On the anniversary of Father Marcou’s death, Eugene’s reminiscences led him to recall his exemplary last days.
Fr. Marcou lived only for a few more months, gradually fading away and resigned to being the victim who made his sacrifice to God.
My sorrow was so great at losing such a precious man and was shared by all our confreres, that I suggested trying to tempt the good Lord to work some sort of miracle to save him and at the same time contribute to the cause of canonization of the holy person whom we would invoke. I brought the community together and having recommended our intention to the intercession of Blessed Alphonsus de Ligouri we went from the chapel to the sick room to arouse his faith. I then took a tiny piece of the relic of the Blessed which I had brought back from Rome and had the sick man swallow it in a spoonful of water. But the Lord had other plans. He wished to reward his servant prematurely. The moment approached when he was to take possession of the glory of heaven.
I had the sick man brought to our country house at St-Just where we thought he would be better. On the day when we were celebrating the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, I was assisting my uncle at the pontifical ceremony when I was told that the frequent lapses into the unconscious were a sign that the end was near. I left the altar to go in haste to St-Just and found the good priest weak enough to administer the holy Viaticum to him without delay and he received it with his usual fervor. I also gave him Extreme Unction. The patient revived somewhat but I was all too aware that the end was near. I went to visit him every day during that last week of his holy life.
On the 20th of the month, feast of St. Bernard I did not leave his bedside. I remained there to inspire good thoughts and to suggest feelings appropriate to his condition. A few words were sufficient to set his heart aflame and he had to be made to keep silence when he wanted to express the consolation and happiness he felt, in a loud voice. “Oh how happy I am to die in the Congregation!” he would say, remembering the blessings that God had given him.
His only suffering was to witness my sorrow which I could disguise only with difficulty. He was too well aware of the tender affection I had for him since his childhood not to understand the torture I felt and so he frequently spoke tenderly to me which increased my suffering and tore at my heart. His father was present but all his thoughts focussed on supernatural things. When his father came near to speak some words of hope in his own way, the good priest responded only by smiling at him and showing him the crucifix.
While I was speaking to him and while his sweet smile and his invocations let me know how my words were penetrating his heart, suddenly he fixed his eyes on high and raised his arms as if to let me know where he was about to go. He cried out with an exclamation of joy which I am unable to describe but which I still clearly remember. He cried: “beautiful heaven” and breathed his last, leaving me convinced that God had come to reveal to him the place he was to occupy. That was the way in which this perfect model of Christian charity and apostolic zeal ceased to live here below and his memory must live with us alongside that of Suzanne, Arnoux, etc.
Diary of 20 August 1838, E.O. XIX
“When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life so that when you die… the world cries and you rejoice.” Native American saying
Reading this account from Eugene has spurred many thoughts. ” “Oh how happy I am to die in the Congregation!” he would say, remembering the blessings that God had given him.” For Jacques to have the members of his family with him as he took this journey – it hit me so forcefully today. No one but him could walk this particular part of the path and yet his brothers were there to love and support him, to ‘be’ with him. Eugene being there for him, even though it caused him great distress. For Eugene it had been about the ‘other’. I remember when my friend Tom Cassidy first went into the hospital – yes it was about Tom, but it was also about me – how much I liked him and to talk with him. As he grew increasingly more ill and as he knowingly began the task of greeting his approaching death our visits changed and for me it slowly became about being with him, his comfort, his peace. There was little that I could save to sit there and pray with him. After his stroke I dared to tell him that I would be his voice to speak aloud – in prayer, particularly the rosary which he loved. His last few days on this earth and he was in an induced coma all that I could do was to be there with him, I would pray for him, with him, say the rosary that only his heart could take part in. I would speak to him about Our Lady coming to take him home. The last time I visited with him was just a few hours before he died. I had gone to say goodbye to him, to pray the rosary with him one last time. I assured him it was time and that Our Lady was there for him and I kissed him goodbye. As I left the hospital room I remember being grateful that God was taking him home, he had suffered greatly and he would not get his reward so-to-speak. I thought how Tom had looked stronger somehow and more at peace than I had ever seen him. Perhaps I was just imagining. And when I got word a few hours later that he was gone I cried but was happy for him. At last he knew total peace and was where he belonged, where he had longed to be.
It is only now in reading Eugene’s account of Jacques Marcou’s dying that I recognize the transforming work that God did in me. For that period of time – it had been about Tom and not about me. It had been about an other. I keep thinking this morning that no one should die alone, that perhaps one of the greatest gifts that we can give to those we love, to our brothers and sisters is to make sure they are not alone, in preparation and in their dying. Perhaps one of the greatest gifts we can give to another, and to ourselves.
I think of the support that the people along the pride parade route gave to me as I walked it last weekend, their waves and smiles – their being there – they were not walking it for me, but they were there for me as I walked it. I sure as heck was not alone. Could I do any less for another? And there in lies my redemption – it is in the ‘other’.