These Wednesday Witness columns essentially track what the Lord is doing in my heart and life regarding the seven Corporal Works of Mercy:
to feed the hungry
to give drink to the thirsty
to clothe the naked
to shelter the homeless
to comfort the sick
to ransom the captive (to visit prisoners)
to bury the dead
If you look closely, one of these works is not like the others: While the first six Corporal Works concern the needs and comfort of living persons, the seventh focuses on our bodily remains. As a result, it has often seemed like the work I’m least likely to carry out in any practical sense, since I am not a minister, mortician, or cemetery attendant.
As a youth not raised in the church, I never knew what to make of funerals. I understood gathering with family to remember the deceased, but that seemed to happen best at home, not at the church or funeral parlor. And no matter the skill of the mortician, the body of the departed looked deceased and unnatural. I didn’t want to process past the casket, and I never felt like I knew more than a handful of people. I never knew what to say or do.
My dad didn’t like funerals either and urged us to do as little as possible with his remains when he passed: I’ll be gone, so it won’t matter. I’m sure his attitude influenced mine.
When we moved to Minnesota in 2003, I was in the midst of my conversion, just beginning to practice the faith in earnest. Relatively early on, I realized that we were not particularly good at practicing the Corporal Works of Mercy—and like any lukewarm Christian, I began to look for little things I was doing that might “count.” When the kids began participating in Extreme Faith Camp and raising money to do so, we started mowing the old cemetery at the historic church. It was a fundraising activity to be sure, but as I drove the zero-turn mower around between the rows of lichen-crusted stones, I looked at the names and prayed for them.
Praying for the dead and maintaining the cemetery—one Spiritual and one Corporal Work. Check and check.
Of course, the more involved we became in parish life, the more opportunities I found and the more I came to value the comfort a funeral provides and the comfort I could provide. We have wept over lost children and prayed the Rosary for pillars of our parish.
As with my work with St. Vincent de Paul, often the best thing we can do is be present and open to the Holy Spirit. Then, when opportunities arise to do more, we can respond.
My father passed a year ago yesterday. I arrived at the log house in Remus, Michigan, within moments of his last breath to hold his hand and whisper my goodbye. When the hospice nurse arrived to clean and prepare him for the funeral home, she needed help. I helped lift and turn Dad’s body as needed, cradled his head, and assisted however I could. He was thin, pale, and old, yet seemed almost like a child, and I wanted to protect him.
The funeral home sent two men. One is an old friend, a devout Catholic who works for Mom’s church. They were peaceful, professional, and so respectful of us and of Dad, and it was a blessing to have them in our house.
That night when I lay down to sleep, I worried that my mind would dwell on those last images of my father on his hospice bed—but the Lord, in His mercy, prevented it, and I am grateful I was able to serve Dad in that way.
Why do I share this? I learned in those final moments with Dad that our natural response to the death of someone close to us in reverence, just as the Church teaches. My qualms about funerals and bodily remains as a young person went out the window when it came to my father. He was made in the image of God, and though his spirit had fled, the image remained, still sacred. And, if we believe the souls of the departed are immortal, this final Corporal Work is for the living, too.