While performing my duties as Sacristan or ‘altar grandpa’ in St. Joseph’s chapel, at Holy Cross Cemetery, I noticed a woman staring at me.  As I was setting up for a funeral Mass, our eyes connected on a few occasions.  I sensed she was trying to decide if she knew me and, if she did, was wondering why Harry McAvoy would be on the altar wearing an Alb?  

Finally, it clicked, the woman’s name was Julie, someone I have known for nearly 50 years but have not seen in a few years.  Julie and I went back to our teens, she was the sister of a friend who worked with me at a grocery store. Then to my great happiness I also saw her husband, Vince.  I was the Master of Ceremonies at their wedding, which suggests I have always been full of the blarney, even in the early 80s.

It was such a thrill to see my old friends, in part because in the time I have been pummeled by memory loss, Vince has been devastated by a form of dementia.  Prior to our health struggles, we had met a couple of times each year happily updating each other as we shared our stories.  Then a few years back, when Vince’s dementia set in, our visits stopped.   While I had reached out, I assumed the family had closed the circle.  I have thought often of my friends and remembered them in my prayers.

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With just a few minutes before Mass, I greeted Julie and Vince.  No longer able to speak, Vince placed his strong hands on my shoulders and gave my sixty-six-year-old shoulders, a squeeze I won’t soon forget.  I hoped this was a sign that my old friend still knew me.  I looked to Julie and said, ‘so often I have wanted to contact you, but I chose to respect your privacy’.  She said, ‘I will be in touch’.

At the end of the funeral, as the congregation filed out, Vince approached me with a wonderful smile and a hug that filled me with such happiness.  Later that evening I told the Bride, “I felt so much joy at seeing my old friends. It felt like Christmas.”  There was a second funeral Mass so, sadly, there was no time to visit, to dig deeper, to ask Julie how they were coping or if there was anything Jennifer and I could do.

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As I reflected on meeting Julie and Vince it occurred to me it was a God moment.  I had a hint of how it might feel when I finally meet God.  I know it will be a blessed event, bursting with great happiness.  There will be a hug and laughter, that will go on and on.

I have had such experiences too wonderful for words such as when I married my Bride, more than 41 years ago, and when I watched as each of our six children was born.  I have also had the great pleasure of holding my new-born grandchildren, and watching and loving them as they have grown into boys always in search of laughter and fun things to do, a bit like their grandfather.

Of course, there was also sadness.  It is heartbreaking to be with one living through such hardship, no longer able to share what is on his mind and in his heart.  I also ache for Julie, standing bravely by her man, even as her hopes and dreams for their future are trampled by a relentless disease.      

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I suppose seeing Julie and Vince was so special because I never thought it would happen.  Life had had its way with us: doors were closed and memories diminished. Still, there we were.  One can always wish life circumstances were different, but I have accepted.  As I continue my journey, living with a declining memory, I hang on to these wonderful God moments, celebrating them when they occur, and asking God for just a few more.   

Harry McAvoy is co-author with his wife, Jennifer, of the book “Faith, Love and Loss; Sustaining Hope amid Memory Loss and the Storms of Life,” published by Novalis.