Almost too tired to write, but I want to remember this day.

Four weeks ago, Cecilia Wilkinson passed away. She wasn’t expected to. She was a sprightly and somewhat feisty 80-year-old, gentle and sweet, with enough of the former schoolteacher-nun in her to be a secret weapon when the volunteers wanted to finish up for the evening but the guests were lingering over their fifth cup of tea. Cecilia would go in and give them a little word, and they would be out, chuckling, in a flash. She was supposed to be going in for surgery, but suddenly took a turn for the worse, and now I expect she is now getting things organized in heaven.

She was one of those people who never seem to be in a hurry. She always had time to listen. Cecilia was a Sister of the Cross and Passion, an order founded in Manchester, England, in the mid-19th century.

She lived at Minsteracres for the past nine years, until this February, when she went into a hospice run by the order, where she passed away on Holy Thursday.

I’m staying in her room this summer.

Tonight we had a memorial mass in her honor. Her funeral was held in Ilkley, Yorkshire, where she had lived and worked for many years. That’s about two hours from here, so they had a special mass tonight for all her friends here to gather to remember her. It was beautiful, and sad, and sweet. The simplicity and deep sincerity of everyone’s love for her was almost overwhelming. When they brought up the gifts of bread and wine to the altar, they also placed a Passionist symbol and rosary there, and her tea cozy and favorite mug, which said “Lady of the Manor”. She really was, in the true old-fashioned sense of the word, a gentlewoman.

I hope I can live up to her standards.

My dear friend Deacon Tom Breen asked me this right before Mass last Saturday. Because he has a wicked sense of humor, I said, uh, it depends…He said, “well, in my homily, I just want to compare you to Adolf Hitler.”

How could I say no to that? I at least had to find out what he had in mind, so I said sure.

I should really know better by now. Tom is infamous for crying when he preaches. He is often so overwhelmed by the presence of God that he can’t help it. This time, I was right there with him.

I don’t tend to talk a lot about my faith. I’ve always been of the opinion that people should be able to know what I believe by looking at my actions. This post is going to be different. I’m not preaching here, just musing something that touched me deeply.

Tom asked us to imagine that Jesus was standing right in front of us, asking us this question. What do we mean when we say we love Jesus — or even that we feel God loves us?

This past Sunday was Good Shepherd Sunday. The gospel reading was that lovely one from John where Jesus asks Peter three times, “Peter, do you love me?” And Peter, who not long before had betrayed Jesus by denying that he knew him, has to answer, “Lord, you know I love you….” To which Jesus replies with a request for commitment: “ Feed my sheep.” THREE TIMES…just to rub it in. Yes, you betrayed me, I haven’t forgotten, even if you’re trying to. Oh, and by the way, could you please make me this impossible open-ended promise?

Being Tom Breen, he went right to the heart of the matter. The crazy thing about the Christian faith is that we actually believe that the creator of the universe distilled itself into human form in the person of Jesus, and then, even more crazily, provided an example of self-giving, unconditional and limitless love by death on a cross. If you can believe all that, then believing in the resurrection is a piece of cake..

Back to Tom. He invited us to imagine that we were standing face to face with Jesus, who was looking at us with the same kind of tender care that a shepherd would have for his sheep. And then we had to try to imagine that what we say we believe is really true: that this Jesus died for us. Not an abstraction for another abstraction, but the real Jesus for the messy, concrete reality of each of us as an individual. No matter who we are or what we’ve done, Jesus died for us. For all of us and for each of us. For Adolf Hitler and Saddam Hussein and Mother Teresa, and you, and me. That s the astounding depth and breadth of the love God has for us.

That’s when both Tom and I started to cry. It’s just what we all long for, isn’t it? To be loved and accepted and known and held. I don’t know about you, but I sometimes get so caught up in wanting that that I forget that it’s already been given to me. I already HAVE it, and I didn’t (couldn’t) earn it, or even need to ask for it — the overflowing-ness that is Love provided it for me before I was even born. All I have to do is stay awake to that love.

Thank you, Tom, for the reminder. I hope I’ve done justice to your simple, direct eloquence. And you can use my name anytime.

I’m going to try to stay awake this summer.

Here I sit in Bradley Airport. Everyone here seems very calm and purposeful. No one is rushing or shouting. We are all patiently waiting for the next thing to happen.

I’m just relieved to be at that stage where I am at least under the illusion that I haven’t forgotten anything, and that everything got done.

Now the adventure begins. I have as open a mind as I can manage. What will it be like, what will I be like when I get back here in three months and 10 days?

To everyone who helped me get to this point, my heartfelt thanks.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton