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afternoon. Dinner follows, and the closing ritual of the day is the sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick. In this sacrament, the community of faith—the church—prays for the recovery of the sick and peaceful transition of the dying to the company of God. The anointing reaffirms the promise of God that whenever the church prays and exercises a healing ministry in the name of the Lord, God will raise up the sick persons and save them. Members of the retreat team are offered an opportunity to receive this sacrament as well.

      The day ends with “Gaudeamus” (Latin for “let’s rejoice”). This is a continuation of the prayerful gatherings of the day. Now the guests are treated to a program of joyous songs, wonderful food, and abundant laughter. After a long day of conferences and prayer services, all the retreat participants and retreat staff “enjoy gathering for fun, a time to laugh and sing and to recognize that God is in all things!” says Paul.

      On Sunday morning after breakfast, Paul invites the guests to take time alone and review what has happened on the retreat. They are encouraged to name a moment, conversation, prayer, or word they received from God during the retreat. After a period alone, the guests come back together. They are offered the opportunity to speak about their experience, though some choose to remain silent. These reflections are shared without comment; they are received with compassion and thanksgiving to God. At the end of this shared reflection, each guest is invited to take one of the prayer cards home with them and to continue to pray for the guest who wrote it at the beginning of the retreat. The gathering ends with staff washing and anointing the feet of the guests. This ritual of honor and respect for the guests captures the spirit of the retreat. With this final action, the guests and staff go to the chapel to welcome family members for Sunday Eucharist, and later a closing lunch for all.

      The retreat is an elegantly simple idea: a time of silence so that seriously ill people can listen. They can prayerfully listen and receive the consolation of God’s presence in this stage of life. And in listening, they hear the deepest longings of their own hearts. They receive. They find God.

      One example: a woman with terminal cancer registered for a Genneseret Retreat. A week before the retreat, she suddenly cancelled. When the next retreat came up, she registered again. When she arrived, she was defensive and sullen. Eventually she asked Paul if she could speak with him during one of the quiet times. When they met, she told her story—at first slowly and then in a torrent of words. Her husband sexually abused her. Her priest had told her to keep the marriage together despite the abuse. She finally divorced her husband. She had an adopted son, and just before she attended the retreat, he told his mother he was HIV positive.

      It was the first time in her life she had disclosed to anyone the pain of her life. Paul said nothing. He listened. At the end, she said, “You are the first priest or even the first human being who has listened to me without comment and without judgment.” And then she cried.

      “People want to be received with care,” Paul says. “By listening to ourselves, we receive. By listening to others, we receive. By listening to God, we receive. Listening is so difficult for us. But it is the way we hear the deepest longings of our hearts and the loving words of God.”

      “The message of God comes in a thousand different voices,” Paul declares.

      At the end of one Gennesaret Retreat, when Paul was clearly drained, I asked him, “Why do you do these retreats?” He replied, “This is what I am meant to do.”

      This book contains the voices of a few of those who showed in their dying how they learned to listen and receive the loving embrace of God. At the end of their lives and in their own unique and different ways, they found God—with the help of a priest who listened.

      Maria

      The Woman Who Yearned for Reconciliation

      I met Maria in the early 1990s while I was serving as pastor of a large, suburban congregation with more than three thousand households. During one Lenten season, I offered to pray with anyone who wanted intercessory prayer immediately after Mass.

      One Sunday Maria stopped me in the middle of the foyer. She told me forcefully, “I need a prayer for my medical condition.” “Now?” I asked. “Yes, now,” she insisted. “Why?” I inquired. “Because I have a hard decision to make. I need some help.”

      I asked her to explain her situation before we started to pray. She reported that she was a survivor of breast cancer. She had undergone surgery six years earlier, and her cancer went into remission. But now it had reappeared, and she didn’t know what treatment she should undergo.

      I placed my hands on her shoulders, and she put her hands around me. I prayed in a whisper that she would be aware of and be filled with the presence and wisdom of God to recognize the possibilities that were unfolding for her. She prayed for strength to endure and handle the chaos of her inner life. A madhouse of people was swirling all around us in the foyer, but we paid no attention to them. Her husband stood in the background.

      That first encounter symbolized what eventually became one of the most extraordinary spiritual relationships of my ministry. Maria was an Italian-American woman in her late fifties with equal parts humble piety and strong will. She had four children, all living away from home; her husband owned a business in New York City; and as mother and wife, she was the center, the glue of her family’s life (this is true in many Italian families). She yearned for God’s presence and guidance, but she also took responsibility for her life—her treatment for cancer and her accountability with others and with God.

      After that prayer in the foyer, Maria consulted with her doctor and later called me to come to her home. She reported that the cancer had spread to her lymph nodes, and the doctor recommended chemotherapy. Keenly aware of her condition, she was shocked by the reappearance of the cancer. Nevertheless, she said, “I think I don’t have enough information to make a good decision.” She decided on a second opinion, and it came back the same. Both doctors suggested chemotherapy sooner rather than later.

      She received eight chemotherapy treatments over the next couple of months. To virtually everyone, she appeared very upbeat. “God is with me,” she told me. “I have the support of you and my family and friends.” She had high energy and retained a positive image of herself. There was no fear, no anger. But there were low spots—witnessed only by her husband.

      After three months and more tests, Maria learned that the cancer was spreading, and this time the doctors recommended radiation. She agreed. Again, she took charge of her treatment and her outward behavior, but this time she suffered many more side effects, including fatigue and loss of hair. She withdrew inside herself and came to Mass only occasionally. People began to ask about her. I knew more than anyone, including her children, but I told people, “She needs some time for herself.”

      Whenever she called, I visited her at home. She would call me whenever she needed an ear, often to vent about her doctors. During these visits, I did a good deal of pastoral counseling, but we did not do much praying.

      After several months of radiation, she showed dramatic improvement and then started a rigorous cycle of treatment—radiation, then chemotherapy, followed by more radiation and chemotherapy—lasting more than six months. For the first time, she asked, “What do you think God wants me to do with this?” I responded, “What do you mean?” She said, “Does God have a plan for my treatment? Shall I continue it or stop it?”

      I told her, “I don’t know the mind of God—never known it, never will know it.”

      Maria said, “I believe God has a plan for my treatment, but I can’t know it for sure.” She asked me to pray for her that God would give her wisdom to know God’s will.

      “Prayer alone is not enough,” I said. “We need to have conversations to discern God’s will.” I left it with her to call me back.

      After a couple of weeks, she called. When we met at her home, she said, “I keep asking, ‘Is this God’s will or my will?’ I think I’ve decided it’s my will when the choices involve control and purpose—something visible and tangible. And it’s God’s will when the choices are open-ended. I think God’s telling

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