End time.

My mother, Marybeth, was born in Troy, New York, in 1935. She was raised in the shadow of one of Troy's fourteen Catholic churches, raised her six children in the same church's shadow, and died there last spring. Though she was a Vatican II Catholic, old-fashioned piety animated her entire life: novenas, rosaries, relics, oils, and medals. When we gathered round her deathbed, the graces garnered through those lifelong devotions crystallized before our eyes.

The story of my mother's death really begins a year before, when my father died suddenly. They had been married for forty-five years, and she was heartbroken. But she was the sort who could carry any sorrow unfalteringly, and she was determined to pass many more years with her children, grandchildren, and friends. My mother was ready to live.

So it came as a surprise when my mother began experiencing severe abdominal pains only a few days after my father's burial, and it was devastating when she was diagnosed with cancer of the liver and adrenal gland a few weeks later. Why is my life changing so fast? she seemed to gasp. Why am I so healthy otherwise? And I am one of the widows who want to live ...

Even in the face of her body's steady deterioration, in the winter and spring of 2004, she remained animated and determined. When we attended Mass together the last time at our parish, deep and agonizing shocks ran through her back and leg. Still, she insisted on going out to dinner afterward, and declined to give in to pain that would have felled me.

In truth, Marybeth was not ready to die. She remained fond of her life, even in its declining stages, and she spoke openly about her hope for a miracle.

The time came nearer, though. Toward the end of last April, we had to take her to the hospital. The cancer had spread wildly, fluid had collected in her lungs, and breathing was hard work. When she temporarily improved, the doctors recommended she return home--but under hospice care. It was a terribly fearsome prospect, and my mother's face and demeanor broadcast it. Still, once home she began to ease slowly toward the idea of dying, although I don't think she or any of us thought she'd have only a week.

Those last days, it turned out, were filled with rituals of hope: daily Communion brought by a dear friend; consistent recitation of the Our Father and the Hail Mary; repeated anointings with St. Anne's oil; constant fingering her rosary and quiet prayers to Sts. Anthony and Jude; my brother's birthday party at her bed; reading get-well cards together; persistent laughter over her long history of malapropisms and blunt commentary; mindful breathing; holding hands.

Two nights before she died, there was an all-night vigil at her bedside. She was now semicomatose, and that night we knew for sure that we had lost her. We blessed her with holy water, anointed her with St. Anne's oil, and told her to go home to Dad and her parents and the twin baby girls she lost after birth in 1964. We said our goodbyes, knowing she would never wake.

But the following morning brought fifty minutes of unexpected consolation and joy. She awoke, as vibrant as could be, and called each of us, one at a time, to her side. In her goodbyes, she was radiant, funny, gracious, and self-deprecating. She was finally ready--and herself. For us, the elation was indescribable: she'd been recalled to life for a final ritual of hope. We talked, prayed, and laughed, and after a little while, she went back to sleep. "I'm happy," she smiled. "Bye-bye," blowing kisses with each hand.

But she had not yet reached a full acceptance of death. Suddenly, hours later, she woke again. "Why am I still here?" she demanded in a tone so familiar to us as children it more than implied her impatience. "Get a piece of paper," she directed. "Write: 'Marybeth is ready to go.' Then fold it up and put it under the statue of the Infant of Prague." That having been done, she fell into a deep, long sleep, and a day later, looking wide-eyed and expectant, died quietly, a single tear running down her right cheek.

That tear, I'm convinced, was one of satisfaction, not of sorrow. She was ready, ready to accept the upward call she had resisted out of love for her life.

For those of us gathered at her side that last week, nearly every moment was filled with grace. The prayer, the laughter, the farewells, the note informing God she was ready. Catholics of my mother's generation were taught to pray for the grace of a happy death. In Troy, New York, in the shadow of her church, my mother freely and fully received it.

James P. McCartin is an assistant professor of history and Catholic studies at Seton Hall University.