The Box

The Box

The Box by Lascelles Abercrombie

Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye,
Around about the wondrous days of yore,
They came across a kind of box
Bound up with chains and locked with locks
And labeled “Kindly do not touch; it’s war.”
A decree was issued round about, and all with a flourish and a shout
And a gaily colored mascot tripping lightly on before.
Don’t fiddle with this deadly box,Or break the chains, or pick the locks.
And please don’t ever play about with war.
The children understood. Children happen to be good
And they were just as good around the time of yore.
They didn’t try to pick the locksOr break into that deadly box.
They never tried to play about with war.
Mommies didn’t either; sisters, aunts, grannies neither
‘Cause they were quiet, and sweet, and pretty
In those wondrous days of yore.
Well, very much the same as now,
And not the ones to blame somehow
For opening up that deadly box of war.
But someone did. Someone battered in the lid
And spilled the insides out across the floor.
A kind of bouncy, bumpy ball made up of guns and flags
And all the tears, and horror, and death that comes with war.
It bounced right out and went bashing all about,
Bumping into everything in store.And what was sad and most unfair
Was that it didn’t really seem to care
Much who it bumped, or why, or what, or for.
It bumped the children mainly. And I’ll tell you this quite plainly,
It bumps them every day and more, and more,
And leaves them dead, and burned, and dying
Thousands of them sick and crying.
‘Cause when it bumps, it’s really very sore.
Now there’s a way to stop the ball. It isn’t difficult at all.
All it takes is wisdom, and I’m absolutely sure
That we can get it back into the box,And bind the chains, and lock the locks.
But no one seems to want to save the children anymore.
Well, that’s the way it all appears, ’cause it’s been bouncing round
for years and years
In spite of all the wisdom wizzed since those wondrous days of yore
And the time they came across the box,
Bound up with chains and locked with locks,
And labeled “Kindly do not touch; it’s war.”
Gentleness

Gentleness

No photo description available.

In Kilmovee, I liked to take pictures of the church from the front of my house.  There is a magnificent tree outside he house and some of the photos I took were through its branches.  I liked the idea of the solid church finding shelter in the barness or the fullness of the branches.  The other day, I found myself doing the same here in Tubbercurry.  There is something in it, something about the fragile and the strong, the passing and the permanent and, maybe above all, about blending.

I wish you gentleness today and may it guide us all in our thoughts, words and actions.

God bless you, this Spring Day.

On your 100th Birthday

On your 100th Birthday

Dear Mary,

Were you still with us, you would have received a letter (and cheque) from The President today!  Alas, no letter or cheque and sadly you are not still with us.  You have been gone nearly fourteen years now but you have never been forgotten.  As long as there is breath in me, you will never be forgotten.

So instead of a letter from Áras an Uachtaráin, maybe you’ll accept a few lines from the youngest lad!

Who was with you this day one hundred years ago?  Your mother for sure,  your father too and maybe neighbours who came to help.  We never talked much about those days.  You would mention “Mother” and “Father” to me but sadly I knew neither.  Only when you died, did I fully grasp how young you were when your father died – scarcely seven years old, the oldest of three.  That cannot have been easy.  We never spoke much about that either but I know you never forgot them as we haven’t forgotten you and Bill.  You knew they gave you life and a sense of home.  Cloonloo was always so important to you.  

Just over seventy years ago, you and Bill were married – December 29th 1952.  I think you once told me you were one of the first to get married in Cloonloo Church.  I never recall seeing a photo of you on your wedding day but there is one of you and daddy taken, the next day I think, in Dublin.  Daddy with an open neck shirt and jacket and you in a dress suit.  Did you wear a wedding dress?  If there was a daughter in our house, we might know the answer to that!!  Clothes and fashion were by the way for you – at least that’s the way I remember it.  The jersey was your go to garment and you wore it well!

I really cannot recall my first memory of you.  Isn’t that strange?  You, my mother, and I cannot recall when I first saw you but I know for certain you saw me and loved me.  “Nobdoy will ever love you”, you used the say “the way I do.”  I would love to think I did not take those words for granted but chances are I did.  Nonetheless I came to value them, trust them and know there is a truth there that has given more than a little comfort along the way.  Sometimes when I speak with chidlren preparing for their First Holy Communion, I tell them about you and the memory I have of my own First Holy Communion Day.  Oddly enough, I don’t recall the church, the priest or the first time I received Eucharist.  I don’t remember what we did, where we went or who was around.  I remember you though.  I remember you getting me ready for Mass.  You washed my hair – “Don’t duck me”, I used to say when you’d put my head under the water to rinse off the shampoo.  I never liked that.  Not a problem now – shampoo not required – but, strangely enough, I still don’t like water in my face!!  I remember putting on the clothes that you had bought for me.  Brown shoes, cream ankle socks, a check short trousers, cream shirt and I forget the colour of the tie, and a mustard coloured cardigan.  I must have a photo somewhere and I hope it matches what I have just written.  There was a little badge with a medal pinned to the cardigan and, knowing me as you did and realising that damage could be done around the garage between dressing and Altar, you put a blue kitchen coat on me to keep the boy and the clothes, grease free until departure!!

You worked hard.  I know that for sure.  You and Bill were a great pair and you did your best for all of us.  Most of my memories are of us on the road.  Collecting and delivering cars, often late at night or early in the morning.  There were no strict bedtime rules in Moygara – at least, if there were, I don’t remember them. I don’t ever remember being tired or hungry though so the mother in you kept the balance for us that was needed.

