Canadian singer/songwriter Steve Bell deepened my understanding of Keeping Vigil through his song by the same name released on his Romantics and Mystics album in the mid-1990s. The lyrics say, “When all’s said and done, it’s a lover’s world”. It’s the lovers who stand by the side of the dying, rubbing their greying hands, and kissing their parched lips. It is for love that we do all we can to ensure that no one dies alone. It is for love that we put aside our own fears and enter the room of a loved one who is taking their final breaths.

I am familiar with keeping vigil. Early in my adult life, I had done just that at the side of my younger brother, as he journeyed from this world to the next. Day and night we sat with him around the clock as cancer took his last breath, and won the battle. We did the same with my dad – family gathered around sharing remembrances, blessings, Scripture, prayers, touch, tears, silence, exhaustion and grief. Time was unimportant. We forgot to eat. Losing a loved one was the centre of our focus and we supported each other through the loss. Our main support was being present.

In my work and life I’ve had many more opportunities to be in that sacred space where loved ones keep vigil over the one who is slowly journeying into another world. An invitation into this space with others is an invitation of trust and honour – a privilege to be with and beside those who are losing life and gaining eternity.

I was asked to help a family connect with a distant son via Skype while they were keeping vigil over their elderly father’s final journey. We needed Wi-Fi so that the son could see and talk to his father. I brought in my phone as a Wi-Fi hotspot. Sitting in the corner of the darkened room, I watched the daughters share last moments with their father and brother via Skype. I felt like both an intruder and an honoured guest, as I witnessed their final goodbyes.

Vigil comes from the Latin word for awake. All its meanings include the idea of watchfulness. One dictionary describes it as a purposeful surveillance or to guard or observe. The Hospice movement has embraced this idea and trained many vigil volunteers to be companions to the dying, providing comfort and support to the patient and family. They take turns doing vigil shifts giving family members the opportunity to shower and sleep.

Some people can’t do vigil – even for the ones they love. They don’t want to remember them looking weak or vulnerable. They want to remember the strong father, brother, mother or sister – someone who was completely whole, independent and capable. They don’t want children to see the ravaging effects of illness or know first hand that all life must come to an end.

It can take tremendous courage and fortitude to keep vigil. It means facing all of the reality of our humanness. It means being present with the one we love when they take their final breath. It means seeing and touching a person’s body after the soul is gone. American preacher, professor and author Barbara Brown Taylor calls the body, “the address of our soul” and although the body lies before our eyes, once the soul is gone, it is immediately clear that the soul has a new address. “People are like grass; their beauty is like a flower in the field. The grass withers and the flower fades…” (1Peter 1:24). We are finite. We aren’t all-powerful, all-knowing or unchanging. We aren’t God. We are human. Our lives have a beginning and an end.

Our minds are incredibly imaginative. Even after keeping vigil and saying this final good-bye, we can imagine that it was all a dream – that the one we love is away and will return shortly. It is the memories of the vigil, the passing of our loved one, and the lifeless body that bring reality to our minds in the days and months of grief that follow our loss.

And so, in vigil, we take a journey of our own. It is a journey of sorrow and love mingled together; a journey of courage; a journey of exhaustion. It is the lover’s journey. Full of compassion and watchfulness, we are present with the one we love as they are less and less present with us.