Phoebe's Farewell

I lost a friend this week.

Two years ago I met my friend Phoebe at the hospital in the middle of the night. Her heart was wearing out and the doctors said she might not live to see the sunrise. I was summoned by her family because she had asked to be anointed.
When I arrived, I found her remarkably calm, considering her condition. I read scripture, dabbed a few drops of oil on her wrinkled brow, made the sign of the cross there with my index and middle finger, then laid my hands gently on her soft, gray hair and prayed. I don’t remember the exact words I used, but it was most likely a simple prayer asking for peace, comfort and the strengthening of faith. Before I took my leave, I promised to come back to visit the next day. I left, wondering whether there would be a next day for Phoebe.
As it turned out, she had more days left than anyone expected. She recovered sufficiently to go home, was enrolled in Hospice, and I began visiting every couple of weeks. At ninety-six, her mind was still sharp and her sense of humor intact. We discovered common interests -- cooking (she had been a home economics teacher), life on the farm (each of us had grown up on one) and history (I’d studied it; she’d lived it).
Spring came and went, summer followed, and before we knew it, a year had passed. Though she remained bedfast, Hospice decided she no longer qualified for their services. We joked about her being the only person either of us had ever heard of who “graduated” from Hospice.
The calendar pages kept turning and I kept up my schedule of visits. She and her sister Elizabeth, with whom she lived, were always welcoming. Sometimes I brought along something I’d made – cookies, home-made noodles. We talked about how many eggs my chickens were laying, what Phoebe and Elizabeth had seen lately on the Food Network, and what this country was like seven or eight decades ago.
Several more months passed before Phoebe was readmitted to Hospice. Her appetite was poor and she continued to lose weight, but otherwise seemed unchanged. She smiled when I arrived, carried her end of the conversation, and appeared to appreciate my offer of prayer each time we parted. She, like the rest of us, wondered why she lingered so long, but didn’t complain.
I visited her a week before she died and saw no sign that her death was so near. They tell me that a few days before she died she announced that she was “going soon.” She proceeded to have a couple days when she was not her usual self, and then one morning she didn’t wake up. They called and told me later that day.
The funeral was Saturday. Phoebe never had children and outlived most of her contemporaries, so there was only a small crowd in the chapel – mostly nephews, nieces and neighbors. One of her nieces presided. I asked only for the privilege of sharing Jane Kenyon’s poem, “Let Evening Come,” which seemed to fit Phoebe perfectly. (If you haven’t read it, it is worth looking up.)
Phoebe was ready to go, and at her age and in her condition, I can't fault her for that. Still, I'll miss her. Since she died, I've thought often of that call in the middle of the night. Little did I imagine, as I drove the deserted streets, that I was on my way to make a new friend -- but I was. And I am thankful.

Farewell, Phoebe.
I'll see you on the other side.