Sarah, Sandy and I call Doris, Stephen, Sara, Suzanne and Will. I find myself looking for his tippet, the black clerical stole Lew had worn for forty years of officiating at Morning Prayer services and countless funerals. Then I find his white stole, hand-embroidered with large, colorful flowers and birds which he always wore when officiating at weddings. I ask Sarah, Would you help me do this?

We remove the large quilted angel that a friend had hung from the front doorknocker as a sign of the presence of the Holy work of Lew’s dying. Together Sarah and I arrange the two stoles over the doorknocker, death and new life. In the brilliant January sun Koko, our cat, paces back and forth on the small porch in front of the door. As the world continues outside, I want the stoles to announce: Lew has died. Life gives and takes away and gives again.

I’m supposed to be comforting you are Wally’s first words as he crosses the threshold, crying as he embraces me. I located Wally on his cell phone at. His immediate response: I will be right there. I’m on my way. Over the past seventeen years Lew had presided at many services at which first Wally’s father, then Wally had been the funeral director. The three men had grown to respect and care deeply for one another.

A few weeks ago Lew and I talked extensively with Wally. I explained how I wanted to wash Lew’s body and to keep him at home for a time. As Wally left, he said, If you need any help, call me. In the emotional rush of Lew’s death, Wally has forgotten my desire as he says, I have my man with me. He assumes I want Lew’s body removed as soon as possible as most people request. I look at him disbelieving saying, I don’t want you to take him. I am going to wash him. Remember? Wally looks at me in recognition, immediately takes off his suit jacket, puts it on the back of the nearest chair, rolls up the sleeves of his starched white shirt, and says, Let’s go.

From that moment Wally becomes our priest. Lew’s daughter Sarah, now six months pregnant, has been waiting with her father’s body in the family room where he lived into his dying these past ten grueling weeks. Lew’s devoted caregiver over the last two weeks is waiting with her. Sandy, Lew’s second oldest daughter, is upstairs making phone calls.

As in Lew’s dying, four of us again assemble around Lew’s body, this time Wally in back of Lew’s head. My son, Lew’s stepson, has arrived and sits on the sofa watching, hesitant to participate actively. Although 31, because of his expressive disabilities, he waits to join us until he feels secure and needed. As Lew did not see his sister’s body after she died 65 years ago, Will had not seen his own father’s body after he died in California fifteen months earlier. Today Will witnesses our washing this father’s body with love and tears.

Wally gently instructs us, We will need a basin of warm water, low-sudsing soap, soft cloths for washing, and towels for drying. Almost magically what is needed is easily located. Wally gracefully lifts Lew’s body for us to put waterproof sheets under him to keep the bedding dry. We carefully remove his thermal shirt that just days before the hospice aid had taught me to cut up the back so that I could slip it onto his arms and chest, causing him the least amount of pain, yet leaving him looking dignified.

When we remove his saturated Depends, I am starkly aware of the vulnerability he suffered over these sixteen long, excruciating months. First, incontinence as a consequence of the prostate operation; almost continent again, further humiliation as a consequence of his growing incapacity to care for himself. As time wore on, he accepted these and accompanying humiliations as inevitable, finally allowing others, even those he did not know, to minister to him in ways unimaginable weeks before.

Lewis Mills, no, Lew Mills’ body lies naked before us. However, what could be a final insult becomes a loving task.  Unsure of ourselves, we enter this sacred undertaking cautiously and awkwardly. Under Wally’s guidance, we gradually develop a rhythm, mindfully washing Lew’s feet, legs, arms, and chest. When I hold his left hand in mine, I touch the ring that signifies our marriage of 27 ½ years and 16 hours. With tender care and thoroughness, I wash the intimate parts of Lew’s body, intensely aware of both the comfort and complexity of our sexual relationship. When I wash and rinse his face, I kiss him lightly, as though I might disturb him if I am not gentle.

Our movements soothe us as we affectionately touch Lew’s physical being. The awkwardness fades as the rhythm produces a mystical aura. Our work has become a ritual. Wally moves Lew’s head so that I can wash his hair. My hands caress the shape of the head they memorized long ago; I weep as I wash his thinning hair, black turning more rapidly to gray these last months.

With magnificent force and power Wally lifts Lew’s legs, one after the other, so that we can wash all sides of his body. Wally knows exactly how to do what I could never have imagined, elegantly lifting his body rolling him over smoothly. First with the cloth and then with my hand, I gently cleanse the scar on his buttocks where he was burned as an infant when a senile woman put a hot flat iron into his crib to warm him. I want Sarah to see the scar we have talked about but others have not seen until now. The story is so outrageous that I wonder whether it has been believed. The evidence is there; death was his companion even then.

As Wally turns Lew’s body over once more with care, he asks what clothes I would like to dress him in. I am pulled out of my reverie, shocked that I had not thought about this inevitable decision. But in an instant I know. Finally retiring from active ministry eight months before his diagnosis, Lew happily steered clear of suits, sport coats and ties, relaxing naturally into cords and comfortable shirts. Will becomes more involved as he goes upstairs and retrieves Lew favorite deep teal green cord pants, red turtleneck-it is a cold January day–and handsome plaid wool shirt of rich greens and blues with a brilliant yet subtle red woven through them. I go up to find the soft leather belt recently brought from Italy by friends. We put coordinating socks on his feet, Sarah, Will and I laughing as we remember how much difficulty Lew had coordinating his outfits and how much pleasure he took when he succeeded.   Wally invites Will to help put on Lew’s pants and belt. I sense his pleasure as he accomplishes this task, caring physically for this father who had cared for him in so many ways since Will was two years old.

We tuck a pillow under Lew’s head and move the bed back under the huge glass garden window which is crowded with flowering plants sent by friends over the past weeks. And we keep his body home until the next day. Bittersweet grief cannot be put off; I sob and wail whenever I go into the room.

In the afternoon Sarah says, Come slide your hands under Dad’s lower back and feel the warmth still in his body. As the temperature goes down with the sun, we cover him with a soft blanket as though wanting to keep him warm.

A few days later Wally tells me, That night as I described our ministering to Lew’s body so intimately together, my wife and I held one another and wept. The way I do my work has changed forever.