At the funeral home I received a little card that said, "In Loving Memory of Edward B. Mason 1960-2001." On that little card was printed the words of one of the best-known and most loved poems or songs ever written, the 23rd Psalm.

A few weeks ago I began keeping a journal-one that I wish I had begun three and a half years ago when I first met Ed. I've jotted down not only what Ed said, but also my reflections on our conversations. Ed had a unique way of saying things. He could see the most difficult challenges in a positive or humorous light.

When I visited him at the Medical Center following one of his surgeries, they had put a shunt in his head to drain off fluids. He pointed to a tube going to a bag attached to the bed and said, "Chaplain, see that jug and this brain drain? It's sad, but there goes the ninth, tenth, eleventh grades right down the drain! We laughed, we cried, we sang, we prayed. It was a joyful journey-as joyful as it was painful. Ed always tried to make the load a little lighter for those who were helping him carry it.

The next morning while I was visiting with Ed a nurse came in and said, "Please excuse me. I'm sorry to interrupt. But there's a man down the hall who was scheduled for brain surgery this morning. He is very apprehensive. And now his surgery has been delayed for a couple of hours and he's really beside himself. Ed, I wonder if you could come down and talk with him. I think you'd do him more good than anybody else." Ed got out of bed and went, tubes and all, to help a neighbor he did not know.

The nurse did not ask for a doctor or a chaplain or a psychologist or a social worker, she knew Ed could do him more good than anybody else. And he did. While waiting for Ed to return from his mission of mercy, I thought of the words of the Apostle Paul in his second letter to the Corinthians (1:3-4):

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.

On February 12th, Ed was in the hospice room at the hospital. I saw him about eight o'clock that evening. He was very alert. He had it all together - names, dates, times, and places - as he did a brief review of the last few months. He told me of his detailed plans for his death (just in case he did happen to die), funeral and burial. He asked if I would be willing to speak in a service to be held in Most Holy Trinity Church. He wanted me to do the eulogy.

"Ed, what do you want me to talk about?" He gave an immediate two-word response, "The difference!" I told him that sounded good but asked what difference he was talking about. "The difference between knowing the Lord and knowing about the Lord. Since I've come to know the Lord, He's made all the difference in my life. Some of my old friends know I've changed but they don't know why. Tell 'em about the difference." I told him I would count it a privilege to tell them about the difference and the One who made the difference.

He went on to say he had prepared a letter of resignation as business manager at the company he worked for. He asked if I'd like to hear it. I said, "Sure." He began to recite it from memory. He made a few corrections or alterations as he went along but it was an amazing work of art. I asked him if he had it written down. He responded, "Well, it's written down, but I've got to work on it some yet." He asked me if I recognized the letter. I said, "No, but it sounds pretty good for a man from the hills of south central Pennsylvania." He said, 'Well, it's Robert E. Lee's letter of resignation after he lost the battle of Gettysburg." No wonder it sounded so good! He had memorized it and was now adapting it for his own purposes. He never finished the letter. When he died, he was still business manager of the company.

When I walked into Ed's room on Valentine's Day, February 14th, at 8 o'clock in the morning, he didn't recognize me immediately. But as soon as he heard my voice, he knew who I was. He took my hand and squeezed it firmly and gave me a good strong hug. I told him I was on my way to the institution where I work and thought I'd stop by and have prayer with him. He said, "Good." I said, "Ed, when I pray for you, what would you like me to ask the Lord for?" "Nothing!" "Nothing? That won't take long!" Ed replied, "Just thank Him. I've got so much to thank the Lord for. Nobody ever told me dying could be so wonderful. I have no fear. I have peace. In these extra months and years the Lord has given me, I've come to know Him so much better, and other people too."

"Chaplain, why didn't anybody ever tell me dying could be so wonderful?" I said, "Ed, the reason I never told you is because I've never died. This is one you're going to have to tell me about. What's so wonderful about dying?" He said he didn't like leaving his wife and children and he didn't like the pain and he was grateful for morphine. But the good thing about dying is that your relationships become less superficial and much more meaningful. They become more focused and intense. Dying gives living more purpose and you use your time more wisely because you value it more highly as you know you have so little left.

I went home and wrote in my journal: "To hear Ed talk about the value of dying enhances living for me. I hope I can do as much for Ed as he is doing for me."

While Ed was in the hospice room at the hospital he had lots of company. People
were waiting in line to see him. He had little time to rest and little time alone with his family. Yet Ed seemed to thrive on the visits and it helped to keep his attention off his pain. He felt like it was his opportunity to share with others the difference the Lord had made and was making in his life and in his death. Several times he said to me, "Chaplain, the sting of death is gone! I have no fear. I have peace. The sting of death is gone!" Of course, he was quoting from the Apostle Paul:

Death is swallowed up in victory. O Death, where is your sting? O grave, where is your victory? The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.
I Corinthians 15:54-57

The ultimate challenge to love is forgiveness. Ed told me he had "the chance of a lifetime" to talk with people in an intimate way about the past-an opportunity to forgive and to be forgiven. Ed said it brought him great peace and much joy to forgive those who had offended him and to be forgiven by those whom he had offended. Reconciliation is essential to a good death. The prolonged days of dying gave Ed an opportunity that many men never have. He knew it and he was grateful.

Before he had cancer, Ed was an arrogant young man who was doing his own thing for his own pride and his own pleasure. Cancer became an occasion for serious reflection and decision. Ed decided to seek the Lord. The Lord was seeking him. Ed sincerely repented of his sins and asked the Lord to forgive him. He invited the Lord Jesus Christ to come into his heart and life. And He did. And that's made all the difference. Ed was a Christian in the making. He was becoming "a new creature in Christ Jesus." He was excited about the difference and wanted to share it with all his friends.

Ed was deeply grateful for his family and many friends who were so faithful to him through his years of struggle. If Ed were able to speak to us today, he would say: "Thank You! Thank you! Thank you for being faithful friends. The sting of death is gone! I have 'Victory in Jesus!' Give yourselves to Him who alone can save so that one day we may dwell in the house of the Lord together for ever and for ever." Amen!

David Bowen
Correctional Chaplain
2002