Coming to terms with death

The last two weeks has been dreadful. The end of a long fight was drawing to a close and the valiant warrior was braving in out but the inevitable was close at hand. Two parents, two sister and his aunt stood over him, held his hand and prayed with him. Even to the end he held his faith and with every ounce of energy he could muster, he commanded his right hand to bless himself. 

It was about eight a.m. when the call came through. Such simple words, he passed away in his sleep at 4 a.m. The female voice trembled. I sensed tears were in her eyes. My own lips quivered and weakly I heard my voice reply, thank you, I'll pass the message on. Not long afterwards, I held my wife in my arms. Conciliation. Then own sons we had to tell. Each of us had to attempt to face our own worlds, but they no longer seemed familiar. They no longer held their imagined importance.

I heard my eldest had fought back his own tears and quickly gathered together his composure while at college. At work we reviewed the hospice video and the discussion was of the dying. Later, I had promised to attend a student film festival, to support my students for next year but the films were of death and the struggle to come to terms with the loss of loved ones and friends. I left early, not wanting to face anyone and made my way to the wake. 

I felt dread, guilt and sorrow. I had missed an opportunity to visit the hospital the night before only by a matter of minutes. Preparation for an external verifier and last minute marking. Now, twenty-four hours later I was finding myself driving to this young man's house. A car came towards me and as I pulled up to let it pass, noticed the driver and he did me. Two windows were wound down and our parish priest asked for directions. He followed me and together we entered the house, we queued and then after the priest spoke to the father my turn came.

Words at these times seem pointless, no matter what you might say they seem so shallow. Yet the gentle hug and hand on his shoulder for support seemed to pass on the message so much more affectively than any words. A prayer and goodbye to the young man yet what will remain are the memories of his humour after Armagh played at Croke Park in Dublin last year. They lost and the rain felt so much that our journey home lasted seven hours, but the passage seemed short due to the wit and commentary of our friend, now asleep and at peace after his battle.

His name is the Scottish variation of John, God's blessed but in Irish it means God's Gracious Gift. In Hebrew it means God is forgiving. To all these meanings he was to those who knew him, and now he has gone to rest. In memory of a valiant fighter whose faith saw him through a mighty struggle and was supported to the end by a devoted family, his parents, sisters and aunt. It has been a privilege to have known him and tomorrow we say our final farewell.

God bless you, Ian, God's Gracious Gift.