“My prayer is that when I die, all of hell rejoices that I am out of the fight.” – C.S. Lewis

The term “old soul” gets thrown around a lot, and mostly in a lame kind of way – to describe kids who are simply smarter or more intuitive than their peers, or who are just quiet because they’re afraid of getting in trouble. I think “old soul” is a cliché, most of the time, and a pretty weak descriptor. But even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and, like most clichés, “old soul” can, at rare times, describe a person pretty accurately. IMO, it’s never described anyone as accurately as it described my friend, whom for the sake of online anonymity I will herein refer to simply as J.

Which is, of course, another cliché: everyone always gushes about how “special” their loved one was, after that loved one dies. I guess most people really are that special, when you get to know them well enough. And I guess I am biased, and J himself would certainly disagree, but I personally believe that J was actually especially special.

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J, I keep reflecting on how it came to pass that God chose to take you at this time of year: on December 15th. You were just telling me how December is always the hardest time of year for you. That it makes you feel spiritually vulnerable. I guess it is a hard season for single people in general, plus you just had your birthday, which is probably an unwelcome reminder of how time keeps passing and you are still stuck, still waiting, still not living the life you feel so called to. You told me it felt like you’ve just been sitting around waiting for the last several years.

You said that around this time of year is when, more than usual, you seek comfort in the prayers and spirituality of the Eastern rite. Even after you decided against converting to Orthodoxy, you maintained a special affinity for the Byzantine approach to the Faith, and identified as “bi-ritual” – or even tri-ritual, really, since you were equally devoted to the Anglican Ordinariate. Latin, English, or Eastern: you knew each of these traditions so well, and could talk about them at great length, with great love, and felt so called to live in each of them. You could have been perfectly at home in any of the three. You could have done so many things. Your life could have been so many things.

I’ve never met such an old soul, and I’ve never met a soul so awake and alive to its potential, so driven to respond to God’s call, yet so held back by its physical circumstances.

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Where to begin? He’s always been so far beyond me – imo, beyond most people – in many ways, though I never saw him act like he thought so. I’ve often wondered why someone so intelligent and wise would want to be friends with me at all. J never thought himself above anyone, though. I will try now to recount the story of our friendship.

I first met J in early 2012, nearly fourteen years ago, in a coffee shop in the city where we were both students at different schools. Weary of my depraved atheist lifestyle, I was beginning to inquire into the Catholic faith, and a kind priest had recommended that I connect with the local Catholic campus ministry group, which served students of several different colleges in that city. When I walked into the coffee shop to meet up with the group’s leader, she had three other students at the table with her, who I guess were interested in meeting and welcoming me, the newcomer: two girls and one guy. The guy was J.

I don’t remember the details of that first meeting; I just remember my general impressions. Immediately upon meeting him, I could tell that J was the Really Smart one of the group: an intellectual, an academic, a reader, an old-fashioned sort of English gentleman type you’d expect to meet on the campus of Oxford or Cambridge a hundred years ago, weraring a tweed coat and smoking a pipe; but, interestingly, in the form of an unassuming, small-town country guy who liked guns and watching football and spoke in an endearing Deep Southern drawl. He was an intensely serious individual, you could tell, even while he was good at joking around and casual, lighthearted banter; he was no intellectual snob. He was an introvert who, when in comfortable company or in conversation about something important to him, became eloquent and verbose. And when he talked, what struck me the most about him was how devout he was. “Zealous” is the word that comes to mind (and indeed, I’ve sometimes heard him describe himself that way; “zeal for Your house has consumed me” was very true of him). At that time, when I was still a liberal atheist just dipping my toes in the world of Christianity, it was kind of intimidating.

Because I wanted the comfort of being Christian – but, back then, I didn’t want to be some out-there “extremist” who lived like it was another time. Surely it wasn’t necessary to take it that far! I just wanted to feel better, I guess, without sacrificing too much freedom. I thought I wanted to convert, but in truth I wasn’t yet ready to surrender my own opinions and feelings yet. I was a stupid college kid who honestly didn’t know what I wanted.

J saw that. He tried to help me. He was a friend and mentor figure to me, in those days. We were both writers, he in a much more real way than me – he was a serious poet, playwright, novelist, and essayist, whereas I, even though I didn’t want to admit it then, simply liked to dabble in silly little stories for my own personal kicks. But we both liked talking philosophy, theory, abstracts – I remember one lengthy phone conversation about whether there are aliens in heaven. Like me, he was a convert to Catholicism. And he knew so much about the Faith. Patiently, he tried to talk me through all of the little hang-ups that I had with Church teaching at the time. He even tried to introduce me to Tradition and the Tridentine Latin Mass, to which he was devoted – but I was just not ready to hear it yet. I was stubbornly committed to my liberalism, and I think that kind of drove us apart.

Later, after we reconnected, he told me how deeply he regretted “overloading me with information” and “pressuring” me to see the Truth; he thought he’d scared me off. When in truth I was just a flake and a serial ghoster who feared any kind of closeness, and didn’t know how to keep a friend. I don’t remember the last time we talked or any details of how we fell apart. But for years, afterward, I felt so guilty and full of regret about how I’d acted, because he was such a special person and we’d had such a rare friendship. I’d expected that he’d never want to hear from me again, because of what an idiot I was back then; but he had no bitterness whatsoever. He blamed only himself. That was typical of him. He always took responsibility for his own feelings.

This reconnection took place in 2022, ten years after our initial friendship. By this point we were living four hundred and sixty-eight miles apart. I think he re-added me on Facebook, which encouraged me to send a “how’s it going?, it’s been a while”-type message, after which we exchanged messages for a few weeks or so. But I got the sense that he was really down, and pretty soon after, we fell silent again; I guess I figured he was probably still mad at me, which was fair.

Although I do remember late one night he sent a brief, garbled message that he was headed to the hospital, very sick, and wanted to let me know, in case he didn’t make it, that he was glad he’d met me. Luckily he pulled through. But still we didn’t talk much for a while.

It wasn’t until early 2024 that we reconnected in a meaningful way. He randomly messaged one spring day to wish me a Happy Latin Easter, mentioning that he was now converting to Orthodoxy so no longer following the same liturgical calendar that I was, but that he’d seen that it was Easter for Catholics and wanted to wish me a happy one. He sounded much more cheerful than he had a couple years prior. I was fascinated and alarmed to hear that he, the most devout Catholic I’d ever known, was converting away from Catholicism; especially because this was at a time when I was at a crossroads in my own faith, trying to figure out whether to switch from a mainstream Catholic parish to a more niche, Traditional one (a branch that’s frowned upon by most in the mainstream Church, hence the difficult decision).

Because – backstory time – over the years, I’d finally started to take my religion more seriously. Having children had that effect on me. From the time when my first was born in 2020, I wanted to be better, do better, and pass on the true Faith. However, I had no Catholics around me yet, no Catholic family members nor friends, at that time. And it’s hard to practice a religion in isolation. Over the years I’d thought frequently about J, sorely wishing that I hadn’t screwed up that friendship so that I could pick his brain, get his guidance, listen to him share his wisdom again. I felt this especially strongly in early 2024, as I was trying to figure out whether to change churches. Serendipitously, it was around this time that I got that out-of-the-blue Easter message.

And from that point on, until just a week ago, he and I talked pretty much daily, making up for lost time. We exchanged long messsages. First they were mostly about faith: he was very serious about Orthodoxy, and I was still decidedly Catholic but just wasn’t sure which flavor of Catholic to be, so we were both just bouncing all kinds of ideas off of each other. He introduced me to some really cool Orthodox saints, iconography, prayers, and, best of all, music – Orthodox chant is unrivalled! Even though he wasn’t practicing Catholicism, he still knew more about it than I did, and helped me work through my decision to try becoming Trad. So we were mostly talking Church stuff. But at the same time we were chatting a bit about our daily lives, and gradually opening up about what had been going on with us since we’d known each other in college.

