On a brisk November afternoon in the village of South Brent in Devon, inside a daffodil-yellow cottage, two women are singing me lullabies. But these aren’t the kind parents sing to children. They are songs written and performed for terminally ill people, meant to gently ease them toward what is hoped will be a peaceful and painless death.
I am at the home of Nickie Aven, a singer and leader of a Threshold Choir. Aven and her friend are offering me a glimpse of what happens when they sing for those receiving end-of-life care. These patients are usually in hospices or at home supported by relatives, which is why Aven—softly spoken, radiating warmth and kindness—has invited me to lie on the sofa under a blanket while they sing. She says I can watch them or close my eyes and let my mind drift. My gaze settles on Lennon, Aven’s large black Labrador, who squeezes between the singers and is as gentle and well-mannered as his owner.
The two sing a cappella and in harmony. Different from elegies or laments, the songs are gently meditative, written to offer human connection and nurture feelings of love and safety. They are meant not only for the dying but also for the friends and relatives caring for them or keeping vigil. Their singing is simple, intimate, and beautiful—and utterly calming.
Aven’s choir, called MoorHeart (a nod to their location near Dartmoor), has ten members. Over tea and biscuits, she explains that they are all volunteers; no payment is accepted, and tips are politely declined. Besides bedsides, the choir sings at funerals, memorial services, and sometimes baby blessings—because birth, like death, is a threshold. Theirs is one of a growing network of choirs founded by an American named Kate Munger. In the early 1990s, Munger sat at the bedside of a friend dying of AIDS and began singing to him. The experience was transformative, inspiring her to establish singing groups she called chapters. There are now about 200 official chapters worldwide, most in the U.S. and a handful in the UK—in Devon, Cornwall, Sheffield, Scarborough, and London. There are also other Threshold Choirs not affiliated with the U.S. organization, though exactly how many is unclear.
What Aven and her choir do differs from the work of death doulas, who often handle more practical tasks like organizing meal schedules or taking turns with family to keep vigil. Her choir usually sings in groups of two, three, or at most four, as “it would be overwhelming for somebody who’s very poorly to have ten of us turn up at their bedside.” Volunteers don’t need to be trained musicians or singers—though Aven’s choir happens to include a former member of the Hallé, Manchester’s celebrated symphony orchestra. Each choir has its own way of working, but to join this one, candidates must be able to hold a tune and sing in harmony. They also need to be comfortable with death and dying. That isn’t easy for most people, but in Aven’s case, a series of devastating personal losses has given her more experience with death than many.
As a nation, we are not good at death. Death and grief exist “in the shadows,” Aven says, with many finding it hard to talk about or plan for. I tell her that when my father died 25 years ago, he spent his final weeks in a hospice drifting in and out of consciousness. Being young and with him not given to emotional displays, I had no idea what to say near the end. “I think that’s a really common experience and is one of the reasons I do what I do,” Aven says. “I want to get a conversation going. Recently, my beautiful neighbor died at home, and there was a sort of open house while she was dying. Many of us would pop round for ten…”I want to spend time with her, talk with her. She, along with her husband and family, were incredibly generous and kind. That’s why I keep naming it and speaking about it openly—so fewer of us feel unsure of what to say.
Last month, the choir lost one of its own members, Lindsey Stewart. She had been diagnosed with breast cancer more than ten years ago and was recently undergoing chemotherapy. Her death was unexpected, so the choir, including Nickie Aven, never had the chance to sing for her while she was alive. Instead, they gathered the week after her passing to share memories and sing together.
Although officially retired, Aven dedicates 20 to 30 hours each week to supporting those who are dying or grieving. This might involve singing, spiritual counseling, meditation, or simply “accompanying” someone—whether that means sitting quietly together or sharing a cup of tea. She believes grief is neither tidy nor constant; it can take many forms, such as trauma, anger, self-pity, or even a desire to die. Aven reassures that these feelings are okay and won’t last forever. She also facilitates grief support groups, like a recent one called Clay Stories, where participants use clay and creative writing to express their emotions. For those who find it hard to talk, creativity can be a powerful way to bypass the mind’s inner critic—which is where music and singing come in.
Aven emphasizes that when the Threshold Choir gathers at a bedside, it is not a performance. Once, a hospice nurse asked if they would sing Christmas songs, but they declined. Their songs are slow and gentle, much like lullabies, and are all original—many composed by choir members. This is important because familiar music can trigger memories and pull someone back into their life, whereas at the threshold of death, the aim is to gently let go. The choir’s repertoire includes around 600 songs, some of which are available for purchase online for those who don’t have access to a local choir. Titles include “You Are Not Alone,” “Rest Easy,” and “Sweet, Sweet Dreams.” Aven encourages members to write and bring their own songs to practices, both to keep the material fresh and to foster a sense of shared ownership and collaboration.
