A Bedside Prayer for Death of a Child

I was honoured to have attended a child’s passing last night. Kayleigh was nine years old. She would have turned ten in November. Leukaemia had ravaged her body and she was extremely weak from both the illness and the aggressive treatments she had endured over the past few months.

Several hours earlier, the doctors had worked determinedly to resuscitate her when her heart failed. I didn’t need to ask in this case, I instinctively knew that Kayleigh’s mother still had not moved to acceptance that her daughter’s body was failing and thus had refused to sign the ‘DNR’ order, allowing Kayleigh’s spirit to pass on without further interference with her body. But you could see in the eyes of the kind doctor and nurses that they knew what the inevitable outcome would be.

In the early afternoon Kayleigh was talking with her seven-year-old sister Justine and mother. I sat in a chair far in the corner of the room. I could still just barely hear them speak, but couldn’t always clearly hear what was being said. Justine had been devotedly swabbing Kayleigh’s lips with a small sponge on a stick to provide moisture to her lips.

It was just before 5 when Kayleigh’s mother said she needed to take Justine home where her grandmother was preparing dinner. She would return within the half-hour. I promised I would remain with Kayleigh while she was gone.

As I walked with the mother and child to the doors of the ward, Justine looked up at me and said ‘ Kayleigh said she is going to send each of us a card.’ She said it with that beautiful conviction that only children can show, as if they were speaking of Father Christmas arriving the following morning. ‘That’s wonderful Justine,’ I said. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from her.’

I said goodbye at the hallway and watched the pitiful figure of the mother move down the hallway, with Justine half-skipping, half-running beside her. I could hear Justine cheerfully chatting away about something as I turned back into the hospital ward.

When I returned to Kayleigh’s room, she was still. Her eyes were open and in any other setting, saving the pale grey appearance of her skin, you might have thought she was just gazing at the ceiling. It had only been a matter of minutes from when we had walked out the door to my return and Kayleigh's body had taken its last breath.

I felt the tears welling up in my eyes, but I also felt myself smiling. She was at peace. But there was something much more powerful in the moments that had passed. Kayleigh had fought hard to remain there for her mother and sister – to impart that powerful message to Justine – that she’s only going on a journey, not that she simply wouldn’t exist anymore.

And for both her mother and sister, Kayleigh’s passing occurred at a moment when little Justine would not have been subjected to a repeat of her mother’s frantic and poignant fight to try to protect her daughter from a disease that had ravaged the child’s body.

One of the nurses named Betty, came into the room and saw me standing at the end of the bed. It only took seconds for her to realise that Kayleigh had passed. I was deeply touched because without any words she put her arms around me and hugged me. Betty removed the IV line whilst I closed Kayleigh’s eyes and together we straightened the bed and turned down the lights. I didn’t really think about it, but I took a floppy eared sock rabbit that Justine had brought her sister from the nightstand and tucked it in beside Kayleigh.

I asked Betty if she would like to stay with me as I offered prayers for Kayleigh. She held up her finger to indicate ‘just a moment,’ and she left the room. Seconds later she returned with another nurse and one of the ward assistants. We gathered around Kayleigh’s bed and prayed:

Christ Jesus, most merciful Saviour,

Hear our prayers as we gather in Your name

We commend this child into Your arms of mercy.
Kayleigh has been a blessing to all who knew her.

She brought laughter, warmth, and comfort to many
And in the moments when her mother and others showed despair
Kayleigh provided a noble message of hope and promise,
in her unfailing conviction that her life here may be limited

but is by no means final.

Grant comfort and strength to those who gather here now,
dedicating their lives to the care of others,
who often must face life as it moves to shadows.
Embrace them with Your eternal love

through everything they do.

Thank you for the love we would never have known,
but for Kayleigh’s brief days with us.

May the angels surround Kayleigh

and the saints welcome her with joy.

Lord God, we commend this child to Your everlasting care.

In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen

One of the staff very sweetly offered to remain with Kayleigh as I walked to the entrance of the hospital to await the return of her mother.
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Now Lord, You let Your servant go in peace. Your word has been fulfilled. Support us O Lord all the day long of this troublous life. Until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes. The busy world is hushed, The fever of life is over and our work is done. Then Lord, in Your mercy, grant us a safe lodging, A Holy rest, and peace at last. Through Christ our Lord. Amen

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Words of Comfort for the Death of a Child

Words of Comfort for the Dying

Helping to Ease the Pain of Dying

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When It's Okay To Let Go

My friend Sarah has recently entered hospital. She’s fought a valiant battle over the past few years. But as with many of these situations, the chemotherapy and medications were simply unable to fight off the advances of the progressing cancer.

With hand on heart I can truly say I have never once heard Sarah complain about her cancer: in fact, quite the opposite! A few weeks ago, whilst she was still at home, Sarah's thoughts were on getting back into her garden, sorting through papers, and visiting friends.

I’ve been saddened to watch her deteriorate so rapidly. On Sunday, my thoughts were that she would most likely quietly slip into a coma overnight. But how wrong I was! On Monday, Sarah was bright and chipper. In fact, she asked me to bring her a ham sandwich and a few mandarins.

When Mary and I returned later that evening to bring her an assortment of goodies, Sarah’s conversation was again about getting rid of her ‘awful cough’ and the fluid in her lungs, and going ‘home.’ I was delighted and I truly hoped that she would indeed be returning home.

But yesterday Sarah was unable to speak. She had received a get-well card from a neighbour, but was too weak to hold it in her hands. Her face was contorted as agonising pain shot through her chest and back. And she looked at me with an imploring sense of helplessness. I spoke with the ward sister: Sarah had already received as much morphine as was safely possible. (an irony that could release an agonising rash of invectives from me!)

I know that Sarah is still trying to fight her battle. She told me she would never stop fighting it. When I suggested to her that it is also okay to accept. Sarah said that if she did that she wouldn’t be very proud of herself.

The elderly can teach us so much about our lives to come and we constantly learn from them. But we also need guidance in how to finish our mortal lives as well.

As the Apostle Paul put it, ‘I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Finally there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give to me on that Day’

Funny, that’s just what Sarah says!

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Words of Comfort for the Dying.

We Are Never Alone

Bedside Prayers For a Child's Death

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