Apparently he’d had a rough go of it (which was why he’d sounded so down in ‘22). His health had really suffered; he’d nearly died, at one point; he’d become disabled, his mobility was now seriously limited, he was living with chronic pain, could barely use his hands, and had had no choice but to quit working and move back home. Which felt awful for him – he was independent by nature, never wanted to feel like a freeloader. Circumstances had taken a toll on his mental health, understandably. He’d been depressed, and even strayed from the Faith for some time. Delving into Orthodoxy helped him repair his relationship with God and gave him, for the first time in a number of years, hope and motivation.

It’s weird: all this time, we never saw each other in person, nor ever even spoke on the phone. Our friendship was now entirely in writing, and stayed that way. At times we’d discuss me bringing my family down that way for a vacation to the city where we met (which is closer to his home than mine), so we could all meet up. But whenever we discussed stuff like that, I got the feeling he wanted to wait to be seen until he was well again. He mentioned that he needed multiple surgeries to get himself back in working order; his whole future was dependent upon these surgeries that he was waiting for, and whether they’d be successful. I think he felt somewhat embarrassed about the condition of his body.

But it was okay. We’re both writers, after all, and very introverted, and I think we both felt more able to open up in that medium.

I was thrilled when his extensive historical research and earnest, persistent prayers led him to return to Catholicism in late 2024, around the same time I finally committed to the Traditional church. So now we were both Trad Catholics together. And being able to share that with him as a friend has been one of the great joys of my life, and brought me immense spiritual benefit.

He became my new son’s godfather. He mentioned more than once that my kids and I felt like family to him. We often talked about one day in the future, after his surgeries and recovery, all of us living as neighbors, perhaps on adjoining plots of land – he was a great believer in the importance of self-sufficiency and farming: a proponent of the Catholic Land Movement, he had great plans for a homestead, was seriously considering going into agribusiness as a career once he was better, already taking courses for it online, even. So we talked a lot about the future, when he was well again, all the things that he would be able to do, the trips he wanted to take, all the cool stuff we’d be able to do together, my family and his.

Because that was the other thing he wanted more than anything: a family. Even since before I met him, he’d always felt called to the vocation of marriage – so strongly that he passed up the chance to enter a monastery or a seminary, even though he’d considered those, and would have made a great monk or priest. But, he never had luck in relationships. And his health issues towards the end of his life prohibited him from pursuing that. Still, he didn’t give up – courageously putting himself out there to the extent that he could, meeting a few women online here and there, but, understandably I guess, no women were willing to wait around for these future surgeries and recovery to happen before they could start a life together. I always hoped that, once he was mobile again, he’d be able to get out and visit some of the different parishes he was hoping to attend – he was excited about Byzantine, TLM, and Anglican Ordinariate Catholic churches located in a city a couple hours’ drive from his small hometown – and that there he might meet his future wife IRL. But for that, he’d have to be able to drive, for which he’d need his mobility back, and money to afford a car, for which he’d need a job…

Everything, for him, was hanging on these surgeries. He’d been waiting, waiting, waiting for them for years. The insurance situation was complicated, and he was waiting to be approved for disability benefits – government nonsense that takes a ridiculously long time, I guess. It killed me that someone so deserving, so eager to get back to work and pull his own weight in society, had such a hard time getting approved. It feels unfair, that people with a ton of money can just afford to get healthcare when they need it. How I longed to throw money at his problems for him, money that neither of us had.

The surgeries never happened. At the end, he was still waiting – still trying to hold onto hope.

Even though it was getting hard. December was a hard time of year, and he had just turned thirty-eight. Some of his recent messages to me were rather clipped in tone and colored with despair. He mentioned that he was finding it hard to stay hopeful about the future. The depression was creeping back in. He even felt that he was under spiritual attack.

