As a hospital chaplain, most of the patients I visit with return to the lives they have known, generally feeling much better than the day they arrived. It is a privilege to be with them at any stage of their journey: calming jitters before surgery, helping them find strength for healing and recovery, offering blessings for a safe transition home. It feels like an even greater privilege, though, to accompany patients and their families through their final passage in life.

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One morning, as I built my patient list for the day, I noted that Frieda, a 93-year-old, had transitioned to “comfort care” and was expected to die in the hospital. As I approached the door to her room, her daughter, Janet, stepped out to refill her coffee from the cart outside. I introduced myself and let her know that chaplains were available if she wanted someone to be with. She nodded numbly and went back into the room.

An hour later I received a page informing me that Frieda had just died and Janet would like a chaplain to come to the room.

I arrive and find Frieda reclined in her bed, looking very peaceful. Janet is seated bedside, stroking her hand. I pull up a chair next to Janet; she extends her free hand to me, and I take it.

“I’m going to miss her so much,” Janet begins. “She was my best friend. We’ve talked every day for years.”

“That’s really hard, Janet. Sitting here, I can feel the love between you. What would you like me to know about Frieda?”

“She was a very simple person. She grew up poor and never had much use for money, but we always had what we needed. She lived on a few acres of land outside of town, gardening and keeping horses and goats, though lately she’s only had a cat.”

“Just looking at her, I can easily imagine everything you’ve told me. I’m sorry I never had a chance to know her.”

Janet tells me that the great heartbreak of Frieda’s life was losing a teenage daughter—Janet’s sister—in an auto accident many years ago. She says Frieda has made arrangements to be buried alongside her daughter. We talk for a few minutes more, then Janet asks if I can say a prayer.

“What can you tell me about Frieda’s faith or beliefs, so I can offer prayer in a way that honors her?”

“I don’t know, I guess Christian, though we never went to church and she never talked about it. But after we were grown up and she was living on her own, she started wearing this …”

Janet reaches out and cups in the palm of her hand a locket hanging around her mother’s neck. She presses on one side and it pops open, revealing a Christian cross inside.

“That seems like a pretty big hint as to what kind of prayer she’d appreciate,” I say, and Janet smiles. So I take Frieda’s hand, completing the circle, and offer a prayer of thanks for this beautiful child of God who brought so much light into the world in her 93 years.

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Later that day I greet William, a seriously ill 80-year-old moved to the ICU after a Code Blue earlier in the week. His status remains “Full Code,” so the staff will attempt to resuscitate him if his heart stops again. William is intubated but alert; he greets me with his eyes but cannot speak. A somewhat younger woman is seated beside him; she confirms she is Beverly, his wife. She thanks me for coming but says she has no needs at the time, so I depart.

Near the end of the day I take one more pass through the ICU, and I note William’s status has changed to “DNAR”—do not attempt resuscitation. As I am leaving the unit I run into Beverly in the hall.

“I’m sorry I was short with you earlier. Your colleague was so kind and helpful to me after Bill’s Code. I just wanted to tell you I appreciate your work. I’ve been in and out of hospitals with William for six years now.”

“Six years … he must be a pretty special guy,” I say with a smile. Beverly turns to face me directly.

“I’ve been married three times, and I will tell you that William is without a doubt the kindest, most loving man I have ever known. When we met, he took on my four children as if they were his own, and they love him to this day as if he were their father.”

“How many years have you been together, Beverly?”

“Thirty-seven years now, and I have loved every minute.”

I extended my hand and she took it. “That’s something very much worth celebrating. I’m happy for you that you have known such joy. What a gift!”

Beverly pulled herself into my chest and sobbed gently as I held her. “It’s so hard to come to the end, but you’re right, I have been blessed.”

Beverly then stood back, straightened herself up, and said “Well, I must head back. Thanks again for caring and listening.”

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I have heard it said that when a person dies, the thin veil between this world and the next parts briefly so they can pass through to the other side. While this notion doesn’t work for me theologically, I can’t deny that as a metaphor this resonates for me.

It is my experience that there is often an extraordinary quality to the time surrounding a death, when the light and love at the core of a person’s being comes to the forefront and is beheld by all present. That’s not to diminish the sadness of a person’s death, or to deny the complex, sometimes contradictory emotions we often feel toward a loved one. It’s just that these feelings often recede in the moment, leaving us filled with awe and gratitude for that person’s life and for the gifts they bestowed upon us.

My work as a chaplain is to help grieving people notice this phenomenon when it occurs, and to offer them space to give voice to what they see and feel as they accompany a loved one through death. I don’t feel what they feel, as these are not my loved ones, but I am blessed to bear witness to the love in the room, to share in the light pouring through from the parting of the veil. It fills me with hope for all I have yet to see for myself.