Twenty-two years ago, my beloved dad passed away from cancer. Two months earlier, we sat at his hospital bedside. Knowing his fate, he chose to die at home with my mother, his wife of nearly 50 years, as his prime caregiver. I like to reference small miracles, so please let me share one with you.

A call from my father’s home urgently warned us, his children, to come quickly. Two of us caught flights which landed one hour apart. Our parents’ wonderful neighbor picked us up at the local airport on a stormy winter night. Upon arrival, a nurse told us both that dad’s time was near. Why he was alive was “beyond her,” she said, adding she believed he kept vigil for his sons while my sister kept close to our mother. She told us that one’s hearing is the last to go. Ergo, we took turns quickly saying our teary farewell to dad. We took a moment to gather ourselves in the living room. I heard the unmistakable ”last breath” and closed dad’s eyes.

The nurse paid her sincere respects and made the call for the funeral home to pick up dad’s body. An aide, who was also in attendance, humbly requested that she be allowed to dignify my dad’s body with a final washing. Her eyes flooded as my mom quietly agreed and shut the bedroom door to let her do her work. Mother said that this aide had built a friendship replete with humor with our dad. This would be her last service for him. Soon, the funeral home folks came for dad’s body and the nurse and aide then bade us goodbye with hugs, condolences and fond wishes.

The day of dad’s funeral, there was an unexpected knock on the door. A man said that he was sent from an agency to watch our parents’ home while we were at the funeral home and gravesite. He said that unseedy folks sometimes rob homes in situations like ours. When we later returned home from our emotionally exhausting day, the man, too, bid us goodbye and paid his respects with favorable eye contact. I recalled later that the nurse said to call the agency for their assistance if needed after the funeral.

This agency was Hospice. I had no previous experience with them. Quietly, humbly, efficiently and professionally, each Hospice worker performed his or her duties with dignity and pride. I never forgot. Recently, I joined Hospice as a volunteer. A number of requirements were eventually met to then be of service to those wanting a volunteer to complement the crew of professionals already in place to visit, listen, laugh or cry. To avail myself to the desire of clients has already reaped rewards. To offer my time, energy and love for a stranger whose life on this planet grows shorter has no equal experience.

My short experience has blown me away. Soon after one client’s passing, I received a handwritten note of condolence and appreciation for my service signed by Hospice staff. The caring and support opened my heart. Being welcomed to a team of incredible and loving people is the reason this article is dedicated to Hospice. Thank you.

To quote my friend Tom’s father, ”Thanks for being a part of our family.”

Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.