But he was fighting it. He was trying harder than ever to trust totally in God, which was always one of the most challenging aspects of the Faith, for him, as he was such an independent person who liked to get things done himself. He was living like a religious hermit, in those last days, praying all hours of the night and day, sincerely lamenting all his sins.

He took comfort in Byzantine prayers and chants, which, he told me, felt somehow “warmer” to him than Latin rite prayers – he once said that he felt maybe he was just meant to be Eastern. But the only Catholic church close to him was a regular Novus Ordo parish, and he’d been attending there whenever he could get a ride; he’d made a good connection with the local priest. On December 8^th, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, he messaged me in the afternoon, in good spirits, wishing me a happy Feast Day and sharing that he’d been able to make it to Mass, even though he wasn’t feeling well at all during it, and that, afterwards, he’d gotten a chance to go to Confession. This Sacrament had greatly relieved some of his spiritual burden; it was, he said, almost like he could physically see and feel the malicious spirit’s grip on him being released. In his last full-length message to me, he sounded like he was feeling better about things.

Until the end of my life, it will be a great comfort to me that he made it to Confession that day, on that Marian feast day, just one week before he was to die.

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Some people might have thought he was crazy for some of the things he said and believed. The supernatural was very real and immediate, for J. He had seen things, and experienced things, that science can’t explain. Even though I myself have never had a “supernatural” experience, per se, and I’ve never seen a ghost or a cyptid or anything like that, listening to him talk about these things made me believe in them, too. I won’t go into too much detail because some of these things were very personal to him, and it’d feel like a betrayal, and you might even laugh. Because I can’t write as convincingly as he did. Suffice it to say that his spirituality and worldview leaned very mystical and irrational (“irrational” here meaning neither “stupid” nor “silly,” but in the psychology sense of “not explainable with logic” or “not necessarily following a strict logical order”). Which is perhaps why Orthodoxy appealed to him so much; more than the Latin world, Eastern theology leans into the mysterious and unknowable. I know some people thought he was a little out-there, for believing in such things, but the truth is, God favored him with these experiences, these glimpses into the extraordinary, for whatever reason; IMO, the reason being that he was an extraordinary person.

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J, as I write this, it’s the day before your funeral, and it kills me that I cannot go. Your godson is five months old and exclusively breastfeeding – I’ve tried to introduce a bottle before, and he won’t take it – so I’d have to bring him with me, lest he starve. My husband could probably manage to get tomorrow off work, but not Saturday, so I’d have to leave after he gets off work tonight, drive overnight with the baby, then drive back tomorrow immediately after your burial in order to be back by Saturday morning, which, as much as I hate to admit, sounds unhealthy and dangerous, especially in our rinky-dink little car. If only I could afford a plane ticket. If only my husband could take bereavement leave for the death of his wife’s best friend. If I could go and leave baby at home with my husband, I’d do it, 100%. I’m beating myself up telling myself that maybe I just need to chug some energy drinks and try harder to make this happen. I know it’d be unwise to go, but still, I am mad at myself. But, I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want that.

And it kills me that I didn’t check in Sunday or Monday. Our last messages were on Saturday, when you were still in the ICU, and I figured I’d leave you alone to rest up; you’d “liked” my last little trite, lame “hope you feel better soon”-type message; after that, I didn’t want to be imposing. I didn’t want to bother you. I figured if I hadn’t heard from you by the end of Monday I’d message you to check in. But then I logged onto Facebook on Monday evening and saw your mom’s update. Maybe I should have imposed. Did I let my social fears and neuroses ruin things again?

The thing that kills me even more, though, even more than missing your funeral, even more than the fact that I didn’t check in, is just the intolerable, unacceptable fact that you’ll never get a chance. With your genius-level intellect, your deep, profound, sincere faith, against all odds, and your commitment to living it, your passionate pursuit of your interests, your genuine humility, your kindness and good sense of humor – there are just so many things you could have done. Like I was saying just last week (I had to check again: message timestamped December 10^th at 10pm: really, just last week?!), when you’d been feeling miserable and considering just giving up on the future and entering a nursing home already: you mustn’t give up, there is so much left for you to do in the world!

