These words are not mine to tell. They are the words of a woman whose story is now complete. A story of faith, devotion and a love that reaches beyond time and place. A story 89 years in the making, begun in the midst of the Great Depression, formed by hard work and a loving family and ending with an outstretched hand from Heaven.

Confined to her bed at home in recent years with debilitating ailments and a diminished quality of life, Joan often yearned to be reunited with those who had gone before her. A devout Catholic, she welcomed visits from the parish priests, making her Confession and even at times wondering aloud why God had not yet taken her. In his time and according to his will, they’d say.

Maybe she needed to share a few more laughs with her grandchildren, remember an untold story of childhood or enjoy a second helping of stuffed cabbage and a sip of good red wine (not the cheap stuff, she would say). These small pleasures, though never frequent enough, had become the joys of her life. At other times, she slept, despite the restlessness and agitation that plagued her.

One morning early this month, something shifted. Joan awoke changed, energetic. She was determined to choose a dress for the party, though no invitation had arrived. Her caregiver entered the room, concerned she was distressed. But no—Joan was intent on the task before her. “Do you see them?” she asked. “It’s my parents, and there’s John,” she uttered excitedly, saying they had come to visit her.

“Who’s John?” the aide asked, confused, as no one else was in the room.

“My husband,” said Joan of her beloved, now dead over 16 years. “I need to pick out a dress. There’s going to be a party.” And Joan always did enjoy a good party—the music, the food and the laughter of friends.

Thinking she was dreaming, her longtime caregiver sought to calm the old woman and patiently took out the dresses, all at least a decade old, that hung in Joan’s closet. When she came to a pale pink flowing one with pearl buttons, Joan nodded. “That one,” she decided. “That’s the one I’ll wear.” Without question, it was hung beside the bed.

Exhausted from the task, she soon drifted off to sleep, mumbling to herself and waking several times over the next two days, until an unusual silence stirred the caregiver to check on her. Joan was still. The dress remained hung beside the bed, but she had already left for the party, joining John, her parents, sisters and countless friends on a heavenly dance floor.

These words were not mine to tell, but I hope I told them as she would have wanted. They were the words of my mother-in-law Joan Clark, a kind and loving lady who died as she lived—quietly, with grace and dignity.

When we learned the story of her last days, told to us first by her devoted caregiver, my husband Patrick had no doubt it was his father who had come to take her hand, as he had done throughout the 46 years of their marriage, and lead her to the arms of our Holy Father. And then off to the party, Joan in her flowing pale pink, a glass of good red wine in one hand and John’s gentle grip in the other.