Gregory Arrives at His Dying Sister
When our great brother Basil had completed his earthly course and departed to that life which has no evening, I came to my sister Macrina under the pressure of an overwhelming grief. He was the common glory of our family, the greatest theological mind of our generation, the shepherd of Caesarea who had given his life for the Church and for the poor, and his death struck me like a physical blow. I could not pray; I could barely think; I moved through the world as a man half-asleep, aware that I was alive and aware that he was not, and unable to make sense of the disproportion. I came to Macrina because she was the eldest of us and the wisest, and because I hoped that in her presence some consolation might be found that I could not find alone.
She was lying not upon a bed or a couch, as the sick usually lie, but upon the floor, on a plank covered with sackcloth, and another plank raised a little served as a pillow to support the neck. When she saw me she raised herself on her elbow and tried to welcome me. But she could not fully rise, and her face was wasted with illness, though there remained in her eyes a light that was not diminished by the nearness of death. I wept when I saw her, not only for Basil but for her too, and for myself, and for the whole weight of mortal life. She saw my distress and began at once to lead me by the hand, through discourse, away from it: not denying the grief but redirecting it, pointing as she always did toward what she knew and loved and was about to enter.
She said: Will you weep and groan like the unbelieving? Will you show yourself unacquainted with the reasons which lead those who are wise not to grieve for those who depart this life? Come, let us investigate together the nature of death itself: what it is, whether it is among the things that are evil or among the things that merely seem evil to those who have not thought about them. For if we can establish that death is not what we fear it is -- if we can show that what we call death is in reality a passage to what we were always meant for -- then the grief will not disappear, because we are human and we love what we have loved, but it will be transfigured into something that does not break us.