Last Friday evening I was called to the home of a long time parishioner: "Father, she has taken a turn for the worst. She doesn't have much time," said the familiar voice over the phone. "I'm on my way." Driving up to the house, the long driveway was packed with cars. I found a dirt patch alongside the road to park my car beneath a mature pine tree. The setting sun was low enough on the horizon, casting a warm glow on the house, as I gathered my belongings: holy water, blessed oil, priest stole, and prayer book. The family immediately lead me to the room where she was. My heart sank. Gone was the lively, talkative, laughing woman I had gotten to know over the years as her pastor. Instead, she laid quietly in her bed, slowly breathing in and out; out and in. Her adult children began to fill the room around me, as we gazed silently at this mother, wife, and friend. A wave of sadness began to cascade, roaring louder and louder as if a landslide of boulders was barreling towards us. That was until I remembered--Jesus lives.