While the choir sings, patients may listen quietly, sleep, or cry. In one instance, as they sang for a patient and her family, the patient began to cry, followed by her sons. By the time the choir left, the family was holding hands—a moment of raw intimacy that might not have happened amid their usual chatter. When new singers join, Aven advises them not to sing at the bedside right away. Instead, they practice with volunteers who lie on a couch, similar to what I experienced. They also participate in workshops and exercises to become more relaxed and clear-minded around death, ensuring they don’t become overwhelmed with emotion when someone needs them most.
Aven’s work with death and dying began in 2000 when she lived in Bristol and joined a multidisciplinary team at the Rainbow Centre, a nonprofit organization.Nickie Aven works with people and families facing life-threatening illnesses and bereavement. “It was kids who had cancer, mothers and fathers who had lost children, or children who had lost their mummies,” she says. Just a month into the job, Aven’s mother, Joan, died. Joan had experienced multiple losses as a child. “She was five when her father died in 1933,” Aven explains. “Then her grandad caught a cold at the funeral and died a few weeks later. They went to live with her grandmother and found her dead on the kitchen floor from a heart attack.” Joan was never able to properly process those losses “because in the 1930s, who’s going to manage grief?”
At the Rainbow Centre, Aven had a realization. “I realized, oh my God, I am doing this for my mother. This is the exact help she needed as a child.” When Aven’s father died, he was in the middle of getting a haircut. “He had a heart attack in the barber’s chair. The barber had just told him a joke, turned around for his scissors, turned back and he was dead.” That sounds like an excellent way to go, I remark. “Yes,” Aven says, adding with a grin, “Shocking for the barber, though. I mean, it’s not good for business, is it?”
In the late 2000s, Aven began training in interfaith ministry and celebrancy, and started holding funerals; it was while mentoring interfaith students that she met her husband, Neil. In 2012, she moved to Findhorn in Scotland, a spiritual community where she ran a lodge. There, a woman named Chloe Greenwood came to stay. She had been to America and learned about Threshold Choirs, and was founding one in Scotland. Aven immediately joined. “What I loved was the sense of love, of kindness. I use the word carefully as it has hippy-dippy connotations, but it felt like a sisterhood.”
In late 2017, Aven and Neil decided to move to Devon, as he had family in the West Country. Keen to keep singing, Aven set up a Threshold Choir in the village. Two weeks later, Neil was diagnosed with a brain tumour. It was a grade four glioblastoma and it was terminal. A year later, Neil’s health declined and he began having seizures. One, which lasted three hours, left him bedbound “and his memory shot.” Throughout, Aven never stopped singing. In Neil’s final months, the choir would come and sing for him in their front room where he was in a hospital bed. Then, one Saturday morning in May 2019, Aven “woke up at half past five and heard him struggling with his breath. I hadn’t realized he was dying but after an hour or two I noticed he was going grey. And then he was gone.” Aven cleaned him, did some meditation, “and then I sat beside him and I sang.”
During Neil’s illness, another crisis was unfolding for Aven and her family. Sam, her son from a previous relationship (she also has a daughter), had been struggling with heroin addiction for some years, but before Neil’s diagnosis, had seemed to get clean. “To all intents and purposes, he was doing OK,” Aven says. But the last time she saw him, she had a bad feeling. Sam and his sister were visiting for her 60th birthday and, though she didn’t know why, she thought something wasn’t right. Dropping him off at the station, “I gave him a hug and thought: I don’t want to let you go. When I walked away, I very nearly ran back but instead I carried on walking. I didn’t see him again.”
“Very often we die in our time and order, and it isn’t a tragedy or a catastrophe. This is what happens: we are born and we die,” Aven reflects.
Sam had been living in a dry house in Bristol, was attending meetings at Narcotics Anonymous and was in contact with his sponsor. Aven doesn’t believe he was regularly using again, but she later learned from his journals that he was taking spice, a form of synthetic cannabis that is often called the “zombie drug.”Aven isn’t sure what happened, but she thinks he may have had a drink and then bought some heroin. He was last heard in his room by other residents on a Saturday. “It was a hot summer, and he was in the room at the top of the house with no window open,” she says. “When he was found on Monday, his body was already black. I was told, ‘You cannot see him,’ which I think was the right decision, but it was hard.” Aven is certain he didn’t take his own life and that it was an accidental overdose. “The way I think of it is that he stood on the edge of a cliff, putting himself in the way of the wind, and one day it was going to blow the other way—and it did.” Sam was 33 when he died.
