What I am about to tell you today will shatter everything you believe you know about the sacrament of extreme uncction about what really happens during the final moments of holy souls and about divine truths that the early church understood but have been forgotten over the centuries.

My name is Father Luigi Toriani.

I am 72 years old and for 48 years I served as chaplain at San Herado Hospital in Monza.

In nearly half a century of hospital ministry, I have administered the last sacraments to over eight heat quo people from newborn babies to centinarians.

And I thought I understood everything there was to know about preparing souls for their final journey.

But what I experienced at dawn on October 12th, 2006 while administering extreme uncction to the young Carlo Autis not only challenged my five decades of theological formation, but revealed a supernatural truth about this sacred sacrament that would transform my entire understanding of the relationship between life, death, and eternity.

When I received the call at 4:30 a.m.

that morning to give the last sacraments to a 15-year-old boy hospitalized with fulminant leukemia, I thought it would be one more of the thousands of painful cases I had witnessed in almost half a century of hospital ministry.

I had developed an efficient pastoral routine for these delicate moments.

arrive quickly.

Assess the spiritual state of the patient and family.

Administer the sacraments with reverence and compassion, provide comfort to the grieving, and then move on to the next emergency.

But from the moment I entered room 237 of the pediatric ward, I knew I was facing something extraordinary.

Carlo Audus was conscious despite the terminal severity of his condition and his first concern was not for himself but for me.

Father, are you tired? Did you wake up very early because of me? It was impossible not to be impressed by the spiritual maturity of this teenager who even while dying maintained courtesy and concern for others.

What happened during the administration of that sacrament defied every theological explanation I had learned in seminary and challenged every assumption I held about the nature of death and the sacred mysteries.

In the exact moment I traced the sign of the cross with holy oil on Carlo’s forehead, something unprecedented occurred.

For approximately 30 seconds, I could see through Carlo’s eyes.

I witnessed the celestial reception that awaited him.

Luminous figures I recognized as Jesus, Mary, and various saints, all smiling and extending their hands toward his bed.

But more than just a mystical vision, Carlo revealed to me a forgotten truth about extreme uncction that would transform my ministry for the next 18 years.

Father, he told me after the supernatural experience, for the next 18 years, you will administer this sacrament differently.

In special cases, when God permits, you will see again what you just saw.

used this experience to console families who think their loved ones departed alone.

Those prophetic words proved absolutely accurate.

During the 18 years that followed, in specific moments of administering extreme uncction, mainly to holy children and young people, the same experience repeated itself.

I was able to see through the eyes of the dying and witness the celestial reception that awaited them.

The most striking case occurred on December 8th, 2023 when I administered extreme uncction to Sophia, a 12-year-old girl with terminal cancer, and saw Carlo Autis himself, now clearly appearing as a blessed soul, welcoming her with that luminous smile that characterized his earthly personality.

Today at 72 years old and after 48 years of priesthood, I understand that Carlo Audis taught me the forgotten truth about extreme uncction.

It is not merely a sacrament of preparation for death, but a window that allows the living to witness that death is actually a glorious birth.

Just as he systematically cataloged eucharistic miracles with his programming expertise, Carlo continues to orchestrate sacramental miracles to show that heaven is not a theological theory.

It is a reality we can glimpse when God opens our eyes through the sacraments.

This is the story of how a dying teenager revealed to me divine secrets about the sacred mysteries.

Of how supernatural experiences transformed my understanding of death and eternity.

And of how the truth about what really happens during the last sacraments can bring unimaginable comfort to those who mourn the departure of their loved ones.

My calling to the priesthood began in the most unlikely place imaginable, a hospital room where I was fighting pneumonia at the age of 8.

It was winter 1962 and I was hospitalized for 2 weeks in the old San Jose hospital in Milan, struggling with a severe respiratory infection that had the doctors concerned about my recovery.

During those long days confined to bed, I observed something that would mark my entire life.

The hospital chaplain, Father Antonio Benedeti, moved through the wards like a living angel.

Every morning he would visit each room, bringing not just the eukarist to Catholic patients, but comfort, hope, and inexplicable peace to everyone, regardless of their religious beliefs.

Why do people seem calmer after you visit them? I asked Father Antonio one morning.

My 8-year-old curiosity overcoming my shyness.

Because God accompanies me, my boy.

When I enter a room, I don’t come alone.

Christ comes with me through the sacraments.

What are sacraments? They are God’s way of touching Earth.

Luigi, when I give communion to a sick person, when I anoint someone who is dying, when I offer absolution to someone who repents, in those moments, heaven and earth meet.

That simple explanation ignited a flame in my heart that would burn for the rest of my life.

Father Antonio, when I grow up, I want to be like you.

I want to bring God to people who are suffering.

Then study hard, pray every day, and always remember that being a hospital chaplain is not a job.

It’s a mission.

I left that hospital not only cured of pneumonia, but with an unshakable certainty about my vocation.

My parents, both devout Catholics, supported my decision to enter seminary, even though it meant leaving home at the young age of 14 to begin my ecclesiastical studies.

