A friend and I have arrived at a nursing home in southeastern Ohio to visit a resident. We have brought along Lily, our friendly little Malti-pooh, who will provide entertainment. I have not seen the friend I am visiting in over a year. She had suffered a massive stroke about six months prior while she was an active resident of the nursing home community. This second stroke incapacitated her speech and movement of limbs. I was unable to recognize her sitting in a corner facing a window in the dining room during lunch watching maintenance workers trimming hedges under a brisk June morning sun. Her hands caress my face and, slowly, a few tears run down her cheek. I realize the stroke has paralyzed her vocal cords; there is no chance of even the slightest conversation.
Kathy and I went through novitiate together; in seniority, she was one number ahead of me which meant we were assigned to many tasks together: washing the corridors, baking communion hosts for parishes, working in the massive motherhouse kitchen. In the evenings, a group of us would stealthily rub paraffin on the bottoms of large boxes and run to the hills on the property for sled riding. In the summer we crept to the roof of the old house to watch the fireworks in town. We enjoyed similar pastimes when allowed: playing our accordions, reading purloined romance novels, playing volleyball. We both couldn’t get enough ice cream or homemade lemon pie. Everything in each of our dormitory cells was crisp and neat. She loved devotional prayers; I loved scripture. But, in our educational training, Kathy went one way and I another; she was the pragmatic teacher assigned to elementary schools, I was sent for training to teach high school and college. She spent her summers teaching in the desperately poor areas of Pittsburgh and Prince George County, Maryland. I envied her ministry and her unabated love for it as I pruned my dreamy compositions or took a hacksaw to translating the Latin in the Aeneid. She was the perfect English teacher for young children, never withholding a criticism of someone’s incorrect grammar even reminding adults that is always, “She and I” never, “Her and me.”
Eventually, Kathy left religious life but continued her dedication to teaching and to her Catholic faith. She left for very personal reasons and regretted it ever since. My major superior once asked me to try and persuade her to return and, believe me, that was a compliment of a request coming from her. Over the years we lamented Kathy’s broken engagement, supported the purchase of her small home, held her when she grieved family losses, raised a glass at her retirement party, attended her beloved polka parties at Kuzman’s. Whenever I visited her in the Youngstown area (not close to Cleveland where I live), I was amazed that clerks in the grocery store or mechanics at the gas station or librarians at the library, to name a few places, would shout to her: “Hi Miss B. How you doing?” It seemed the whole town knew Miss B.
I continue feeding her at lunch during our visit but to no avail. “Let’s try some mashed potatoes,” and after one mouthful, she would wince and turn away. The same with chicken and pudding. An aide says that’s all she ever eats. Another aide whisks her away from the table to her room for her afternoon nap. My companion, along with Lily and I, are soon at Kathy’s bedside. The room is dark, shades drawn. A large electric candle in the form of a cross faces her on the bureau at her feet. We pray with her and I tell her Jesus will come and wants her to be close to him and all who await her. She grabs my hand as if to plead, don’t leave.
Reflection
Kathy is one month older than I, a fact she always reminded me of when it came to seniority in our novitiate years. She always said she was not afraid to die because she wanted to meet Jesus and see her beloved family and friends. She was the youngest of 15 children from Polish immigrant parents and is only one of two who are left.
There is a current move among scientists in the field of gerontology to prolong life. Athletes and entertainers who do not want to age have enlisted personal efforts in securing “unproven peptides, supplements, laser therapies, electric suits, collagen powders, cryotherapies and blood infusions to extend youth and be part of an estimated $2 trillion global wellness industry,” according to Susan Dominus written for The New York Magazine, May 10, 2026. The article is thorough and the process is called “The Quest to Reverse Aging.” Dominus does not take sides but presents arguments of billionaires and global government leaders who believe that “the promise of technology will intercede between us and our deaths. This is the promise of money itself.”
It seems we need to reflect on the reality that life will ebb away from each of us; death will sweep the goodness of our souls into the presence of our loving God. Our lives will be sifted through a sieve that purifies so that only our best selves will stand before God awash in love. Tempting as it may be, we have no use for reversing the aging process. I thought of this as I turned at the door to wave goodbye to Kathy. She is being purified as she waits for God. It’s probably the last and clearest lesson she is teaching all of us.
It can be helpful not to let the vanity of money and achievement of our lives control the reality of death. Perhaps we might pray during summer’s silence for an openness to the humility it takes to accept what happens as we age and move toward our eternal journey.
Give some time these lovely days to pray for such peace.
In All Things Charity 
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