Permission to Die

A friend whose elderly mother lived in a nearby nursing home phoned to say that his mother, Caroline, was sick and would Claire and I go and pray once again for her healing. Caroline was often ill with heart failure, and Charlie asked us to go each time. Claire and I were often at the home visiting the residents.

Caroline was sitting in her recliner with the grey woolen blanket across her lap and a cold and untouched breakfast tray on the sideboard. She couldn’t see much and could hear less than that. Claire knelt on her right side and I on her left, so we were at eye level with her and handed her the horn. She used a very old-fashioned metal horn—one end we could speak into, in turns, and the other she placed in her ear.

When we were situated, Caroline said, “Charlie asked you to come and pray, didn’t he? Well, while it’s always nice to have you visit, I don’t want you to pray.”

“Why not?” Claire inquired.

“Every time you pray, I am healed and don’t want to be anymore. Charlie worries I might die, but there is no ‘might die’ to it. I am 96 years old, and I am tired. It’s time. I’m ready to die. So, please ask the Spirit to lead me home if you want to pray.”

This was the first—but not the last—time someone had asked me to serve them this way. We asked the great Spirit to show her the way—releasing her from this life into the next with our blessing, and she died that night in her sleep.

Charlie called the next morning with the news and said,

“Well, I guess the prayers didn’t work this time.”

“I guess not.”