Accompanying at the Threshold: Lessons on Death, Dying and Hope

(Photo: Unsplash)

By Deacon Ernest Martinez Director of Deacons Archdiocese of Denver

As I reflect on End-of-Life Month in our Archdiocese, I find myself looking back over two distinct callings in my life: first as a police officer, then later as a deacon. They might seem worlds apart, but both have placed me face-to-face with the mystery of death and the beauty of the human soul’s longing for God.

From the Streets to the Sanctuary

During my years in law enforcement, I stood countless times at the edge of human tragedy: gang violence, fatal accidents, domestic disputes turned deadly, suicides and the unimaginable horror of Columbine. I accompanied mothers collapsing in grief, fathers speechless in shock, children clinging to uniforms that could offer only presence when answers failed.

Those moments taught me that presence, the ministry of simply being there, is sometimes the only bridge between unbearable loss and the slow dawn of hope. It was holy ground, even if few would name it that. I did not yet know how those years were forming me for what God would later ask of me as a deacon: to accompany people through death, not only at its violent edges, but also through its slow, sacred approach.

A Ministry of Presence and Reconciliation

In the past three years as archdiocesan director of deacons, I have walked with many brother deacons and their families through illness, decline and death. Most of these were not sudden or violent departures, but gradual goodbyes filled with faith, humor, fatigue and grace. Often, there was also a deep hunger for reconciliation, for forgiveness among family members, a return to the faith once loved or an acceptance of the reality of their condition.

The Holy Spirit seems to use these final moments to heal what years of pride or distance could not. As I’ve sat with a dying deacon or visited a grieving spouse, I am reminded that the world’s phrase “we die alone” is patently false. We do not die alone. The Christian dies in communion with the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit; with the angels and saints; with the Church on earth praying, watching and loving at the bedside.

Jesus’ words in Matthew 25:36 capture this mystery: “I was sick and you visited me.” Those who visit the sick and dying stand on holy ground, this side of the veil. We are not only invited to witness suffering but also to enter the journey itself, walking with our brothers and sisters toward their eternal reward, accompanying their families in faith and love.

Mary, Model of Accompaniment

Whenever I accompany the dying, I think of Mary at the foot of the Cross. She could not take away her Son’s suffering, yet she was wholly present, offering everything to the Father. Her silent fidelity teaches us that we cannot remove another’s cross, but we can stand with them beneath it.

Like Mary, we lift our eyes toward Heaven and trust that all suffering, offered in union with Christ, can become redemptive and fruitful. To accompany the dying is to echo Mary’s “yes,” to hold suffering before the Father and believe that love will transfigure it.

A Privilege Beyond Words

Every deacon would tell you that it is an absolute privilege to be welcomed into the intimacy of a home, a hospital room or a nursing home corridor. At times, a deacon may have no immediate family nearby or may be celibate, so the community becomes their family. To sit beside the dying, to listen, to pray and to encourage them as their soul passes into eternity is sacred work.

Yet this ministry belongs not only to deacons. Every baptized person, every caregiver, nurse, family member and friend is called to share this mission of mercy. The accompaniment of the dying is a work of the entire Church.

When Death Visits Home

This ministry has not been limited to parish families or fellow deacons. I have also walked this road within my own family, with my parents, my younger brother, nephews, nieces and dear friends. To accompany those we love most through the final stages of life is among the most challenging tasks God can ask of us. Yet even there, graces continue to flow.

I have seen faith rekindled at hospital bedsides, old wounds reconciled in whispered apologies and hardened hearts softened by shared prayer. These experiences remind me that love sanctifies suffering. The same Lord who strengthens me in ministry also meets me in my own family’s sorrows. And through each loss, I learn again that death can become the threshold of mercy.

What Accompaniment Looks Like

Over time, I’ve come to see a pattern in authentic Christian accompaniment, one that anyone can live:

• Presence before words. Don’t rush to fix pain; let calm faith and silence speak first.

• Prayer woven with compassion. A rosary or Divine Mercy Chaplet at the bedside, a whispered Our Father, a moment of shared gratitude.

• Humor and humanity. Even laughter at remembered stories can be a proclamation of hope.

• Reconciliation and peace. Encourage family members to forgive, to speak words long unsaid, to return to prayer together.

• Rituals of belonging. The Anointing of the Sick, a vigil or a blessing all remind us that we are not alone.

• Care for the caregivers. Those who keep vigil bear hidden burdens; they too need mercy and rest.

These are the corporal and spiritual works of mercy made flesh: feeding, consoling, visiting and praying. They are how the Body of Christ surrounds its own in love.

When I now witness a family praying over a loved one, or a dying deacon whispering the name of Jesus or a Psalm, I see that same truth: love outlasts fear. “He who lives and believes in me shall never die,” Jesus promises (John 11:26). Death remains real, but it is no longer final.

The Church’s communion does not end at death. The saints and our departed loved ones continue to intercede for us. Grief is real, but despair has no home in a Christian heart.

Carrying the Lessons Forward

The shift from police officer to deacon did not erase the memories of violence and loss but transfigured them. I now see that every moment spent with a grieving family, every scene of heartbreak, was part of God’s quiet preparation, teaching me how to stand where life and death meet.

Many of you reading this — first responders, healthcare workers, caregivers, sons and daughters — are doing the same sacred work. You are the Church’s hidden servants, bearing mercy to the suffering. Your compassion makes visible the love of Christ himself.

Dying in Christ, Living in Hope

At the end of every deathbed vigil, after the final prayer, I recall the words of our Lord: “I am the resurrection and the life.” Death visits us all, but in Christ, it is never separation from love; it is love’s completion.

This End-of-Life Month, may we as faithful Catholic Christians renew our courage to face death through faith. Let us comfort the grieving, strengthen caregivers, honor the dying and remind all that our final breath is not an ending, but a beginning.

Because we do not die alone. We die with God. And in Christ, we shall rise together.