Editor’s note: This is the seventh and final column in a series on how modern Americans approach the topic of death.

It seems appropriate, for many reasons, that we end this column series on the eve of Good Friday, one of the holiest, darkest and most mysterious days on the Christian calendar, with the thoughts of two contemplative monks as they look outward towards death — and beyond.

I've not met either the Revs. Matt Torpey or Anthony Delisi, two Trappist monks in their mid-80s who reside at the Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, Ga.    

While both men are nimble of mind, they tell me that their bodies are not as strong.

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Torpey says he's had "four 911" episodes in recent months. Delisi is being treated for lymphoma, he told me. Whatever the immediate future holds, mortality for both of these contemplatives is an inescapable reality.

In conversation, Torpey is outgoing, quick-witted, disarmingly honest.

"It's dangerous to uncork a silent Trappist," he tells me right off the bat, confessing that he's taken time to write down his answers, but cheerfully veering off-script.

Delisi, a devotional writer and memoirist, often remained quiet after a question, ultimately answering them sparingly, directly and with equal candor.

Both are cradle Catholics, each a veteran of more than 60 years of monastic life. As a junior monk, Torpey's spiritual director was none other but fellow Trappist Thomas Merton, whose influence on Christian thought (and in the interfaith realm as well) remains potent almost 50 years after his death.

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When he entered the monastery at 23, says Torpey, "I was entering a different world. Death was not on my mind … at that age, we think death is pretty remote."

While, he says, (adapting a phrase from the late Catholic diarist Léon Bloy) that he has a "burning curiosity" about death, he quickly adds, "That's too heroic."

Two very exciting opportunities have recently arisen — one to write a book (the publisher wants a draft by Sept. 1), the other a regularly scheduled meeting with a group of laypeople interested in discussing how to deepen their relationship with God.

"So I feel like living," he qualifies, "but I am very OK with dying because I believe in the resurrection and the love of God for all of his creation."

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For Delisi, who is a gardener, death is as natural as the fruiting plans he sows every spring and watches die after its purpose is done.

"I'm not afraid to die, he said, "but I hate to leave my friends."

Hoping for a recovery, he is still aware that "God is with me already. I feel like I've gone through the sound barrier and then come back."

Asked if he would describe this as a mystical experience, he said matter-of-factly, "I think it (his experience) is too peaceful to call mystical. Mystical sounds like something extraordinary."

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When asked if he is at peace with himself, Delisi says simply, "Oh, yeah."

At Holy Spirit, as recounted by Torpey, the burial ritual differs slightly from that practiced (and described by the Rev. Mark Scott in the previous column of this series) at New Melleray. While at New Melleray the infirmarian who has attended the dying man receives his body while standing in the grave. At Holy Spirit the body, wrapped in a shroud, is lowered by monks into the ground "lovingly … this man's body is still too much like him for us not to be reverent."

Across the road from the monastery is Honey Creek Woodland, a dedicated burial ground for those who wish to be buried in a wooden box or a shroud rather than in a metal casket and vault. Situated on land owned by the monastery, and protected by a conservation easement, this green burial ground is a "quiet and beautiful resting place for people of all faiths," according to the website.

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"It's a good industry for us," says Torpey, who adds the contemporary environmental movement meshes nicely with his order's sensitivity to being good stewards of God's creation.

For both Torpey and Delisi, being part of a community (having been a monk for 66 years, Delisi has the most seniority) has helped their faith to flourish.  

"The community … provides ample time for personal prayer, where my faith and confidence in life after death gets thoroughly watered and fertilized," Torpey says. "Living with ordinary guys has enhanced my belief that … what we are growing is a great crop of good people everywhere."

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Living side by side with others has also taught him, he adds with a touch of mischief, that even if he doesn't always like someone, he can learn to love them, and appreciate the mystery of the good person within."

In the midst of simplicity, it seems, there is much that is mysterious. These two monks seem both accepting and comfortable accepting the unknown, because they know all that they need to know.

"I sense God's presence (and) that he loves me, and everybody else," Delisi says. "That's a wonderful mystery. God is close to me."

Before this chapter is over, however, both seem eager to savor each moment.

"I'm in peace and joy, and I have an old grouch inside me to keep me laughing," Torpey says. Then, with a twinkle one can almost envision across the miles, he adds, "And I'm not kidding."

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It's hard to describe how profoundly moving it was to speak with these two venerable brothers. I am not sure any account of the conversations can do justice to the serene assurance of God's presence and love that they both radiated. I owe a great debt to all those interviewed for this series for their willingness to speak candidly about a subject still often seen as taboo. I hope that some readers find it useful.

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