by Sr. Cláudia Pacheco
It is the night of the Passover meal, the night before your death.
You are not the calm, controlled, monotone voice we hear every week at Mass.
You are desperate, anxious, alert, and deeply emotional.
You say, “You have no idea how much I have longed to share this meal with you.”
You are with your closest companions for the last time, as one of them. You are desperate to make sure they understand, that they truly grasp everything you tried to teach them. You were with them day after day for three years. You know the path ahead will not be easy for them without you. But above all, you want them to know how much you love them.
You have nothing to give them—no property to leave as an inheritance, no earthly kingdom or dynasty. After 33 years on this earth, you have accumulated no material wealth. You even had to borrow the donkey to arrive there that night. You have nothing to give your closest friends. Nothing—except this: this bread and this cup of wine.
On the night before you die, material wealth no longer matters to anyone. The only thing that matters is having your loved ones close and making sure they know how much you love them.
And you take that bread and that wine, you break them, you share them, and you offer them. You give everything you have left, as if saying in a desperate plea: “Please, please, in this gift, see how much I love you. It is all I have left, but more than anything, I want you to have it. I want you to remember me through it. I want you to remember how much I love you.”
