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Dying From Liver Cancer

Michael Kirwan died of cancer on November 12. He was fifty-four. For over twenty years, he lived with the poor in Washington, D.C., founding two Catholic Worker houses in the inner city and a farm in West Virginia. A life-long reader of Commonweal, on September 8 he sent the following letter-here abridged-to friends and benefactors.

Last Tuesday, my doctor at Providence Hospital told me the cancer within my lung had spread. It is now in my brain, colon, liver, elbow, foot, hip, and leg. There is not much to be done except to pray. The doctor said it would take a miracle to put me well again. Otherwise, I can expect to live from one to six months-shorter rather than longer-since the cancer has become very aggressive.

I don't pray for a miracle. Rather, I pray that I will do whatever God has in store for me. I pray for the women and men of my family who are deeply grieved, and I am especially praying for the people of our farm and houses on the streets, where there is much fear and anxiety over the ceasing of a long and caring association. I know that it will not cease but rather be changed. As my work ebbs, other work commences.

We cannot by ourselves lift the burden of racism, economic and social disparity, suspicion and mistrust; but we can begin to lighten it. Our responses are always an attempt: a small mustard seed of faith to grow, to nurture, to plant again that others might sow and reap. Our response to the gospel is different in all of our lives. Whatever leads to God must be counted as valid.

My own journey began with my parents and their attraction to a gospel that called for personalism, the intimacy of faith in action that was exemplified in the lives of Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin. That continues. Again and again, over these years, men and women who came into my life seeking hospitality stayed on to provide it. Groups of young people who were briefly touched by the experience of living among the poor came back again. So the work moves from one generation to another. We will never know completely where our influence has touched, but God has worked with the few loaves and a couple of fish and done the rest.

I do not fear death. I fear not being a good and faithful friend and of not being filled with gratitude and joy to a good and gracious God who has so favored me with grace in my unworthiness. God has chosen someone weak and strengthened him. I have seen it in my own life countless times, and in the lives of so many who came across my path.

I think and pray now with all of you and ask that you always remember me as someone who tried to do the best he could and, on not-so-good days, tried to do better. I always tried to break down barriers and build friendships and peace; I trusted that God would see things to completion in good time. I still believe that with all my heart and soul. God will provide, especially now.

I might add that I have not thrown in the towel. For the moment, I am able to manage fairly well and rejoice in the normal operation of the houses. Our work goes on as always. One of the men in our house on T Street went out last night to the parks instead of me, with water, clothes, blankets, toilet articles, and meal tickets. Today our soup line opened and people came in to take showers and use the phone. Hospitality continues. Love goes on. I may not be able to write you again, but my family will be ever vigilant and let all of you know what is happening.

To you, our friends and generous benefactors, I want to especially express my heartfelt gratitude for your faithful trust and prayers. Some have told me that I am the "glue" that holds these houses and this work together. But God is the real unifying force and God will see to it that these places and this work continue, perhaps in a somewhat changed form. For now, let us rejoice and be glad. Emmanuel, the Lord is with us! Love, prayers, and gratitude.

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