Almost exactly 40 years ago, a young man I had known my entire life was killed in a drunk driving accident. I remember the day it happened in 1985. The Irish Catholic community in the Washington I knew went into shock. The young man—I’ll call him Chris—had not only been a part of our Catholic community, but a beloved member of a subgroup of about 40 of us called “the Irish Group.” We were parents and kids who lived near each other and had grown up together. Every couple of years or so, we would organize a trip to Ireland. We loved seeing where we had come from.

One of the things I remember about the death of Chris and his funeral was how little talk there was of Heaven or of Chris now being in the arms of the Lord. Yes, we all believed those things, and still do. Still, there was an unmistakable sense of the reality and horror of Chris’s death. I still remember a night when two other high school friends who had known Chris sat up with me on the top of one of our apartment roofs, drinking beer and quietly thinking, crying, and talking about our memories of him. I remember that in the background one of my favorite songs, Steve Winwood’s “Night Train,” was playing:

Out of the night burning with light
Train shining black, I won’t look back, life is running
Hoping someday someone will say
“I got it made, pull up the shade, let the sun in”
Down on the night train, I feel the starlight steal away
Used up a lifetime looking for the break of day

Recently I was reminded Chris’s death and began thinking of it in light of the death of Pope Francis. The viewing and long mourning period, a time when even the faithful don’t talk about the Holy Father being in Heaven, are a reminder of what is so powerful about Catholicism. Contrary to the slap-happy preachers on TV who insist that the Lord is responsible for everything from your dog dying to post-nasal drip and how we are all shooting straight toward Heaven, and the secular culture that often refuses to take the spiritual stakes of this life seriously, Catholicism is realistic about what our lives mean and the meaning of our ultimate hope of Heaven. It grapples with tragedy instead of refusing to see it or brushing it off.

Paradoxically, it is that realism that allows us to enjoy ourselves as pilgrims in the world more than most other people.  Knowing our true nature and our soul’s relation to God frees us up to enjoy the joys of this world that much better. The Irish Group went to the Stations of the Cross—while also enjoying our beer and parties and the beauty of the natural world. We embraced both life and death.

The great Catholic philosopher Dietrich von Hildebrand wrote about Catholic death in his book Jaws of Death: Gate of Heaven. A brilliant writer, Hildebrand was called “the twentieth-century Doctor of the Church” by Pope Pius XII.

In Jaws of Death, von Hildebrand reminds us of what a horrible rupture death is—it is not the gentle “passing over” that so many modernists claim. For much of our lives, he writes, we experience incredible happiness and intoxication, almost, with the world:

We are alive to all of life’s joys and its sense of celebration, to all the things permeated by a truly comic spirit. We are able to touch life’s mysteries, ranging from the changes of the seasons and the day’s changes (from morning through noon into evening) to the mysterious and sublime forms of human relations. To grasp all these wonders demands a special sensory ability as well as a special alertness. Life indeed presents all these wondrous aspects. Its charm, sweetness, and beauty are objectively rooted in the reality of life. Despite the undeniable reality of sorrows in this valley of tears, we are entitled to cry out, “How lovely you are, O world! How sweet is life!”

And then we are faced with death.

Death is a terrible break from such happiness. Von Hildebrand argues that no matter how holy we have become, no matter how transformed in Christ, we can’t, and shouldn’t elide over the pain of death and what it represents:

There is a constant temptation here. We are human. Our transformation in Christ should not mean that we somehow cease to be human. The purely human, natural aspects of life must be faced and experienced even as we must transcend and outgrow them. We give a woefully incomplete response to the death of a beloved person, therefore, if we only rejoice; it may be that the dead person was like a saint and thus may confidently be expected to be enjoying eternal bliss. Even so, the human heart cries out with Virgil, “Here, tears are called for!” When a beloved person dies, joy is an inappropriate response, in which we err in several respects. First, we ignore the reality of our frightful separation from her, our being robbed of her presence in this life. Second, we ignore the misfortune that death represents for the dead person herself. Related to this, we sometimes hear of persons who rejoice on being told that they will soon die of their lingering illness. Such persons run the risk of becoming giddy enthusiasts. They act as if death were not a great misfortune on the natural plane, as if death did not represent a form of punishment. They come dangerously close to ignoring the proper fear of the judgment. The correct attitude toward death, I repeat, is otherwise. We must experience, we must pass through, all the fearful elements rooted in the natural view of death. For death is a punishment; it brings us to the judgment; it involves a fearful separation. It is hollow to short-circuit these things and go immediately to the blissful aspect of death reflected in the phrase “Behold, the Bridegroom cometh!” Although the yearning for a blissful union with Jesus is sublime in itself, its reality must appear only at the end of a complete and authentic progression. Tears must come first.

What makes this bearable, of course, is our hope that God is not indifferent to us—indeed, that God knows us and loves us. “We must indeed tremble before God’s judgment as before something awesome and crucial,” Hildebrand writes. “But how dreadful would it be if there were no divine judgment, if God were indifferent to sin, indifferent to how we used our free will! Does not God’s judgment show forth His infinite love in the ultimate seriousness with which He regards the depths of our soul?”

Ultimate seriousness, yes, but also ultimate love—and humor. In the passage quoted  Hildebrand mentions the aspects of life “permeated by a truly comic spirit.” The Irish Group I grew up in loved to laugh, to party, to visit pubs and play tennis and listen to live music. We were—and still are—a mirthful people. We know we are what Hildebrand called all Christians—“a pilgrim people” passing through this world.

During one of our trips to Ireland, we were driving through the amazing Conor Pass on the Dingle Peninsula when our caravan stopped at a scenic overview. Chris and a bunch of us got out and hiked up a hill. Below us seems all of Ireland. There was a small lake at the top, and we proceeded to strip down and skinny dip. (Yes, beer was involved.) Our parents were too busy laughing to discipline us.

When my friends and I sat on that apartment rooftop some 40 years after we lost Chris, there were tears, but there was also laughter. We hope to see him again. And we keep watch over Pope Francis as he now lies before us.

My ticket paid, trying to fade
I hope I get there, not just somewhere I was leaving
Out in the dark all the wolves bark
I cross my arms, try to keep warm by believing
I’m on the night train, I feel the starlight steal away
Spent a lifetime looking for the break of day.