I shared a few words at this weekend’s Masses around the report published during the week on Mother and Baby Homes. The report runs to some 3000 pages and documents a tragic and shameful reality of our past, where young girls who became pregnant were, in many cases, taken to homes run by the State but quite often staffed by Religious orders. Here, these girls gave birth to their children. In some cases the children were subsquently adopted and their mothers were not aware of their whereabouts. This has led to understandable hurt in the lives of many people.
I have not read this report but, like most people, have heard some of its content and findings during the week. To read the report would be a mammoth task but there are many who will read its every word. Whether we are numbered among them or not, we need to put right insofar as we can what was so clearly wrong.
This is part of what I said today – the last part as I had written some words that I wanted to share. I realise they are words, and fall far short of what is required but I felt that saying nothing was not an option this weekend.
I enjoy the music of Nanci Griffith. Haven’t heard much of it recently but somehow found myself listening to her a bit yesterday. Many of the songs I knew – Roseville Fair, From A Distance. Love At The Five And Dime and On Grafton Street for example. Then a few I had never heard before.
I like the way she introduces her songs. That always appeals to me, when a singer tells the story of the song or links it with moments in life.
Then I heard her introduce this one and I was struck by her friend’s name – Mary Margaret, and reminded of the Mary Margaret in our lives who has been a friend to so many for so long. I could imagine her being Nanci’s childhood Mary Margaret and the plans they’d have made.
In any case, thought I’d share it here. Thanks Nanci.
Thanks Mary Margaret.
THERE’S A LIGHT BEYOND THESE WOODS
There’s a light beyond these woods, Mary Margaret. Do you think that we will go there, And see what makes it shine, Mary Margaret? It’s almost morning, and we’ve talked all night, You know we’ve made big plans for ten-year-olds, You and I.
Have you met my new boy friend, Margaret? His name is John, and he rides my bus to school, And he holds my hand. He’s fourteen, he’s my older man. But we’ll still be the best of friends, The three of us, Margaret, John, and I.
Let’s go to New York City, Margaret! We’ll hide out in the subways And drink the poets’ wine, oh, But I had John, so you went and I stayed behind. But you were home in time for the senior prom, When we lost John.
The fantasies we plan, I’m living them now. All the dreams we sang when we knew how, Well, they haven’t changed. There’s never been two friends like you and me, Mary Margaret.
It’s nice to see your family growing, Margaret. Your daughter and your husband there, They really treat you right… But we’ve talked all night And what about the light, that glowed beyond Our woods when we were ten? You were the rambler then.
The fantasies we planned, well, Maggie, I’m living them now. All the dreams we sang, oh, we damn sure knew How, but I haven’t changed. There’ll never be two friends like you and me, Maggie, can’t you see?
As I walked to the church this morning, I was struck by the presence of the moon over the Parish Church. It was as if it were inviting me to make that journey and to raise the Host from the Altar, though the church would be empty. It was saying to me, perhaps, that it had done its work through the night even when nobody was watching.
Behind me, the sun shone through the still bare branches of the trees that are around my house. It too seemed to be saying, “I’m here as well and will shine whether people notice or not.”
As I looked at the moon and walked nearer the church, the moon looked as if it were about to rest gently on the church’s roof. I stopped to take this in and then noticed birds around the Cross on the church and the makings of a nest on the pinnacle. Then the birds came into view.
It all seemed so right and so far removed from the reality we are all trying to live right now. The hope remains that these days will pass and that just as Sun and Moon tend to their daily and necessary tasks, so must we.
There is an online Advent Calendar, produced by the Irish Epicopal Conference’s Communications’ Office. Yesterday a short reflection I prepared on “HOPE” was used. By way of experimentation, I put the audio alongside some photos I’ve taken in recent months. Thought I might share here.
This is a piece from The Irish Catholic that I wrote for the month of November.
Her first anniversary took place a few weeks ago. I spoke with her husband around the days – a phone call to a man who likes to talk – maybe needs to talk. I remember the call when his wife died and my visit to his little cottage where they lived, shared life and their love for many years. “Blow-ins”, some might call him and her for they were not locals. Born in Germany, they lived their lives there but thought they would like to spend the sunset years in Ireland. How that desire brought them to this parish and to a little cottage down a quiet boreen is their story to tell but the decision was never regretted.
I chatted with him the night she died and was fascinated by the story of their lives. They had travelled the world, often to do charitable work, including some time in Calcutta. His brother was a priest and his father a wood carver and the home is filled with the most magnificent wood carvings, including one of the face of Christ. When his brother was ordained, his father made a sculpture that was placed in the centre of their hometown and is still there. He had a smaller model of it that his father made afterwards for the family. He spoke with me about theology, about Pope Benedict whom he had encountered as a younger man and he chatted about Canon Law. Most of all he spoke about his wife. His heart was broken, and it was clear to me that a part of him had died.
The little leaflet for the Funeral Mass had a youthful picture of her and she was beautiful. I could imagine her singing folk songs by a campfire, marching in protests, and wanting to make the world a better place. Maybe the little piece of our parish they called home, reminded her of what the world could and should be. I remember thinking that, though she had grown old and had, in her final months experienced much illness, he still saw the young woman in the photo, a woman that none of us in the church had ever seen. She would always be that woman to him.
As I spoke with him a few weeks ago, he told me that he gets up every morning at 5.45am, gets ready and walks to the Cemetery to visit her grave. He spends some time there and walks home again. He repeats the journey (I’d say at least 4km round trip) in the afternoon. This is his daily routine. I called to the house again and picked up the conversation. The wood carvings are still there but now too, little night lights burning before precious photos of one loved and gone. I left him, glad that I had called but happy for her too, she must have lived and died knowing how much she mattered and the difference she had made in the life of another.
The tune came to mind: “Now he walks down the street in the evening/ and he stops by the old candy store/ and I somehow believe he’s believing that he’s holding her hand as before/ he smiles as he feels her love with him/ and laughs at the things she might say/ then the old man walks up to the hilltop/ and leaves her a daisy a day ……”
In November, we remember.
Maybe that little piece of our parish that they called home, reminded her of what the world could and should be
Today recalls the 11th November 1918 when World War 1 came to an end. This song is in memory of all those who died during that time, and since, leaving so many to mourn and grive them. This song is about wanting peace and remembering the futility that is violence, the futility that is hatred. “Deliver us Lord from every evil and grant us peace in our day”.
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