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So that was our friendship. Now I’ll tell you a bit about the person that J was, as I knew him, because I don’t want him to be forgotten.

In the Jungian personality typology system known as socionics, there are eight elements that describe how humans metabolize information or process the world around them. J was (in my opinion, anyway – this is a pseudoscience, after all, not a hard science) an EII: Ethical Intuitive Introtim, which means that he had Ne (extraverted intuition) as his creative function, i.e. in his ego block: the ability to see connections and potential, where other, non-Ne-using people might just see randomness, was a strong, valued aspect of his psyche. Ne is the element of potential. This heightened Ne, when it goes haywire, can look a bit like ADHD (which diagnosis J did also have, and as an academic really struggled with; at the time of his death, he was still waiting to find the right prescription to get his brain back to peak function – waiting, waiting). But it’s also a strength. He had so many interests – he was never jaded about the beauty that exists in the world, he was so full of wonder! He could research topics of interest endlessly, and he retained so much information. He just knew so much about so much.

Potential, he had so much potential. That’s what kills me. He often spoke of feeling a call to be a teacher, in some capacity – and, indeed, he was an excellent teacher. Even when he was struggling in his personal life, he was always ready to teach, to advise, to counsel a friend. In the MBTI personality system, he was INFP, the type known as “The Mediator.” He loved education, especially classical education, and he had a lot of ideas about pedagogy. I think he’d have been great as a college professor. Sadly, finances were an obstacle to making this a career. For the past year, he’d accepted that the most likely way he’d get to live this calling to teach, was going to be at home: helping with homeschooling the children that he hoped to have. His children, had he had them, would have been so blessed.

All the things he’ll never get to do or create. He was a writer. Imagine being a writer and not able to use your hands (to type messages on his phone, he had to use a stylus, a process that was clunky and frustrating). There was a novel that he’d been working on since high school – he had written pages and pages and pages of world-building material for it. I never saw any of it, but he told me a little about it, and it sounded fascinating. He was waiting to get back into writing the book itself until he had the use of his hands and attention span, and could afford a computer to type it on. Waiting, waiting. How his circumstances held him back. Now the world will never have that book.

I daresay I’m more bothered, emotionally, about the lost potential than he was. He accepted. As sad as he was, he accepted God’s will for him. He expressed sadness, sure, but I never heard him bemoan the unfairness of his situation the way that I’m doing right now. J had really had the opportunity to practice resignation to the will of God, over the last few years of his life, and, from my pov, he’d become quite an expert at it.

That was the thing. He didn’t complain or blame other people. Even when his attempts at relationships failed, I never once heard him complain about those women or blame them for anything. He never turned bitter. He accepted rejection graciously, taking the blame for everything; he always spoke of these people with respect and compassion. I never knew him to be the least bit jealous: he could engage with content about the kind of life that he wished he could have, and with people who were living the life he wanted to live, without covetousness coloring his interactions. As opposed to someone like me, who, if I see content that makes me feel inadequate or like I’m falling short, I get butthurt and have to block that whole account. But J wasn’t like that. He didn’t demand things, didn’t seem to think he was entitled to anything, just stayed positive and hopeful. That, to me, speaks of real humility.

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Even living with a disability, he did what he could to do good works and stand up for what he believed in. Preserving the Catholic Tradition was deeply important to him, and he longed to be more involved in the cause. But, as it was, he couldn’t go on pilgrimages or travel to a TLM parish or to convene with like-minded Catholics; so he had to do what he could at home. He joined the Militia of the Immaculata. He wrote a letter to his Bishop suggesting the Bishop invite one of the Traditional Societies to build a home in their diocese – a letter which he labored over for a long time, and allowed me to read before he sent it; it was beautiful.