Seminary years in the 1960s and 1970s were marked by the profound changes of Vatican 2.

I studied theology with passion, but always with a specific focus.

How the sacraments could bring healing and comfort to those who suffered.

I wrote my thesis on extreme uncction in hospital pastoral care, researching how this sacred mystery had evolved throughout church history.

What most fascinated me during my studies was discovering that in the early church, extreme uncction was not merely a preparation for death, but a powerful sacrament of healing that often produced miraculous recoveries.

St.James himself had written, “Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord.

” And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well.

The Lord will raise them up.

Why don’t we see these miracles anymore? I asked my theology professor, Father Marello Gonzaga, during a seminar on the sacraments.

Perhaps, he replied thoughtfully, because we have reduced the sacrament to a ritual of preparation for death instead of maintaining faith in its healing power.

The early church expected miracles.

We simply hope for a peaceful death.

Those words planted a seed of curiosity in my mind that would germinate throughout my entire ministry.

I was ordained a priest on June 29th, 1978 at the age of 24 and immediately requested assignment as a hospital chaplain.

The bishop appointed me as assistant to Father Antonio at San Joseeppe hospital, the same priest who had inspired my vocation 16 years earlier.

Luigi, Father Antonio told me on my first day of work, hospital ministry is the most demanding and most rewarding calling in the church.

Here you will see God’s mercy and justice, human fragility and divine power, deepest despair and unshakable faith sometimes all in the same day.

Father Antonio was right.

In my first year of ministry, I experienced emotional and spiritual extremes that no seminary could have prepared me for.

I had ministered extreme uncction to a three-year-old girl who died of leukemia in my arms.

I gave final communion to a 90-year-old man who thanked God for every day of his long life.

I comforted an atheist mother who found faith watching her son face cancer with supernatural courage.

But what most impressed me were the moments when I administered extreme uncction.

Despite all my theological study about the sacrament, despite all my preparation about its spiritual significance, the actual experience always left me with questions.

Was I merely performing a ritual of preparation for death? Or was something deeper happening during those sacred moments? In 1985, after 7 years as assistant chaplain, I was appointed head chaplain at the recently inaugurated San Gerardo Hospital in Monza.

At 31 years old, I was responsible for the spiritual care of a modern medical complex with over 800 beds serving one of the most populated regions of Lombardi.

San Gerardo was considered one of the most advanced hospitals in Italy with specialized units in oncology, cardiology, neurology, and an intensive pediatric care center that received the most complex cases from across northern Italy.

For a hospital chaplain, it was both a privilege and an enormous challenge.

I developed a systematic approach to hospital ministry that served me well for decades.

I began each day at 5:30 a.

m.

with personal prayer and mass in the hospital chapel.

At 6:00 a.

m.

I would begin rounds through all the units, prioritizing the most critical cases.

I carried with me a special case containing everything needed for emergency sacraments.

consecrated hosts for communion, sacred oils for extreme uncction, a portable crucifix, and prayer books in several languages.

Over the years, I calculated that I walked an average of 15 kilometers daily through hospital corridors, visiting patients, comforting families, administering sacraments, and being present during the most critical moments of human existence.

By 2006 when I met Carlo Audis, I had administered extreme uncction to approximately 8 Zoan people.

Each administration of the sacrament followed a careful ritual that I had perfected over decades.

First, I would assess the spiritual state of the patient and family, explaining the meaning and purpose of the last sacraments.

Then I would hear the patients final confession if they were conscious and desired it.

Next came the administration of viaticum, the final communion for the journey to eternity.

Finally, I would apply the sacred oils in the form of a cross on the patients forehead and hands pronouncing the lurggical formula.

pimicardium indulgitis auditum odoratum gustum deliquisti through the years I had developed what I considered a deep understanding of this sacred mystery extreme uncction was the church’s final gift to departing souls a sacramental preparation that removed the temporal punishment for sins and prepared the soul for its encounter with divine mercy.

It was a beautiful and necessary ritual that brought comfort to families and peace to the dying.

But I had never experienced anything supernatural during its administration.

The sacrament was sacred, meaningful, and consoling, but it was essentially a human ceremony officiated by a priest using consecrated materials.

I had read accounts of miraculous healings and mystical experiences associated with extreme uncction in the lives of saints, but I had always attributed them to the particular holiness of those individuals, not to something intrinsic to the sacrament itself.

This was my understanding when I received the emergency call at 4:30 a.m.

on October 12th, 2006.

I was awakened by the urgent ringing of my bedside phone in my small apartment adjacent to the hospital.

Sister Maria Francesca Benedini, the oncology nurse I knew and respected for her competence and compassion was on the line.

Father Luigi, I need you to come urgently to room 237 in the pediatric ward.

We have a 15-year-old boy, Carlo Audis, who is entering his final hours.

He’s asking for the last sacraments.

I’ll be there in 10 minutes, I replied, already getting out of bed and beginning to dress.

Father, there’s something different about this boy.

I’ve been a nurse for 17 years, and I’ve never seen anyone face death with such serenity.

He seems I don’t know how to explain it.

