That particular morning his eyes were more alert than they’d been for some time; even radiant! His demeanor was placid and very agreeable. He had reached the point of not eating much, but instead of the usual grumbling when offered a sip of water or a few spoonfuls of chocolate pudding, he simply responded, “Not just yet, thank you. Maybe in a little bit,” then he flashed a genuine smile.

Throughout the afternoon he sat in bed, not slumped over, but upright and engaged. He joked and carried on conversations. If one had not known his condition and arrived on the spot, they never would have guessed he suffered almost ten years with dementia. He was sharp and witty—just like he was when I was young.

Maybe it was the effects of the Anointing of the Sick conferred on him by our parish priest who came the night before to administer the sacrament. (In the old days they called it Last Rites.) Dad received this anointing many times during his multiple visits to the hospital in the last ten years and, oddly enough, bounced back each time. We all wondered if this would be the case in the coming days.

According to the Catechism of the Catholic Church (1520), The Anointing of the Sick is a particular gift of the Holy Spirit. The first grace of this sacrament is one of strengthening, peace and courage to overcome the difficulties that go with the condition of serious illness or the frailty of old age. This grace is a gift of the Holy Spirit, who renews trust and faith in God and strengthens against the temptations of the evil one, the temptation to discouragement and anguish in the face of death. This assistance from the Lord by the power of his Spirit is meant to lead the sick person to healing of the soul, but also of the body if such is God’s will. Furthermore, “if he has committed sins, he will be forgiven.”

Having been forgiven of any sin on his soul and refreshed with peace to dispel any fear of meeting his heavenly Father, Dad spent this day giving us his best.

The date was Tuesday, February 20, 2018. Five days before, my father was put on hospice. He was fighting a losing battle with a urinary tract infection that became resistant to antibiotics. The months preceding had been extremely difficult. Hallucinations began to appear as a result of these infections (a common symptom in seniors), and they usually occurred at night. Multiple times he would yell out in fear, and each time I’d run to his room to calm him for an hour or so before the scenario repeated.

During these wearisome times, I would often call on my dear friend and mother figure, Coleene. Not only was she a pivotal influence in forming my Catholic faith after I returned to the Church, she also worked in facilities specializing in catering to dementia patients and for many years took care of her own mom who suffered with Alzheimer’s. She was my source of knowledge and support as I learned how to deal with the onset and progression of Dad’s dementia.

Coleene passed away unexpectedly four months prior to this particular day. It was an emotional loss for me because I sought her wisdom in many things—especially those that were faith related. With hopes she was enjoying eternity in paradise, I’d often pray for her intercession during those nights sitting with Dad. “Coleene, you can see what I’m going through with him. Help me have the strength to keep this up.” Or “Coleene, I know I’m not doing this the way you taught me, but I’m so tired. Please, please, please, help me have patience!” In some small way I usually received solace and felt she was looking down on me; she knew exactly what I was going through, and I’m sure if she had the ability to help, she was doing her part.

Hospice workers say it’s common for people to rally one last time at the end of their life. That Tuesday was Dad’s day. The following morning, he was back to his distant self: eyes glassed over, unwilling to talk, and he spent the entire day sleeping.

Two of his friends who are deacons in the San Diego diocese came to pray with him and bless him. Dad barely opened his eyes to acknowledge their visits, giving only a weary smile. By six o’clock that evening his breathing began to get shallow. After calling the hospice nurse, Mike and I spent the time until she arrived at his bedside on folding chairs. We prayed the rosary as Dad held my right hand.

The hospice nurse arrived around eight. Dad could no longer communicate with us. His breathing deteriorated into a gurgle. I was familiar with that horrid sound as I witnessed my mother, many years earlier, die of lung cancer. His lungs began to fill with fluid, and I prayed the morphine the nurse administered made his labored breathing as painless as possible.

By 10:30, Dad had declined rapidly. I called his caregiver, Mireya, who came immediately. She’d become like another daughter to him; helping in his care for the past seven years. She stood to his left, holding his hand, as I remained to his right.

