Let me tell you story while i have you, while we are all alive at the very same time, mind you

I never knew my Uncle Miles. When i heard that he died last week i saw how my sisters all spoke of him, how my own neice was named after him, and i became aware that there was nothing mild mannered about this man whatsoever. That an indellible spirit ran in the McGee blood, and that one of our own would make his final act worthy of God's attention.

What i had was the story of a mad relative who gave away all his money to the church, gave away all his posessions too, and lived in this wonderful hermitage. An actual hermit in my own blood. He was written off as mad, schizoprhenic, delusional and his abandon to 'things' frightened everyone. So then to my delcious wonder i was told, not only of his passing, but how the man died.

Oh, how the man died !

You could not write it. It was the kind of performance to excite, marvel, and stupify a GOD.

On the day he would die - on Monday morning - Uncle Miles, at 90 years old mind you, awoke with an absolute clarity.

"If Jesus is to take me, then it has to be on the highest mountain in Donegal."

So firstly, he cleaned his home. Left it immaculate. It had never seen such attention. Then he set off.

His first stop, 'Uncle Seamus."

"Would you give me a lift to Mt Errigal? I want to climb it so Jesus can reach me."

Donegal in December will get dark before it gets cold - both though will take you by surprise. Not only that, but Mt Errigal would take a younger man three hours to climb, were he not to stop for a wee chat and a biscuit. So, imagine then, an old man of 90 years, at 3pm in the afternoon, an hour before the Donegal night takes hold, asking for a lift to a mountain that he had his heart and mind set upon climbing.

Obviously Seamus said no. Such a thing was dangerous.Yet, danger was what Uncle Miles sought. He was, after-all, on a pilgrimmage to his death. One could not die wihtout the occurance of danger. He had woken up Monday morning with that single drop of clarity,

So he left Seamus' petrol station and wandered about town. It's what he did his whole life. Today was no diffferent to any other. Except of course, today was the day he would die.

He eventuall saw another local and asked (this time surreptitiously)

"Could you give me a lift near mt Errigal?"

It was all he asked. And of course, he was given a lift. Such is the Donegal charm. And none too were aware that Uncle Miles was on a quest, the kind imageined to entertain Gods and Tardigrades

Up the montain he went, alone, toward his death.

NIghtfall had long since fallen on the day. For most it would seem like the midnight hours, but for Donegal it was only a quarter to six. It was Seamus who sounded the alarm, for Uncle Miles was nowhere to be found. And the Garda set out in their chopper, right towards Mt Errigal, and there they found him, lying dead, a foot or two away from the peak.

I can only imagine how much joy he must have felt when his heart went into arrest and he knew, in that moment that it was here on this mountain that he would leave this earth.

You couldn't write the story, even if you wanted to. But to have the man who lived it in my blood, it shakes me to the bones. It makes me long for the kind of death that is worthy of thunderous applause. He knew when he woke up that he would die. He was not sad or unsettled. He was, rather, determined. For this was a NOBLE DEATH. And it would take all of his courage and conviction. It would take a great deal of belief too - the kind that fills xmas stokiings

So here's to Uncle Miles. What a performance. What a life. But also, what an ending !

Magnificient.

Bravo, Miles !