St. Joanna was a laywoman from the first century who was married to the head servant to King Herod. She followed Jesus and is mentioned in Luke’s Gospel when she provides for Jesus and the apostles out of her own resources (Lk 8:3). Tradition holds that when John the Baptist was killed, she obtained his head and buried it honorably.

Luke’s Gospel also tells us that Joanna was among the women who went to anoint Jesus’ body after his passion, death, and burial. She was among the first who were greeted with the news of the resurrection (Lk 24:10).

The chapel in Geddes Hall, which houses the Institute for Church Life and the Center for Social Concerns, contains stained glass windows that depict the works of mercy. Joanna is one of the “myrrh-bearing women” who are shown in the “bury the dead” window there. The relics of St. Joanna also rest in the reliquary chapel in the Basilica.

Entrusted to the Comforting Presence

By Jaclyn Champagne

My last act as a hospice chaplain was to bury a man I barely knew.

I first met Mr. Reed at a nursing home when I was his spiritual care coordinator. His nurse told me he had no certain history—he had long been estranged from his family and was brought to the nursing home a few weeks earlier from a homeless shelter.

Mr. Reed’s illness prevented him from thinking clearly—not only could he not report much else about his history, he did not know he was dying. The doctor had tried to tell him, but the news hadn’t really sunk in. I was asked to “get the point across to him.”

My mind flew in all different directions. How was any of this happening? I didn’t even know this man. How was I supposed to tell him he was dying?

After stalling and asking as many questions as I could, I entered the room to meet Mr. Reed. Upon meeting him, it was clear that he was sick. Without dialysis and other significant interventions, the doctor had given him a prognosis of a few days. How did this man not know he was dying? How was I supposed to deliver this news to him?

Eventually, in the most sensitive, straightforward way I could, I told Mr. Reed that he was very sick and that it was the opinion of the doctor that he was going to become so sick that he would die, and this would happen in a matter of days. I don’t remember what else I said, or how I managed to convey the severity of the situation, but I eventually got through to him. I sat with him as he cried, and I shed a few tears myself. I wanted to take this all away from him. I wanted to make it not be true.

I asked Mr. Reed what I could do for him. He asked me if I could buy him Oreos and Coke. I never got up so quickly as I did that day. I raced to my car and drove over to the grocery store across the street where I bought as many packages of Oreos and bottles of Coke as I could fit in my arms.

As he ate and drank this sugary goodness, I asked him, “Have you thought about what you would like to happen to your body after you die?” I was so direct—it was a question we asked all our patients when we deemed it appropriate, but I knew if I didn’t ask him now, I might not get another chance. I wanted to honor his body in a way that probably hadn’t happened much, at least in a long time. I didn’t want this man to lose any more than life had already taken from him. I doubted he had thought about it, but he looked at me with sincere eyes, and said, matter-of-factly, “I want to be buried in a field.”

“A specific field?” I asked.

“No, just a field.”

I stayed a little while longer as he drifted in and out of sleep. We prayed together and I told him that I would do my best to honor his wishes for burial after he died.

Two mornings later, I arrived to see him and entered his room. He was still and peaceful. As I put my hand on his arm, I could tell he had just passed. I alerted the staff and then spent some time in the room with his body, upset with myself for dawdling for those extra ten minutes that morning and not being there with him when he died. I said a prayer, then left to see other patients.

Usually, a search turns up a distant family member who can come to claim a loved one’s remains. Our legal team needed to check that out. After an “exhaustive search,” they determined that there was, in fact, no family to contact. I was given permission to take care of Mr. Reed’s remains.

Months later, I picked up Mr. Reed’s cremated body from the funeral home that had been holding it. I placed the urn, an inconspicuous black box, in my car for safekeeping, and wasn’t at all sure what I was going to do to bury him and pay my respects. I didn’t have much time, for in a matter of days I would be packing up and moving halfway across the country.

On my final day of work, I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to do. I wanted to do something dignifying and proper. I said a prayer. A few minutes later, an idea hit me.

My grandparents and several other family members had been buried in a memorial garden several miles from where I worked. I quickly hurried to get all my files in order, and said goodbye to my coworkers before I drove out to the memorial park. Looking around to make sure I was alone, I carried the heavy box to my grandparents’ grave marker. I had something to offer that Mr. Reed was missing—a family to take him in—so I entrusted him to the comforting presence of my grandparents.

Jaclyn is a research assistant and program coordinator for the Hillebrand Center for Compassionate Care in Medicine at Notre Dame.