He seems excited about meeting God.

Sister Maria’s comment intrigued me, but I had heard similar observations about other exceptionally holy patients over the years.

Some people, especially those with deep faith, did indeed face death with remarkable peace.

I quickly dressed, gathered my sacramental case, and made the short walk from my apartment to the hospital.

It was still dark outside, and the October morning was cold and crisp.

As I walked through the empty corridors toward the pediatric ward, I prayed for wisdom and compassion to provide appropriate spiritual care to this young boy and his family.

I had no idea that I was about to experience something that would challenge everything I believed I knew about the sacred mysteries and transform my understanding of what really happens during the administration of the last sacraments.

When I arrived at the pediatric ward at 4:45 a.m.

I found Sister Maria waiting for me near the nurses station.

Her usually calm demeanor showed signs of emotion that caught my attention.

Father, before you go in, I need to tell you something about this boy.

Carlo has been with us for 9 days, and during all this time, he has maintained an attitude of joy and peace that defies explanation.

He spends hours talking to Jesus as if he were his best friend.

Yesterday he asked me if I thought dying was scary.

And when I said yes, he smiled and told me, “It’s not scary, sister.

It’s like going home after a long trip.

” As Sister Maria spoke, I felt a familiar sensation that had developed over my years of hospital ministry.

A spiritual intuition that told me I was about to encounter something significant.

Some patients emanated an almost tangible holiness that could be perceived even before meeting them personally.

“Are his parents here?” I asked.

They’re in the family room down the hall.

They’ve been here all night.

I think they’re preparing for the worst.

And the boy’s condition terminal.

The leukemia has progressed too far for any medical intervention.

Doctor Lombardi estimates he has a few hours at most.

I approached room 237 with the respectful somnity I always maintained when administering the last sacraments.

But nothing could have prepared me for what I would encounter when I opened that door.

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I knocked gently on the door of room 237 and entered slowly, expecting to find a frightened, suffering teenager facing the terror of approaching death.

Instead, I encountered a scene that immediately challenged my expectations.

Carlo Audis was sitting up in bed, despite his obvious physical weakness, wearing his characteristic jeans and sneakers, even in this final hour.

He was holding a small crucifix in his hands and had a peaceful smile on his face that seemed impossible given his circumstances.

When he saw me enter, his eyes lit up with genuine joy.

“Good morning, father,” he said with a voice that while weak from illness, carried an enthusiasm that was almost contagious.

“Are you Father Luigi? Sister Maria told me you would come to give me the last sacraments.

Yes, my son.

I am Father Luigi, and you must be Carlo.

I approached his bed slowly, studying this extraordinary young man, who seemed genuinely excited about receiving the sacraments that would prepare him for death.

Father, you look tired.

Did you wake up very early because of me? I’m sorry to cause you this inconvenience.

His concern for my well-being, even in his final hours, left me momentarily speechless.

It’s no inconvenience at all, Carlo.

It’s my honor and privilege to be here with you.

How are you feeling, my son? I’m weak, of course, but I’m not afraid, he replied, adjusting his glasses with a hand that trembled slightly.

Actually, father, I’m excited.

I feel like someone who’s about to go home after a long journey.

I sat down in the chair next to his bed, placing my sacramental case on the bedside table.

Tell me about your faith, Carlo.

Sister Maria says, “You have an exceptional relationship with Jesus.

” Carlo’s face lit up even more.

“Father, Jesus is my best friend.

I talk to him every day, not just during formal prayers, but like I’m talking to you right now.

And the Eucharist, oh Father, the Eucharist is my daily strength.

Jesus is really there truly present.

When I receive him, I feel like I can face anything.

As Carlos spoke about his faith, I observed something I had rarely seen in my 28 years of ministry, absolutely authentic holiness.

This was not a teenager trying to be brave in the face of death, nor someone clinging to faith out of desperation.

This was a young man who genuinely lived in constant communion with the divine.

Carlo, I understand you have a passion for computers and technology.

How do you reconcile that with your deep spirituality? Oh, father, technology is a gift from God.

I use my computer skills to create exhibitions about eukaristic miracles around the world.

I want to show people that Jesus really works miracles, that he’s truly present in the Eucharist.

Technology can help people believe.

Carlo gestured toward a laptop computer on the bedside table.

Would you like to see one of my exhibitions, Father? I’ve documented over 150 Eucharistic miracles with photographs, historical research, and interactive maps.

I was amazed by this combination of youthful modernity and deep spirituality.

Here was a 15-year-old boy who used cuttingedge technology to promote devotion to the most ancient mysteries of faith.

That sounds fascinating, Carlo, but right now I think we should prepare for the sacraments.

Are you ready to receive extreme uncction? Oh yes, Father.

I’ve been waiting for this moment.

But before we begin, can I ask you a question about the sacrament you’re going to give me? Of course, my son.

Carlo looked at me with those bright eyes that seem to contain wisdom far beyond his 15 years.

Father, do you know why the church calls it extreme uncction and not just anointing of the sick? The question surprised me with its theological sophistication.

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