Saint Josephine Bakhita

I love Saint Josephine Bakhita, and the story I find most affecting among the very many of her life is that of her death. After decades living as a free woman and a nun, respected and revered as a teacher and a living saint by those around her, the coming of old age and death meant a terrible and lonely return. On her deathbed, reduced physically, delirious in her last agony, she relived the long years of her enslavement and abuse, crying aloud in chains and scourgings and other indignities. She had been kidnapped at the age of seven, after a happy but brief childhood, and then abused so badly she forgot her own name, so that she was left only with that given by her tormentors, Bakhita, "lucky"; later, freed by the nuns of Canossa, she had received at her baptism a new name of her own choosing, Josephine, for Saint Joseph. Now, though, she was nameless again, an abused child deprived of dignity and identity, a slave utterly in the power of those for whom she was nothing and less than nothing. Over and over again, she cried out to her nurse, begging her to loosen the chains.

Still, even after this last, terrible trial, she awoke one last time, to find herself safe, beyond the power of her captors, and surrounded by those who knew and loved her. When told it was Saturday, the day of Mary, she spoke what were to prove her last words: "Yes, I am so happy: Our Lady...Our Lady!"

Not long after, she awoke again, from a long, dark dream, to find herself safe, far beyond every power and throne and dominion, and face to face with the One who knew and loved her truly, who for her had been bound and scourged and crucified. She is still awake today.

Saint Josephine Bakhita, pray for us.