A number of years ago, late summer, I walked into a small and complex ecosystem, a patient’s room in MD Anderson’s critical care unit. Except for the chirping noises from a heart monitor and the sighing of a mechanical respirator, it was quiet like a grotto or chapel. I couldn’t get there soon enough. When I called his room two days before, Jim told me, I’m doing better. Don’t worry. The next morning he didn’t answer. No one answered. The nurses wouldn’t talk to me, a stranger, over the phone. They did confirm he was a patient in critical care. Stymied, I booked a flight from Toronto to Houston for the following day. I drove straight from the airport to MD Anderson. No one in the waiting room knew Jim. No one had seen his family for over a day. Apprehensive, I pushed through the big CCU doors to access the nurses’ station. Jim’s my dear friend. We were in seminary together. May I see him? They told me he wasn’t going to wake up. They told me his brain hemorrhaged, the result of a ferocious leukemia. Only a week earlier, he was the picture of health, 32 years old. Jim appeared to be asleep in the bed, nothing more. Where are his parents, his family? Anyone? Her voice strained, the charge nurse replied, They told us to disconnect him then left. When will this happen? I whispered. Tomorrow morning. May I stay, I asked, so that he won’t be alone? She nodded yes. All night I prayed at Jim’s bedside. The chirps became little birds, the sighing was the wind. Dear God, receive his soul. I watched the critical care staff disconnect his life support. His heart monitor beeped minute after minute. An alarm sounded when his heart stopped. They didn’t silence it right away. We give him up, we didn’t give up. I write this with emotion. Jim had a caring priestly heart. I pray for Jim by name in every Mass God permits me to offer. Father Barker.