having just been present at a Mass in his bedroom said by his best friend of 30 years and having received the last rites, my father took his last breath.
Fifteen years later, in the same bed, my mother decided to lie down after breakfast. She asked her nurse if the man who was the caretaker of her property had had anything to eat. This was a man she had known for nearly 40 years, a man who had been with her father-in-law and her husband at their death beds. The nurse laughed and said he ate anytime he wanted, just like she did. And so my mother, after inquiring genuinely about the well-being of another, laughed and then drifted off the sleep, never to wake up.
Both of my parents taught me the meaning of a happy death. I saw its possibility. I am careful not to say that was their reward for being the wonderful and saintly people they were. Some saints die in great pain and horrific suffering. Though even then, I’m not sure exactly when the word “happy” kicks in. But their deaths gave me a context for this, yet another of the beautiful patronages of St. Joseph.
But why a happy death? It is assumed that Joseph died in the presence of Jesus and Mary, perhaps even in their loving arms. How, then, could it be otherwise? Isn’t that what we all long for, to die in the presence of pure goodness personified in Our Lord and in His Mother? Perhaps when my time comes, their light will shine forth in the presence of my own family, my dear loved ones. Perhaps when I attend the deathbed of the dying, I will be able to sense the quiet intercession of the solemn, loving hero of the carpenter’s shop where the incarnate God, his foster Son, looked up to him in deference and affection. And in his last breath the saint returned that very look, in a happy death.
Fred Gallagher is an author and editor-in-chief with Gastonia-based Good Will Publishers Inc.