Reflection for the Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed (All Souls Day)

Today, the Church pauses in quiet reverence to remember all the faithful departed — not just the saints whose names shine in stained glass, but all those who have gone before us, often quietly, faithfully, and lovingly. We remember the fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, friends and shepherds — all who have walked this journey of life and now rest in the merciful hands of God.

In my ministry as a hospice chaplain, I have come to see this truth of Wisdom 3 come alive:

“The souls of the just are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them.”

At the bedside of those preparing to meet the Lord, I have seen a peace that defies explanation — a stillness that settles not because life has ended, but because life is being fulfilled.  I have witnessed families gather with tears, prayers, and whispered goodbyes, and I have felt that sacred exchange when heaven gently leans down and receives a soul.  Each of those moments reminds me that death does not have the final word — love does.

The reading from Romans assures us that “hope does not disappoint.” That hope is what sustains families who grieve and those of us who minister in these sacred spaces of farewell.  It is the hope that God’s mercy reaches beyond our sins and fears — that through Christ’s death and resurrection, reconciliation is no longer a concept, but a promise fulfilled.

And in the Gospel, Jesus says:

“I shall not lose anything of what the Father has given me, but I shall raise it on the last day.”

That is the heart of All Souls Day — the conviction that no one is forgotten in God’s sight.  Every soul matters.  Every life — no matter how long or short, no matter how broken or whole — is gathered in His mercy.

Today, I remember my son, whose absence still aches but whose love continues to shape me. I remember my father, who passed a year ago, and whose voice and presence remain alive in my prayers. I remember my mother, whose faith taught me the language of love and forgiveness. I remember Fr. Roberto McGlinn, my mentor and spiritual father, whose wisdom and humor ignited my own call to serve. His priestly heart taught me that to serve God is to walk closely with His people — especially the forgotten and the suffering. Though he has gone before us, his example continues to inspire me every time I stand beside a hospital bed, a grieving family, or a parish community in prayer.

And I remember all the patients I have been privileged to serve in hospice care — those whose hands I have held, whose prayers I have whispered, whose families I have comforted.  Each of them has taught me something eternal: that the veil between life and death is thin, and on the other side of that veil is not darkness, but light — a light that is the face of Christ, the One who promised to raise us up on the last day.

So, we pray today not only for those who have died, but for our own hearts — that we may live with the kind of faith that sees through tears, that believes through loss, and that trusts, as Wisdom says, that “grace and mercy are with His holy ones, and His care is with His elect.”

May the souls of all the faithful departed —

through the mercy of God — rest in peace. Amen.