My friend’s body lay on a simple bed, with two chairs beside it for visitors. His body was dressed in a brown robe given him, years ago in France, by the Vietnamese Buddhist Thich Nhat Hanh when this monastic leader ordained him an elder spiritual teacher.

Eyes closed, mouth slightly ajar, grayish-white beard and hair abundant, hands folded, my friend was there in the living room of his home where he and other members of our prayer group had gathered so many times for meditation. He faced out toward the back yard and garden which had formed the beautiful backdrop to our sessions together. Now Hob, as we called him, had left us behind, dying peacefully in his own home at age 78 as Thanksgiving Day began.  

I came and sat beside the bed for a few minutes of silent prayer, gazing at Hob’s body and the quiet scene. On a small stand behind his head was a photo of the ordination ceremony; flowers graced the same stand, as did a statue of the Buddha and incense. Often in our prayer group we had employed similar props for their part in creating an atmosphere of peace.

Hob was among the most peaceful men I have ever known. He brought to daily life an inner spirit that made him rewarding to be with. Even when he was troubled by the effects of Alzheimer’s disease, Hob inspired in his friends a awareness of our depths.

Fortunately, he died early enough in the progress of this disease to have escaped its worst effects. When it damaged his capacity for short-term memory, he relied on family and friends to supplement his efforts to remember. “She is my memory,” he used to say, turning toward his beloved wife of many years.

Hob was the first person who ever indicated to me himself that he had Alzheimer’s. Years ago, he approached me and asked if I could recommend a support group for a person with this disease. I could and did, as I suddenly became aware that he was asking for himself.

Characteristic of this man’s spirituality was its breadth and openness to all traditions. Just as he looked to Thich Nhat Hanh for guidance, he also found great  inspiration in a Catholic monk living in India. Father Bede Griffiths, an English Benedictine, had established an ashram in his adopted country and lived there like a Hindu holy man.

Hob visited him in India several times, spent many days with him, and learned much for his spiritual life. His interest in spirituality, however, could never be satisfied with just one teacher. He also had an audience with the Dalai Lama and, read widely in the doctrine of other traditions, and experimented with many different forms of prayer.

Seeing Hob’s body stirred in me thoughts too deep for adequate expression. I thought of the verses from Psalm 104: “When you take away their breath, they die and return to their dust.” But as a person with hope I also focused on the following verse: “When you send forth your spirit, they are created and you renew the face of the ground.”

Lines from Shakespeare also came to mind. Hamlet speaks of death as “the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.” I think of Hob’s departure as a journey and believe it a trip toward a fuller life. But that is an area filled with mystery, that many spiritual people are content simply to contemplate with wonder.

Without the power to express it so profoundly, I have never been able since my teenage years to contemplate death without awe. Nor have I ever been able to think that death is the end of our existence. To me, it has always seemed that there is no way in which the richness of a human being could be ultimately lost.

That is my instinct, confirmed by faith. Surely Hob will also live on, not merely in the hearts of his wife and other family members; we too, his friends, will continue to cherish him. We will remember the graceful ways by which he shared his life with us and especially the courage he showed when faced with a terrible disease and in his ultimate decline.

How can we forget his gentle presence and the subtle power of his life lived in the search for light, for meaning, for God?

Richard Griffin