The Paraclete

(this post is shared with Susan’s permission and in the hope that others will find comfort from it)

Susan’s mother, Jeannie, passed over this past weekend. We’d been preparing for her passing for quite a while. I’d been sensing her body failing off and on for the past ten or so years. For the past six or seven months, whenever we saw her socially, we’d comment to each other how “tired” she looked. Not tired in the sense of physical exhaustion from a good day’s work, tired in the sense of the act of living had become work.

So it both was and wasn’t a surprise when we got a call that she was in the hospital. She’d admitted herself, saying she was dehydrated.

Some History
I was raised by my maternal grandfather who was a Sicilian Mystagogue. One of the last things he taught me was how to help him pass over. Briefly, he taught me what is called a Death Song, specifically his Death Song. Think of a cross between a lullaby, an incantation (kind of like “Open, Says Me” for a gate or pathway) and a lighthouse in reverse (instead of warning sailors away, this lighthouse guides sailors home) and you have an idea. The purpose of the Death Song is to help those departing find their way. It also serves the purpose of letting those who remain know their loved one has safely arrived and has been welcomed in their new home.

Years later I was trained in thanatology, specifically to perform as psychopomp, someone who helps those dying pass over without fear, without anxiety, with comfort and with joy. Part of the psychopomp’s role is to learn each individual’s Death Song. There’s a lot more involved, this provides some basic ideas. The role of psychopomp is in every culture, as is the Death Song. The most modern version of the Death Song is typically called The Last Rites, although the latter is more institutional than individual in nature.

One aspect of this training combines with my primary training (as Healer) and allows me to sense when people are preparing to pass over even if the individual isn’t consciously aware that they’re preparing to do so.

The Paraclete
I walked into Jeannie’s hospital room, smiling briefly at her and then staring at the Paraclete floating over her bed. Paracletes, based on my understanding and training, are best described as “waiters” and “comforters”. Waiters in the sense that they wait, comforters in the sense that they help move or move along or transport those who pass over between this world and the next.

I suggest “waiters” because Paracletes, in all my experience of them, do not cause someone to pass over nor do they hurry the process. They are patience personified. However, when a Paraclete arrives, the person is going to leave. They don’t show up, hang around for months or years or even weeks. This one’s task was completed in about sixteen hours, if that long.

I let Susan know that her mother wasn’t going to make it, even though she was alert and talking with us at the time. She asked me to rub her back, something she never asked me to do (Susan and I have been together thirty-eight years and her family knows nothing of this side of my life). I rubbed her back, she thanked me. When we were getting ready to leave, I held her hand and kissed her forehead.

She looked up at me. “You never kiss me,” she said. True. I’m not demonstrative in my affections except to Susan and very close friends. But my kissing her, with the Paraclete close by, must have let her know at some level that her time was near.

“I only kiss you when you need it,” I said. “I’ll stay the night with you if you’d like.”

She understood. “No, there’s plenty of people here,” and she smiled. It was a good-bye.

When we arrived at the ICU this morning – we received an emergency call from the hospital that she’d taken a turn for the worse – I looked and the Paraclete was no longer floating over her bed. Most of it was gone, only a small portion remained, again waiting for Jeannie to breathe her last.

Animals do not have Paracletes. Not in my experience, anyway. They do not need comforters, transporters from this world to the next. When all of our pets passed, their spirits simply stood up and trotted, walked, ran off, flew or swam in the direction of the Better Place, waiting for us to join them, I believe.

Nor are Paracletes the Angel of Death. The Angel of Death is a very different creature. I suppose, now that I’m thinking about it, that Paracletes come when the death is not sudden, not a surprise, not an accident or violent act. Paracletes tend to be there when the individual knows or expects or suspects that their time is near.

I have seen the Angel of Death a few times. Once, actually, when the person’s death was not sudden, not a surprise, neither accident nor violent act. However, the person fought death all the way. They were not going to go quietly into that long dark night, so to speak, and when their moment of passing came it was The Angel of Death who guided their transition and only because this individual wasn’t about to go on some lesser creature’s say-so.

And again, that’s implying a hierarchy that doesn’t exist as far as I know. The hierarchy was implied by that individual I’m mentioning, a career military man, and that might have had something to do with it.

Nor do I want to confuse you with concepts of angelic beings. I use the term “Angel of Death” because it has a meaning sufficient for this purpose. I would more likely describe these beings as energies or entities that are sometimes described in angelic ways. Wikipedia defines “paraclete” as follows: Paraclete comes from the Koine Greek word parákleÿamtos, that can signify “one who consoles or comforts, one who encourages or uplifts; hence refreshes, and/or one who intercedes on our behalf as an advocate in court”).[1] The word for paraclete is passive in form, and etymologically (originally) signified “called to one’s side”. The active form of the word, parakletor, is not found in the New Testament but is found in Septuagint in Job 16:2 in the plural, and means “comforters”, in the saying of Job regarding the “miserable comforters” who failed to rekindle his spirit in his time of distress.

This is completely accurate in my understanding of them. The Paraclete who helped Jeannie appeared as a kind of standing wave pattern, like a squared slice of cake but cake of ocean, almost like a blanket or flying carpet. The center of the blanket was blue, green and gold. Not blue or green or gold and not blue and green and gold mixed, but blue and green and gold simultaneously. Imagine a blanket woven with blue, green and gold strands so fine that you can’t pull them apart yet so distinct in their coloring that you can easily tell them apart and you get the idea.

There was a thick whitish sea foam almost like a meringue on top of the blanket and along its edges. It undulated or rippled even though it appeared as a standing wave. There was no sound that I could detect and there was a taste and smell of sweetness but not sugar-sweetness. It was the sweetness of caring, compassion and hope.

At this point all that remained of the Paraclete was the bottom edge of the carpet and a bit of the wave floating above and a bit beyond Jeannie’s head. She was on life support by this time. The Paraclete was already transporting her, comforting her. I asked if there was anything I could do to help and was partially told, partially shown that her greatest fear was that we, her remaining family, wouldn’t be alright, wouldn’t be able to take care of ourselves unless she was there to take care of us.

That, and that wherever she was going, she’d be alone.

I shared that with the Paraclete.

I looked again and there was Don, her husband who passed over some 25 years ago, “riding” the Paraclete (not at all accurate yet close enough for this purpose. It was more like standing in, standing on and standing over), smiling and holding his hand out to her, such a joyous look on his face that the love of his life was now coming to join him, and welcoming her, bringing her along, letting her know it was okay and that we’ll be fine, her work was done.

I waited for the nurse to leave the room then walked over to Jeannie’s bedside, bent over and whispered, “It’s alright, Jeannie. We’ll be okay. You can go now, if you want. We’ll take care of each other. We’ll keep each other safe. It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about us any more. And look! See? Don’s waiting for you.”

I stood up slowly. The Paraclete bowed as much as such creatures can, gathered her in its waves, held her next to her husband, Don, and slowly moved away.