A holy death

Yesterday I spoke to a friend who lost her father to cancer last month. Her account of his death was so moving.

Just last year, at the Easter Vigil, her father was received into the Catholic Church. These past few months were a feast of sorts for father and daughter, sharing things of the faith that they'd never been able to share before. When her father took a sudden downward turn last month, my friend drove three hours to be with him and she was by his bedside when he slipped away. He'd had a final confession, received Last Rites, and died quietly after praying with his family.

Still, my friend (she blamed it on her Ocd) craved some kind of sign or assurance that her father was in God's arms. She went home, very late that night (I believe he died after midnight) and prayed that the Lord would give her some tiny sign that her father was truly okay. She went to bed.

The next morning, her mother (who is not Catholic) called. She said, "I don't know why, but my friend told me to be sure and tell you that today is the feast of the conversion of St. Paul."

My friend's father's name? It was Paul.