My First Death

Olavarria, Argentina, November 5, 2004

Before I even headed down to Argentina, I knew that there was a missionary in Olavarria who had cancer. I knew that she was very sick... and I was dreading it. I can't stand when people are sick. I use to think I was a jerk, because my thoughts usually oscillated between "suck it up and stop whining" and "do I really have to look at you?" It took a long time before I realized that I just didn't know what to do with the feelings of compassion and fear... but I digress.

So, I had a gut wrenching dread as I flew to Argentina. My thought: She's gonna die when I'm there. NOTHING is staying within my comfort zone. In this spirit of surrender (note the sarcasm), I retrieved my bags at the airport repeating (almost compulsively): "I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die."

However, there must have been some surrender in my freaked out heart; I did not foresee the resurrection that was about to take place.

I arrived on September 16th. Rita was indeed very sick. Outside her door: "Todo Tuyo," the very same "Totus Tuus" that I had scrolled on every single note I'd taken in the last four years. She only left her room to go down the hall to Mass, where a temporary chapel was set up for the community prayer. My first words to her were the Hail Mary, she had never heard a North American speak English. "Where the was I?"

About a month and a half later, Rita had a bout of relative health. She went downstairs to celebrate her 40th anniversary of profession. I and one of the missionaries carried her down stairs. At one point, I was alone with her, holding her up, and I whispered - "Quiero ser una misionera." Her response: "Sheesh!" It was the only English word she had picked up, learned only moments before - an appropriate response.

That afternoon, she renewed her vows and my heart and mind were mysteriously quiet.

It was only a few weeks later. I was in the little chapel, down the hall I heard the swishing of skirts and footsteps. Funny how footsteps can sound ominous. These were - heavier and quicker than usual. Suddenly one missionary came in the chapel, took Jesus, and said "come."

Down the hall I went. The missionaries at home were already crowded into her little room. I found a spot on the floor and I knelt down. They prayed all sorts of prayers. I knelt and prayed the Divine Mercy and prayer to St. Michael the Archangel. The cries got a little louder, the prayers a little softer, we went out and the paramedics came in..... everyone disappeared.

The very next day was her funeral. The missionaries gathered around her casket and prayed the MI prayer of consecration. When they got to the line, "Please make of me, of my powers of soul and body, of my whole life, death, and eternity, whatever most pleases you..." I entered a new depth of understanding the consecration.

I had already given the Immaculata my death. I had given her everything, so becoming a missionary would be nothing new. I would be hers for the glory of God and the sanctification of others. That night we left on a pilgrimage. While we were there I was blessed with a confirmation from God - a small, sure sign that I was on the right track. I waited just a few days, and then I made my first public yes.

Not sure how she knew, but the directress of the community, at the dinner table, said to the community "Jillian has something to say." I froze. I sweat. I stuttered and shook. I said in atrocious Spanish...

"Quiero - pero mas importante Jesus quiere, ser una Misionera del Inmaculada Padre Kolbe." 

The applause and song was deafening.

Jillian Cooke

Fr. Kolbe Missionaries

www.kolbemission.org/en (English)
www.kolbemission.org/ar (Espanol)