Aven has witnessed only one death—that of her husband—though she has met many people who are nearing the end. I ask her what concerns them most. “They worry about what their death will look like and about losing control,” she replies. “They also worry about how their families will manage without them.” Aven has helped people write letters, some addressing regrets in their lives. Shame can be a significant issue, she says. “There is such an opportunity, when you know you’re dying, to heal any shame. There’s a real grace in that.”
A good death, Aven notes, comes from “looking it full in the face. To think, ‘Oh, you’re coming, okay,’ and working with that. Not thinking death is a bogeyman or a villain.” She adds that there are times when death is “a dreadful calamity, such as when it involves children, and I’m not belittling that. But very often we die in our time and in our order, and it isn’t a tragedy or a catastrophe. This is what happens: we are born and we die.” Does she think she will be able to maintain a Zen approach when faced with her own death? “What I expect is that first I’ll be in a panic, then I’ll probably ask someone to help me make sure everything I need to do or say is done, even though I try to do that in my life anyway. My daughter knows how much I love her, and we talk about death, including my death. It’s not a taboo subject.”
Aven senses I am building up to ask about assisted dying and heads me off at the pass. “I won’t go there. I have my own views, but they might not be popular, and I don’t want to offend people.” Instead, I ask her about the word “threshold,” as it seems to suggest a dying patient is moving from one place to another. I wonder if this means those involved in the movement believe there is something after death? “No, absolutely not,” she replies. “I think, if nothing else, it’s a threshold out of life. It’s not clear to us what’s next, if anything. And I would never dream of asking anybody in the choir, or anyone we sing for, about their beliefs.” Aven declines to say what she thinks happens after death. She will say that after Neil died, she wrote to him every day. Whether he knew that or not wasn’t the point; what mattered was that she found comfort in it.
Given all she has endured, Aven’s openness and ability to articulate her feelings around death and dying are remarkable. Much of her work is driven by not wanting others to feel alone and disconnected in their fear and grief, and by understanding that the more we talk about death—what it looks like, what it’s like for those left behind—the less traumatic and frightening it will be. I had wondered whether our afternoon together would feel heavy and sad, but it turns out conversation with Aven is life-affirming and full of laughter. “When I get to the end of my life,” she says, “I just want to be able to say, ‘Thank you, that was brilliant!'” Nickie Aven and her Threshold Choir are the subject of a 20-minute Guardian documentary.Threshold.
Frequently Asked Questions
FAQs About He was struggling to breathe I sat beside him and sang The Choir for Final Moments
Beginner Definition Questions
1 What is this choir What do they do
This is a volunteer choir often called a threshold choir or endoflife choir whose members visit people who are actively dying They sit quietly at the bedside and sing gentle soothing songs to provide comfort and companionship in a persons final hours or days
2 Who do they sing for
They primarily sing for individuals in hospice care hospitals or at home who are in the active dying process The service is offered to the dying person and their loved ones as a form of nonmedical emotional and spiritual support
3 Do you have to be religious to receive a visit or be a singer
No The music is intentionally gentle often simple rounds or lullabies and is focused on comfort rather than any specific religious doctrine Songs may be secular spiritual or from various faith traditions depending on the wishes of the patient and family
4 How is this different from music therapy
While both use music for healing music therapy is a clinical profession with specific therapeutic goals This choirs purpose is purely compassionate presence and comfort at the threshold of death not therapy Its about being with someone not treating them
Benefits Purpose
5 What are the benefits for the dying person
It can reduce anxiety ease the sense of isolation and provide a peaceful humancentered atmosphere The familiar gentle vibrations of song can be calming when speech is no longer possible helping to ease the transition
6 What are the benefits for the family and friends present
It offers profound emotional support giving loved ones a chance to simply be without pressure to talk or act It can create a sacred shared moment of beauty during an intensely difficult time and provide a lasting memory of their loved one being cared for with tenderness
7 Whats in it for the singers Why would someone do this
Singers often describe it as a deep honor and a practice in compassion It connects them to the fundamental human experiences of life and death offering a way to provide a direct meaningful service that requires no words just presence and heart
Practical Logistical Questions