It was around midnight when I prayed one last prayer out loud and hoped Dad could hear. “Dear heavenly Father, please do not let Daddy suffer. Please take away any fear he may have of meeting you. Let him know how much you love him. Send our Blessed Mother to greet him and accompany him during this transition, and make it swift so he doesn’t have to continue in any pain. Also, make sure Daddy knows how much we all love him.”

Within minutes his breathing worsened. All of a sudden his eyes opened wide as he fixed his gaze intensely on something just above him for about one to two minutes. Shortly after closing them, he took his hands (which had been resting on the bed at his side, cradled in Mireya’s hand and mine) and brought them to his chest, holding them close to his heart, all the while squeezing as if to give us one final hug. We stood there watching.

Over the next hour, I noticed the involuntary movements his body made as it began to shut down. Every few minutes he would have a slight shift forward, his body tensed, then he’d relax. It appeared he was going through a series of contractions. Dad reminded me of a woman in childbirth.

A baby within the womb feels safe and comfortable, lulled by its mother’s voice and movements, not lacking in anything according to its understanding. It has no idea what’s beyond that space. The process of being born is arduous and traumatic. Imagine being pushed through a dark tunnel toward light that’s so bright it’s blinding.

Yet, when that child arrives into the world, it no longer must imagine the creatures from whom the voices come. It now gets to look into its parent’s eyes, see their smiles, and be met with welcoming arms, kissed, and showered with affection. The love received is tenfold what it experienced in the womb!

So it must be with death. We know only this world and like our comfortable space here. When the labor pains of death begin, we get anxious. The unknown can be terrifying. But once delivered into the afterlife, those united with Christ will be welcomed into his safe arms, showered with affection, and the love we receive will be far beyond anything we’ve experienced in this life.

In a perfect world, parents are meant to mirror the image of our heavenly Father. Through their example, their child learns of God’s love. At least, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Unfortunately, our world isn’t perfect. Sin is present, and therefore we all fall short of being perfect examples of love. But for a time, when that newborn lies in the arms of its parents, he’s experiencing the kind of God’s utopia we hope to experience again one day in heaven.

While the movements my dad made may have upset some, they were, for me, a reminder of the beautiful world my father was soon to transition into. With each contraction, he moved a little more out of this world and into the paradise Jesus promises all those who wish to be with him.

I remember a conversation Dad and I had years after he returned to the faith. It was about heaven and hell—specifically, about his fear of dying and of not being sure what to expect. I reminded him that every day a Catholic Mass is celebrated in just about every town throughout the world. They all follow the same liturgical calendar, the same scriptures are read, the same Eucharistic celebration is offered, and the same prayers are prayed. If he were to go on vacation, or travel out of town on business, he could enter any Catholic church anywhere, and the liturgy would be the same one he’s attended in our church for years (except, of course, for nuances like the music and such).

The building might be different and the people around him unfamiliar, but the feeling of meeting Jesus at the altar and becoming one with him in Holy Communion would be familiar. I explained that the same peace, joy, and feeling of being loved he’s come to experience at Mass will be the same he’ll experience once he’s reunited with Jesus in heaven, but even better! Because he’s come to know and love the person of Jesus over the years, he’s already developed a friendship. It will be as if an old friend met you at the airport in a foreign country to help you navigate through the unfamiliar surroundings.

When we first met the person who would become our closest friend, we didn’t immediately trust them. Chances are, it took many encounters, long talks, spending quality time together, enjoying fun and exciting things, and being there for support through the hard times before you realized they were safe to trust. I’ve even had friends who, in the beginning before I got to know them, weren’t people I wanted to be around but later turned out to be some of my closest confidants.

Because I’ve spent years learning who Jesus is, and how he lived and acted, I’ve come to recognize his voice and the sense of his presence. And because of this, my image of God has changed from a stern and just ruler to that of a warm and gentle Father who knows everything about me; how my heart loves and what my mind thinks. He knows the intent behind both the good and bad I do, what passions and fears I have, and how best to motivate me or caution me from acting. And because he knows me so well, he continues to provide in all the areas where I’m in need. To be a recipient of his bounteous goodness (especially when I haven’t deserved it) is humbling. When I die, I look forward to running up to him, climbing onto his lap, giving him a hug, and thanking him for being such a generous Father!

