As we played Evening Bells for “Jane”, I could see it touch her soul in a way words could not express, and tears begin to fall. “Jane”, in her late 90s, has a quiet strength and a deep love for music, particularly opera. Evening Bells is her favorite song—a piece that reminds her of simpler, happier days. The music stirred something deep within her, and when it was finished, she softly said, “I need to write that down. I want my daughter to play it next time she visits.”
Jane’s life goes beyond just the songs she cherishes. She is full of wisdom, having worked for the United Nations, for a dentist, and as a cancer researcher. Despite the aches and exhaustion that come with age, Jane remains bright and loving, always eager to share stories from her past and offer advice to us about how to navigate life’s challenges. One day, “Jane” wistfully mentioned how she longed to visit her sister in Pennsylvania, but her health no longer allowed it. At that moment, I could feel the deep sense of loss she was experiencing, but I also felt blessed she had entrusted us with such a personal memory. “Jane” also often tells us stories of her childhood—how her mother’s kitchen was always filled with the warmth of baking blueberry pies and the smell of fresh homemade bread. Even though Jane could no longer taste those pies or enjoy the smells of the kitchen, she still carries those memories with her.
In caring for Jane, I am learning about what it means to love and serve others. Saint Giuseppe Moscati’s words ring true: “Pain should be treated not as a muscular contraction, but as the cry of a soul, to which another brother, the doctor, rushes with the ardour of love, charity, taking care of the body and the spirit.” What “Jane” teaches me, and what I see with each patient, is that to truly care for someone, you need to listen to that cry of the soul. “Jane” is a beloved child of God, someone whose life—full of stories, suffering, and beauty—is infinitely precious. I am starting to see Christ in her, and I can feel that He is there beside us, walking with us. Our Blessed Mother, too, stands as a guiding example for me. In her sorrow and her quiet, steadfast presence at the foot of the Cross, I see what it means to be with someone through their suffering. I am learning to embrace the uncertainty, the fact that I cannot heal everything or everyone, and that I am not alone in my journey.
As I reflect on the time I have spent volunteering with hospice patients and watching the film “Being Mortal”, I have come to understand that this work, this life, is a beautiful journey—one that continues to teach me, challenge me, and bring me closer to God. Love is eternal, and it lives on in every smile, every shared memory, and every tender moment. And for that, I am truly thankful.