But this day, I found Benton curled up in his bed, his eyes open but not looking into this world. His parents, Bob and Jeanne, had moved their bed next to his and lay stretched alongside him. Benton had suffered more seizures. And now he was dying. “We’ve tried to say our good-byes,” his mom explained.

I helped Benton’s parents recall the days we’d seen him in the hospital giving out candy. We talked about how Benton had used this simple gesture to express care for people whom he didn’t even know or wasn’t able to see. Yet, even without his vision, he did see. He saw the need of people to know a touch and he gave them that touch.

“We brought his candy bag with us. Would you like to have some?” Jeanne asked. Without a mention of my diet, I reached into the bag and pulled out the first piece my fingers touched. When I opened my hand, I found a miniature version of a Three Musketeers.

The gravity of my tears was impossible to resist. It seemed as though Benton had saved one last piece of my favourite candy. I managed some quick good-bye hugs and put the little candy bar in my breast pocket. At home that evening, as I was getting undressed I removed the candy just as the phone rang. It was Benton’s nurse. “Chaplain, I thought you’d like to know, Benton passed away ten minutes ago,” she said. As I hung up the phone, I ripped open the half-melted candy bar and, with the solemnity of communion, I ate it. — Beliefnet.com (Concluded)