When I started to serve Mass, you brought me to Mullaney’s in Sligo and John Mullaney helped you as you got a soutane and surplice for me.  I know you were proud of that and happy that I was serving Mass in Cloonloo Church.  I am not sure when I thought about becoming a priest but that soutane and surplice were important to me, and to you.  I wore them for longer than might have been intended and my aunt sewed an extenstion into it to add a year or two to the serving.  No regrets Mary.

My first suit was for my Confirmation Day, blue and double-breasted.  The next one was black when in 1981 we went to John Mullaney again to buy a black suit as I prepared to go to Maynooth.  It’s stange, you had a lot to do with clothing me, preparing me for moments in life – steps on the road.  Thanks.

We were always in touch, thank God.  I went from being the passenger in the car to being the driver and we covered a lot of road.  I often remember and mention, those times I would be at home and settled, only to hear you say “We will go up to Dwyers for an hour” or some other named relation and it would have been the last thing I wanted to do.  We would go though and not once did I regret it.  You valued relations and friends, kept links alive and I am glad you did.  Most nights, in the age of the mobile phone, your name would pop up on my screen and no matter where I was or who I was with, I answered – sometimes reluctantly but I missed those calls when you went.  

So, one hundred years on from that January day in 1923, I am so thankful you were born.  I am blessed that you met Bill and gave the gift of life to us all.  I am happy that I made you happy most of the time.  I remember your laugh, your smile and how much you enjoyed me telling a story that would make people laugh.  You knew the story, word for word but listened for the ending as if you had never heard it before.  You encouraged me and shaped me.

The day you died, I was called to the Nursing Home and wondered was it you they were calling me to.  I remember pulling in and seeing two of the staff at the door, waiting for me and somehow I knew then that it was you.  I remember you in the bed, the candles beside you and, no more than not being fully clear on my first seeing of you, I am not clear on this one either because I don’t know if you heard me pray for and love you but I do know you would be happy I was there.  I am happy I was there and always, always glad that you were here for all of us.

Remembered, and loved.

Vincent

 

 

Remembered

Remembered

Just short of one month ago, a very good friend of mine died.  Her name is Marie Regan and, during my time in Kilmovee Parish, Marie was sacristan in Kilmovee.  We met practically every day during the years and she became a very close and trusted friend.  Sadly she became ill about two years ago and, though she battled bravely, the battle was lost on November 11th, the day Marie died.  May she rest in peace. 

In memory of her I want to include the words from her Funeral Mass.  Marie was a regular follower of this blog and I want her to have  some space here.

Lazarus around us

Lazarus around us

How many years can a mountain exist before it is washed to the sea
and how many years must a people exist before they’re allowed to be free
yes, and how many times can a man turn his head
and pretend that he just doesn’t see?
The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind
the answer is blowing in the wind.

These lines seem to have a place in this weekend’s gospel passage.  We know the story well.  Lazaurs, a poor man, sits at the door of a wealthy man who fails to take notice of him.  Lazarus, would willingly have eaten the scraps that fell from the rich man’s table but even these were not offered.

It is interesting that the poor man is named and the rich man is not.  This flies in the face of society where we all know the names of the rich and famous, follow celebrity lifestyles and are interested in their comings and goings.  Whereas the poor still can all to often go un-noticed and remain un-named.  It is no accident that Jesus names the poor man.  He is calling out to us to notice, recognise and respond to the needs of the poor.  This is not always easy and, at times, can be very challenging but the call remains.  We are asked to do what we can.  It does not have to be over the top but efforts should be made to notice and care.

We are further told that when Lazarus died, he was carried to the “Bosom of Abraham” – to Heaven whereas the rich man died and “was buried.”  We know the rest of the story.

During the week I was in New York and going down the excalator to Penn Station, I noticed a woman standing at the bottom of the steps.  She was holding a cardboard notice in her hands.  As I drew closer, I could read some of the writing: “I feel I am invisble.  Nobody sees me.  All that keeps me going is my faith.”  She had her eyes closed and let the notice speak.  Though I read the notice, I walked past her and feel guilty about that.  It is so easy to walk past someone but not always the right thing to do.  Sometimes we can justify it by saying if we gave money, the person might use it to buy drink or drugs – waste it.  They might and that would be a pity but it should not stop us helping when we are able. Once we give the gift, it is no longer ours.  Gift forfeits ownership and it is up to the recipient to do whatever with that gift.  The hope is that he or she will do the right thing for themselevs and their families.

There is a wake taking place in the Parish Centre here today.  It is a wake for a retired firefighter who died in recent days.  On September 11th, 2001 he responded like many of his colleagues to the disaster unfolding at GROUND ZERO.  His brother, a firefighter too, lost his life that day.  This man suffered the effects of inhalation from that day and battled sickness through the years.  May he rest in peace.

What does the firefigther do?  He or she responds to the needs of others – they are at the end of the 911 call.  Lazarus is the caller today and we are the ones asked to respond to his needs.

The death of this firefigther brings me back to my own teenaged years and watching an Irish Firefigther being interviewed on a late night chat show at home.  He was speaking about a charity he was setting up.  He went on to outline where the idea for and the need for this charity had its origins.  He too had responded, with colleagues, to a 999 call. It was not a fire but a call to a flat where an old man lived.  He lived alone and had not been seen for some time. They had to break into the flat and found the man dead there.  He had been dead for sometime.  May he rest in peace.

The man being interviewed, Willie Bermingham (R.I.P.), said he could not get the image out of his head.  The man had died alone and had lived his final years in terrrible conditions.  He died alone and surrounded by dreariness.  He felt it should not have to be like that for anyone.  Bermingham set up a charity.  He called it ALONE.

Alone, because that is how the man died but also because he felt the very word had a message.

ALONE – A Little Offering Never Ends.

Lazarus deserves to be noticed.

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