I believe this is how God wants us to look at him; yet many don’t because either they fear him or don’t believe he’s real. Many will stand at those figurative pearly gates and choose not to enter.

At the time of our death, it’s been reported that we get to see an overview of our lives; all the good we’ve done and its ripple effects, as well as all the times we’ve made imprudent choices and how those impacted others. If we don’t have a good understanding of God’s limitless mercy, we can easily become despondent from recognizing the dirt and filth that covers our soul.

This awakening will be like arriving at a glitzy Hollywood awards show in ratty overalls covered in mud and excrement, reeking of the stench of spending days traipsing waist-deep in a septic tank. Most of us (if not all) would feel out of place and refuse to ascend the red carpet looking (and smelling) like that.

But, in his infinite mercy, God provides a place to get cleaned up before meeting Him. (We call it purgatory, which comes from the medieval Latin word purgatorium, meaning “place of cleansing.”) He knows when we are shown the filmstrip of our lives at the moment of our death, we will come to recognize how unworthy we are to share in the splendor of heaven.

Because his mercy is beyond our comprehension, and because he doesn’t want to be separated from any soul he’s created, he gives us a place to clean up from the stains of our pride, anger, greed, selfishness, licentiousness, and all those things we’ve done to separate ourselves from him. He knows we’d rather have the confidence of those celebrities exiting their cars in beautiful attire to walk the red carpet. Naturally, all of us would like to enter the royal ballroom with the dignity of princes and princesses. All that is needed is our humility, a sincere apology for our ghastly appearance, and desire to be cleaned up and be reunited with the King.

As I told Dad, there will be those who will take one look at themselves and become disheartened; they will refuse God’s generous mercy and choose not to enter heaven. He gives us that choice. There will be others whose pride is so unbending they will refuse to humble themselves before God. Sadly, they will spend eternity in a great abyss of unrelenting pain, fire, anguish, and darkness. The pity of it all is that these are the ones, who in this life, wanted most to be loved, yet they ran the farthest from the source of it.

Though there is no biblical account of what heaven will be like, one can Google “afterlife experiences,” and a plethora of stories will come up of unconnected people, throughout many generations, who have medically died and crossed over to the other side. While each person’s story is unique in detail, they all have these things in common: They experienced a place of intense beauty. The things they saw, the music they heard, and the people with whom they interacted had an indescribable brilliance. There was no sickness or pain, only joy and mutual love. Communication was strikingly clear and received with a totality of understanding. The place gave these people a sense of peace they never experienced before; so much so, they did not want to return to this world.

The other thing all their stories had in common was, once they returned to this world, their lives changed. Because they had a concrete knowledge of a heavenly realm and of God, a mother figure, and other family and friends who were present in the afterlife, they realized much in this life is insignificant. The only thing that really matters is love, and in order to have and give it in its most pure form, one must be connected to its source.

Dad and I had spoken of death many times before that day. I reminded him of the good things on the other side, including my mom, who most likely missed him since her passing in 1989, and our other friends and family members.

For years I prayed when my father’s time came, God would allow him to pass peacefully at home. I didn’t want him to be in a facility that was unfamiliar. I also didn’t want him in pain. Until that day he had very little pain. Both of my prayers were granted.

Mireya, Mike, the nurses, and I continued to watch Dad in the bedroom of our home he occupied for twenty-three years, reflecting on the memories we had with him and thanking God for all the small blessings. Upon his final breath, the nurse called his time of death, “February 22, 2018, 1:25 a.m.” It was odd how it hit me, like a bolt of lightning illuminating the room: February 22 was my friend Coleene’s birthday. I smiled. How intimately our lives (and deaths) are interwoven!

Yes, Lord, death can be a beautiful thing. Where is its sting when we have the promise of something greater? On this one year anniversary of the day my daddy returned to you, may he be smiling with my mom, Coleene, and those who live in the brilliant beauty of your heavenly kingdom. And may they all be like giddy children receiving your constant love.