One man and his dog

One man and his dog

I had a Funeral Mass in the parish this morning.  The man who died had a very loyal dog who died sometime ago.  There was an amazing connection between them.  Thought of this piece earlier today – had read it one time and liked it – so decided to include it in the few words at Mass. 


A man and his dog were walking along a road. The man was enjoying the scenery, when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead.

He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years. He wondered where the road was leading them.

After awhile, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road. It looked like fine marble…At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight.

When he was standing before it he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold. He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man at a desk to one side. When he was close enough, he called out, “Excuse me, where are we?”

“This is Heaven, sir,” the man answered.

“Wow! Would you happen to have some water?” the man asked.

“Of course, sir. Come right in, and I’ll have some ice water brought right up.”

The man gestured, and the gate began to open.

“Can my friend,” gesturing towards his dog, “come in, too?” the traveller asked.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t accept pets.”

The man thought a moment and then turned back toward the road and continued the way he had been going with his dog. After another long walk, and at the top of another long hill, he came to a dirt road leading through a farm gate that looked as if it had never been closed. There was no fence. As he approached the gate, he saw a man inside, leaning against a tree and reading a book.

“Excuse me!” he called to the man. “Do you have any water?”

“Yeah, sure, there’s a pump over there, come on in.”

“How about my friend here?” the traveller gestured to his dog.

“There should be a bowl by the pump.”

They went through the gate, and sure enough, there was an old-fashioned hand pump with a bowl beside it. The traveller filled the water bowl and took a long drink himself, then he gave some to the dog.

When they were full, he and the dog walked back toward the man who was standing by the tree.

“What do you call this place?” the traveller asked.

“This is Heaven,” he answered.

“Well, that’s confusing,” the traveller said. “The man down the road said that was Heaven, too.”

“Oh, you mean the place with the gold street and pearly gates? Nope. That’s hell.”

“Doesn’t it make you mad for them to use your name like that?”

“No, we’re just happy that they screen out the folks who would leave their best friends behind.”

One thing led to another

One thing led to another

Listening to Mid West Radio today, someone requested a song by Max Boyce.  I had never heard for him but Gerry Glennon found a version of him singing a song I knew and it led me to wonder about him so I checked him out on Spotify.  He’s quite funny and seems to base much of his humour around Welsh Rugby.  I listened to a few tracks and then came across this one … “Ten Thousand Instant Christians”.  He’s wondering about the great reputation Welsh supporters have as choir singers but laments a shut down church he noticed when leaving one of the games in Cardiff.  Its windows were broken, the door locked, the shutters down and a “For Sale” sign on display.   – “Hymns of yesterday, only half-remembered. I wonder what He’ll say” …

 

When He sees the Hope and Anchor
Where we sang before the game
Where ‘Cwm Rhondda’ and ‘Delilah’
First sounded both the same
The bar was filled with singing
Songs came on a tray
Saturday was Sunday
I wonder what He’ll say

What will He say?
What will He say?
I wonder, I wonder what He’ll say?

When He sees the North Enclosure
With its belly full of ale
And sees that male voice flagon
Sing to the twisted barrier rail
‘Cwm Rhondda’ and ‘Penmachno’
Hymns of yesterday
Only half remembered
I wonder what He’ll say

What will He say?
What will He say?
I wonder, I wonder what He’ll say?

When He sees those touch-line tenors
With their copies made of sand
Ten Thousand Instant Christians
And the Glynneath Silver Band
‘C’mon man, ref, for Christ’s sake
That ball was still in play’
Ten Thousand Instant Christians
I wonder what He’ll say

What will He say?
What will He say?
I wonder, I wonder what He’ll say?

When He sees that empty chapel
With its locked and shuttered door
And sees that dusty Bible
Cobweb covered floors
The numbers slowly dwindling
Much fewer now each day
Calfaria now a bingo hall
I wonder what He’ll say

What will He say?
What will He say?
I wonder, I wonder what He’ll say?

I wonder.

I am glad I heard Gerry Glennon today and glad someone requested a song by Max Boyce.  Gave me something to think about and something I felt I should share!

 

and I think this is the one Gerry Glennon played …

Mentioned this yesterday

Mentioned this yesterday

At Easter Masses I mentioned this powerful song, as performed by the amazing Liam Clancy.  I spoke of it in the context of numbers getting fewer (though thankfully we had very good congregations for the Holy Week Ceremonies) but the reality is that numbers are in decline and I wanted us to think about that a little.  Lest the “numbers get fewer” and someday no one might “pray” there at all.  A truly frightening prospect.

Words from a Guardian Angel

Words from a Guardian Angel

Earlier today (Sunday 10th February) we had a very large gathering for the 10am Mass in Kilmovee.  The Mass was offered as a Month’s Mind Mass in memory of a young man from the parish who died tragically on New Year’s Day.  In trying to find a few words to share, I woke up this morning remembering another young man who died in similar circumstances a number of years ago.  His mother spoke to me at the time about the concerns she had for her son’s friends and asked me to try to speak to them in some way.  Again, unsure what to do or how to do that, I decided to write a letter to the friends – an imagined letter, from the young man’s Guardian Angel.  I searched for those words (already on the blog) and decided to change them, just a little, since it’s almost certain I’d have written the original ones slightly different were I to have another go.  I called the Guardian Angel “Súil”, meaning hope and now realise that is a verb “to hope” but maybe that’s no bad thing either.  The more commonly used word is “Dóchas” but maybe hope needs to be a verb – something being done, something lived.  In any case I shared these words at Mass and a few people asked me since for a copy. I’m going to include them here and hopefully they might speak to someone who needs to hear – “hopes” to hear something of encouragement.  God Bless you all.