Then he wrote a document for his parish priest with a long list of concrete suggestions for how they could implement a more reverent liturgy in their church, complete with relevant citations from Vatican II and postconciliar Popes, because he wasn’t just some stubborn grouch who insisted upon no less than a complete, immediate return to pre-1968 Catholicism; to him, baby steps in the right direction were worth celebrating.

“Zeal for Your house has consumed me.” The Church was his great love, and the brokenness within it pained him personally – especially because he saw the beauty in all of these different spiritualities, and saw that they each served a purpose in the Mystical Body of Christ. He had a great devotion to Our Lord’s Agony in the Garden, and meditated often on His sorrow there, especially His sorrow foreseeing the divisions that would fracture His Church. J longed to see these divisions healed. He was no ecumenist – he firmly believed that the Catholic Church was the True Church – but still, the polemics and vitriol that Orthodox and Catholic alike often spew at each other online, all their bickering and name-calling, always bothered him deeply. Because he knew both sides very well, and could see the Truth in both of them. I think if he is ever canonized, he will be named one of the Patron Saints of unity within the Church, kind of like St. Josaphat.

He loved the Church, and he loved so many other things as well, not all of them serious. He loved nerdy stuff like Star Wars, fantasy and sci-fi, board games, video games; he loved his dogs, and dogs in general, especially those funny long-nosed borzois, and also bears, and sending funny memes and reels to his friends. He had a lot of thoughts about political philosophy – was neither Republican nor Democrat, but subscribed to the Catholic Distributism of G.K Chesterton, about which he could tell you way more than I can. He knew a lot about weaponry; he loved camping and the outdoors; he loved simple Southern cooking, and was proud of his down-home Southern identity, but longed to travel internationally, which he never got the chance to; and, after all this, I haven’t even touched on his love of history yet, which was perhaps his number one passion after the Faith.

He was a historian, extremely fluent in history, and not just the history itself but the theory of history and how to study it. And saw the trends from history repeating in our present day. He knew about geopolitics, and had a lot of thoughts about what’s going on in the world right now, thoughts which were so far beyond my ability to make sense of that I sometimes couldn’t believe he bothered to talk to someone like me about them, when all I could do was smile and nod. But he loved his friends, was loyal to them, and made a concerted effort to maintain his friendships, which is rare among people of our age.

I realize I’m rambling now. What I’m trying to say is, he was a person of great love. The world has lost a real one, an uncommon soul, a strong fighter for the good in this great cosmic battle of good vs. evil. I know that all of hell is rejoicing that he’s out of the fight.

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He was suffering so much, in the weeks leading up to the Immaculate Conception. I never really knew how to reassure him, whe he was so down, because I’ve never known the degree of suffering that he knew, and he was so far beyond me spiritually and intellectually. What could I even say? But I tried to remind him of how, in the lives of the Saints, we always see progression in sanctity preceded by great suffering. So maybe that’s what God is doing with you, I said. Maybe something great is just around the corner, for you, I said, on December 7th at 8:02 PM.

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An old soul: even when I first met him, I could tell it seemed like he belonged in another time. Even back then, in his twenties, he seemed older than most twentysomethings. It’s almost like it caught up with him, physiologically, being such an old soul. The health conditions that plagued him over the past few years are the kind that usually afflict much older people. And he was always mature beyond his years, emotionally and intellectually. Like I said, he seemed, in my eyes anyway, so far beyond most people. I think, especially when he was young, it was rather isolating. I think it was a lonely life, being such an old soul.

But he took that loneliness, which IMO would have been enough to kill the average person, and let it teach him. He learned from the loneliness of the Agony of Our Lord in the Garden.

J, forgive me for not making it to the funeral. Forgive me for not being a better friend. For not checking in more. And that it took so long for us to reconnect. I should have been more courageous, should have been more humble, should have been more like you. I ask you to forgive me, but I know you already have, but that doesn’t make it any easier, somehow.

Requiēm aetérnam dona ei, Dómine, et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace. Amen.