(Editor’s note: Ms. Berkery is pastoral associate for faith formation at Our Lady of the Assumption parish in Latham. This reflection on Rev. James Cribbs, who died in 1998, first appeared in Priest magazine. It is reprinted with the author’s permission.)
“I need to talk to you,” Father Mike said after Mass. I followed him to the sacristy, worried about this invitation. Our pastor had a knack for matching people with the needs of the parish. I already assisted with several programs, and each one had begun with his personal request — a “mission,” he called it.
“We’re getting a seminarian for a year — a fine young man. I think you’ll like him,” Father Mike began. “I want you to help him, but to be unofficial — a normal, ordinary friend. Bake him some cookies. Show him around. Support him. Oh, and when you meet Jim on Sunday, don’t mention our little talk.”
I introduced Jim to everyone at the parish and invited him home for lasagna. Jim was easy-going, kind and full of jokes. Since I grew up with two sisters, I claimed the seminarian as a brother, although he could have almost been a son, considering the age gap.
Jim became a favorite guest and dear friend. He played with Legos with our children, brought ice cream on summer evenings and came for sleigh rides on snow days. He could always find a way to make us smile.
“You really are like a kid brother,” I teased.
When Jim returned to the seminary for his final year, I sent notes and care packages. He’d call every Friday to “practice” his homily; our conversations always focused on God.
“Don’t forget your big sister,” I constantly reminded him.
“Distance never separates,” Jim would reply. “We are only a prayer apart.”
Father Jim’s ordination to the priesthood was a great celebration. His first assignment was nearby, so we continued to pray the psalms. We planted a garden, led retreats and counseled a pregnant teen through an adoption.
One autumn Friday, after practicing his homily over the phone, Jim grew serious: “I want to talk to you about something. I know you grew up in a funeral home; how did that experience shape your faith? What was that like for you?”
“Well,” I said, “My father was home most afternoons when I returned from school. If I heard him humming in the downstairs back room, I would simply knock on the morgue door and yell out, ‘Who died?’
“My earliest images of God are attached to the funeral home’s quiet, church-like space. Death was always present, and I learned that people matter and food helps, but families need almost a reverence during a loss. Living with death taught me to appreciate life in ordinary activities. It surely influenced my faith in the resurrection.
“But why are you asking about death and funeral homes now? What brings that on?”
“Nothing,” Father Jim answered quietly. “I just have this strong sense that my ministry on earth will not be a long one. I feel that I will die as a young man, and I simply wanted someone to listen.”
Jim suffered from severe headaches, but this was the first time he had mentioned anything so serious. I took a deep breath. “Are you OK?” I asked. “Did you have recent tests?”
His voice was very calm. “No, there’s nothing different. I just wanted someone to know how I felt. I have a great peace, but I know my priestly ministry will be short. Can I trust this awareness with you, since you’re not afraid to hear about death?”
“Of course; I’ll keep this in confidence. You have my prayers,” I answered.
He never mentioned this “death conversation” again, and I never pried. People of faith often reflect on death during November, since the Scripture readings focus on the end times, so I wasn’t very concerned.
Just a few months later, Father Jim suffered some strokes and was in a coma after brain surgery. I went with friends to visit him in the hospital on his 36th birthday. I lingered in the room to pray alone. My brother in faith was lying with his arms outstretched and his legs curled up.
I finally understood his message from that autumn phone call, and a tear fell down my face. I knew that Jim was at peace with his life, his ministry for Christ and his death. He was ready to join the Lord, and he had already entrusted me with the words to tell family and parishioners.
He died six days later.
The death of a young person is always hard. Father Jim was a beloved priest, a spiritual director and a gentle companion for many, and he was greatly mourned. Yet his family and close friends received some comfort from my letter describing our November conversation.
Jim knew his earthly life was ending and accepted that with great peace. He understood something which could have come only from his abiding presence with the Lord. His glimpse of death was from deep within and very clear.
I now understood why Jim was so calm last November. He was not really having a conversation with me; he was having a conversation with the Lord, and I was simply blessed to have overheard the words.
Sharing Jim’s thoughts comforted his family and friends. In his own words, Father Jim was guiding us to trust in eternal life. His sister-in-law, Cindy, wrote back: “Your letter is on the bookcase, where each of us has picked it up and read it over and over.”
The loss was still so hard. How could I lead Lenten retreats without my dear friend? I missed his Friday practice homilies and “Jimmy jokes.” I continued to hear his voice: “Remember, we are only a prayer apart.”
Slowly, through ordinary routines, grief began to find a resting place in my heart. I labeled photographs and read Bible stories to children. I baked cookies and welcomed new parishioners. I watered the rosebush.
The journey was not always peaceful. I prayed each morning, “Soften my heart, Lord, so that this grief, which really comes from love, may find its sacred place to rest.”
One Sunday, as I strolled through Jim’s “faith garden,” a hummingbird surprised me. I remembered one of Jim’s comments about the beauty of prayers being in constant motion. I whispered, “We are only a prayer apart. You are alive in Christ and you are still my brother.”
Now, as I prepare a prayer session or assist with a parish funeral, I recall Jim’s joy, more than the sadness and pain of loss. Awareness of death reminds me to delight in the brilliance of ordinary days.
We are always “just a prayer apart” in the risen Lord.