"That's the day I learn everything!" He's scared—I can tell. The loud voice and blustering manner are the best "cover" this strong and determined man has left whose mask is slipping more every day. Donny was diagnosed with Pulmonary Fibrosis about six years ago. His lungs are hardening, gradually turning to wood, and it's becoming more and more difficult for him to breathe. The "Queen" is his doctor, a brilliant young woman who, about two years ago, came to Dubuque to practice medicine after being trained at John Hopkins. Donny is a simple guy who worked for thirty years as a manager at a meat packing plant, and he is in awe of this woman. Deferential and intimidated by her intelligence and directness, Donny also harbors a deep affection for this doctor, who happens to be pretty. He calls her: "my Queen." What he's really saying is: "If anyone in the world can pull me through this, it's her." Pulmonary Fibrosis is a terminal illness. There is no cure. The "Queen" is buying Donny time. It's all she can do—and she's disconcertingly frank with him about that. There is one and only one possibility of a cure and that's a lung transplant. On Friday, the "Queen" has arranged for Donny to go to Mayo Clinic in Rochester Minnesota be tested and learn if he is eligible for a lung transplant. If not, then he can start counting the days . . . I've known Donny for eight years. He trained me to make the domed lids for the caskets we make in the wood shop. He's not an outwardly devout person, but his friendship with me has changed him. He keeps telling me that. Sometimes, after he's been going on and on about "his Queen", he suddenly turns to me, places his hand on my arm, looks straight into my eyes and says with deep feeling, "But it's you who I'm really counting on. You stick by me, Father, and it's all going to work out." I will, of course, stand by him no matter what happens. After six years, his "passion", this agonizing confrontation with his mortality, has become my experience too. Sunday is "Passion" Sunday, the day, the church celebrates Christ's free offering of himself to God by "turning his face toward Jerusalem." Monks are supposed to "unite ourselves with him in death, that we may rise with him in glory." That's what is supposed to happen anyway. It can all feel a little forced and contrived to "unite yourself with the death of another". This year, it will be easy. I won't have to work at it at all. All I need to do is keep walking close to Donny, like I've been doing for six years. The rest is silence and a mystery that grows more luminous as you walk toward it.

Father Raphael