The death of her classmate in fourth grade helped this author discover the Communion of Saints.
I no more questioned being Catholic than I would have questioned the existence of my brothers and sister. It wasn’t always easy. I grew up in a northern town inhabited mostly by those of Scandinavian and, hence, Lutheran descent. The school and church I attended were even named after the Norwegian St. Olaf. It’s not that anybody was cruel about it—I didn’t hear the term mackerel snapper until I had moved away, some 15 years later—but we were definitely in the minority. Being Catholic was more a matter of what you weren’t, specifically Lutheran or Mormon, than a matter of what you were.
Mass was a given, as was abstaining from meat on Fridays. My mother and grandmother each had a kitchen Madonna, who calmly looked at us from behind the ruby-glass votive candleholder. I felt God’s presence, and I felt the Blessed Mother listening when I was worried about something.
But certain things, such as Pentecost, why Jesus had to suffer, what the Holy Spirit really was, mystified me. I knew they had to be true. Even then, I knew that the great minds of history had believed in all these things. But I couldn’t feel them; I didn’t know them.
I was afraid someone would realize that I was faking it, so I just didn’t say anything. All that changed in my ninth year, though—the year of fourth grade and the year of Larry’s funeral.
Grade School Memories
I was two years past what was considered the “age of reason.” I had made my First Communion, walking under the crossed swords and plumed hats of the Knights of Columbus in a dress that my mother made for me. I had knelt, afraid but excited, in the sweltering box of the confessional.
I was starting to realize that life could be dangerous. People could get sick. People could commit mortal sins. My parents could die. On the playground at St. Olaf’s, our games had become more sophisticated.
We no longer played chase-me games or dodgeball. Instead, we played wedding, funeral, what famous person would you like to be or cheerleader. I always got to be the priest, owing to my ability to memorize long wedding preambles stolen from television shows. Even at our tender age, distinct personalities had emerged. Billy was already a ladies’ man, able to flirt without being teased by the other boys.
Dawn, who wore the shortest uniform and had an endless supply of exotically colored stockings, was a quiet beauty whom all the boys longed for and all the girls envied. Rick was a short athletic terror, making up in grit what he lacked in height. I was considered a “brain” because of my glasses and the special permission I had received to check books out from the adult library.
Larry, however, was a mystery. He had clear blue eyes and thick, blondish hair. He never seemed to misbehave, yet he wasn’t a goody-goody. The girls liked him because of his good manners. The boys liked him, too—at least, I never heard them tease him. Whenever he joined in a ballgame, he tried so hard that his milk-white cheeks would turn tomato-red.
He looked like the pictures of a “Good Boy” that were in our children’s Bible. He was quiet but friendly. He was neither pudgy nor bony. He made meant when she said, “Still waters run deep.”
Confronting Death
One day at Friday morning Mass, Larry fainted right after taking Communion. We were all aghast—every child we had ever met was healthy. Children didn’t faint; only adults did—pregnant women or old ladies standing too long in the sun at the parish picnic.
Larry started to miss a lot of school. Our teacher, Mrs. Horne, started adding his name to the daily prayer petitions, which we listed right after the Pledge of Allegiance, the Our Father and the Hail Mary. Mrs. Horne was a stout, motherly woman who never raised her voice. She said that Larry had Hodgkin’s disease, but everyone hoped that he would get better. We made him get-well cards in class. We felt confident he would recover.
My father’s father was a doctor, and at that point in my life I was hoping to become one, too. So I went home and looked up Hodgkin’s disease in the huge Parents’ Guide to Childhood Diseases book that my mother kept under the couch for easy reference. Cancer of the lymph nodes, it said. I knew what lymph nodes were. I had a vague notion of what cancer was.
Prognosis is poor, said the entry. I asked my grandfather what prognosis is poor meant. Grandpa was a country doctor with a fine clinical mind. He didn’t ask why I was asking the question. He answered matter-of-factly that it meant the likelihood of recovery was small, barring a miracle.
I asked what Hodgkin’s disease was. Grandpa described the symptoms, the means of diagnosis and treatment. I started to pray for Larry at night, before I went to sleep. One morning Mrs. Horne announced that Larry had died. The news startled me. Even though I was praying for him every night, it had been so long since Larry had been in class that I couldn’t really remember what he looked like. He had become an abstract idea, like the pagan children in Africa or China.
All of a sudden, I realized that I knew someone who had died. Mrs. Horne said we should be happy for Larry. He was in heaven now with Jesus; there was no doubt. Larry had been a good boy, too young to have committed any serious sins. He was looking down on us now. I felt very sad, but whether for Larry or for myself, I couldn’t be sure.
Meeting the Communion of Saints
It was sunny on the day of the funeral. I was surprised. In the movies, it always rained on funerals. The entire school attended the service. Because Larry was from our class, we got to sit right behind the family, instead of our usual fourth-grade place near the back of the church.
We all said the Rosary before Mass started. “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord,” intoned Sister Paulette, the principal, “and let perpetual light shine upon him.”
I don’t remember any of the readings. I watched Larry’s mother, a plump woman with the same milky complexion Larry had had, and Larry’s older brothers. They cried quietly when they cried at all. Most of the members of the class were crying, even the boys. I sniffed and looked down at my black stockings and fiddled with my rosary. I couldn’t wait to go to Communion, because I hoped it would make me feel better.
It did make me feel better. I imagined Larry looking down at us, smiling as we put on our best manners in his honor. He didn’t even mind the giggling sixth graders behind us, at whom we shot optical daggers, shocked at their disrespect. I felt a strange warmth, as if someone had hugged me. I knew Larry was all right. I could feel it.
I heard my mother’s voice in my head: He’s out of pain now, honey. Two of my grandfathers, both of whom I only remembered meeting once, had died, but Larry was the first dead person I knew. I imagined Larry sitting in heaven with my mother’s stepfather, Grandpa Peter, and her father, Grandpa Zalesny.
We believe in the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body. Now I understood those words. I understood that we were all connected, and death didn’t change that—not if you were Catholic. We believe in the Communion of Saints. This was the Communion of Saints. This was why we could say such optimistic words.
An Ongoing Connection
Thirty years later, I’ve been to a couple dozen funerals. I’ve stood at the coffins of relatives, friends, co-workers, strangers, even a friend’s tiny perfect baby. I’ve sung at funerals of friends, so hard to do, but I try to think of singing as my last gift to them. I think of them in heaven, looking down on me, glad that I can do that last favor.
I think of those I love looking down as I hug the mourners or frost the cupcakes or bake the bread and wrap it. I have my grandmother’s crystal rosary with me now as I hold my son’s hand, and he asks me questions about Roger’s funeral. Roger was our neighbor, the jolly one with the white hair, the belly laugh and the pocketful of nickels for the neighborhood children.
My son doesn’t cry as I do, but stands solemn and silent. He’s 11 years old now, and almost as tall as I am. I brush the hair out of his eyes. “He’s out of pain now, honey,” I say, thinking of my mother who, thanks be to God, is still with us.
On Sundays I arrive at Mass early and pray for the faithful departed: Grandpa and Grandma and Great-grandma, my favorite Grandpa—Maurice the doctor—Uncle Bill and Aunt Irene, Uncle Ralph and Aunt Dolly, Scott and Carl and Mark and Rod and Dorothy and Saundra. Every few months the list gets a little longer. I pray for Larry, too—because Larry is in heaven, and at his funeral I felt the comfort of the Holy Spirit.
I believe in the Communion of Saints.
2 thoughts on “Touched by Death, Healed by Saints”
Beautiful—-thank you. 🙏🙏🙏
So very moving. Thank you.