Dear Friends of Brian,

My name is Súil. I know you don’t know me though I have often been in your midst. I am Brian’s Guardian Angel. Like you, I felt such sadness as the news reached your ears that he had died. I talked to God and told him I felt I had failed. He asked me to watch out for Brian. Though I am supposed to know things, there were times I left the house with him and hadn’t a clue where we were going or what the night would bring. I enjoyed his company though, and deep down, he knew I was there. He knew God was there. God told me the other night that I hadn’t let him down. He said and I remember his words so clearly; “Súil, you were the last to say goodbye and the first to say hello”. God too wished that Brian had made different choices and especially this, his last and irreversible, choice.

You see what Brian knew was the love of his family, his friends and his desire for peace. He knew the future was taking shape and that the past, whatever he might have thought of it, helped shape that future. He came from a bright and caring family and was surrounded by so many good friends.

What Brian did not see, though in all honesty I tried to tell him, was the tears in your eyes. I whispered and shouted at him but somehow he could not hear me. If he did, he certainly gave no impression of having heard me. I know enough about him to be certain that he’d not have put anyone through the grief and sadness around us these past few weeks. God said to me, the other night, that He still cannot understand how slow people are to realise how much they mean. Regardless of what happens in life, regardless of the successes or mistakes, we matter to so many people. If only we could fully take that in. I’ve been there myself, even as an Angel, that feeling that nobody would really notice if I faded out but then thankfully something always reminds me that were I not around the world would be minus something special – something holy – someone needed.

I suppose that’s why I am writing these few lines, to thank you all for noticing and to say I am sorry for your tears. God wants me to say to all Brian’s friends:  look around you – look at the tears on your own cheeks, feel the sadness in your own hearts and look at the faces of Brian’s family. Your lives are so, so precious. So many people need you and depend on you. Don’t ever think your life doesn’t matter or that you’d not be missed.

My friend – our friend, Brian must not have seen this on New Year’s Day. He knew it absolutely but somehow for a second, a second that can never be re-claimed, he didn’t see it. It’s so important that we all see and know the love of those around us – family, friends and all who are there to help.

We should not be here. Brian should not be gone from us. I still had miles to travel with him – we all had.

Your Angels want to travel with you.

Súil (hope)


O Angel of God
my guardian dear;
to whom God’s love
commits me here,
ever this day
be at my side
to light and guard
to rule and guide.
Amen.

A story in everything

A story in everything

My aunt was washing the dishes and, I think, feared I might drop something so she left me the job of drying.  Each cup and saucer, each spoon, fork or knife, was washed with a tenderness of touch that was something to behold.  I knew that she knew these dishes to and from a depth, I most likely could never begin to understand.

“In my memory I will always see ….”

Turning around, I pulled the dish-towel from its neat and tidy “parking spot” on the handle of the cooker.  I took a saucer from her and began to dry – she looked at me and then at the dish-towel in my hand; “Mama made that for me in 1946”, she said.  I was holding a piece of material and she was living a memory.  “I wanted a red and white kitchen when I was young”, she told me “and Mama made this for me”.  She saw beyond where we stood and looked into, what someone called, “A room named remember” and I was happy to stand in it with her.  She was standing on “holy ground” and that’s good ground to stand on.

I was reminded of this moment recently, at a diocesan gathering, when a woman spoke to us of renovating her old family home.  She spoke of the many tussles she had in wondering what to let go of and what to keep.  In a wonderful description, she spoke of moving various bits and pieces along the hallway, towards the skip and then pausing, leaving them in the hallway and pondering some more.  It took a long time for the journey to the skip to be made, if indeed it was made at all.

There’s something being said to me in these stories about the sadness I feel – that many feel – when our church’s traditions are belittled and people hasten to the “skip” to throw there all the perceived shackles and trappings of faith.  I recently heard a radio presenter saying to a guest who was discussing (in sincerity) the feelings of guilt he had around his parents and not wanting to do anything that would hurt or embarrass them – “Try being an Irish Catholic”!  There followed a laugh and I so wanted to shout “Maybe you should – try being an Irish Catholic” because if you did, you’d see and understand something of the hurt and confusion felt by many who wear that badge with honour and humility, with questions and answers, in good days and in bad.

It’s difficult to see people trample on the floors of our “holy ground” with little, if any regard, for the hurt and damage they cause.

All that from a tea-towel!  We need to remember, respect and re-imagine.

Cian Patrick

Cian Patrick

Earlier today, we celebrated the Mass of The Angels in Kilmovee Parish Church.

It was in memory of Cian Patrick Hunt who died on Saturday, October 6th, in his fourth day of life.  Sadly in the past four years, Cian Patrick’s parents have lost two other babies so there was an added sense of loss in today’s gathering but strength too, in a church filled to over-flowing.  It was wonderful to see so many people there, to offer support and prayer to this family.  I asked the parents if they’d mind my sharing here the words used at today’s Mass.  They said that would be fine so I hope these words offer some comfort to those who might have been there today and see them again and perhaps to parents out there, who may well have had a similar experience.  May God offer strength to one and all and, may Cian Patrick together with all infants who have gone before us, hold us in their hearts and prayer.  May they know too that they remain firmly rooted in our love and memories.


Gifts Table – Photo taken of Baby Cian Patrick in hospital, Teddy Bear given by Irish Air Corps in memory of Cian’s helicopter flight from Castlebar to Dublin, candles in memory of Cian’s deceased brother and sister – gifts from Féileacáin (group offering support to bereaved parents of infants), a cap knitted by volunteers in the Coombe Women’s Hospital and a blanket given to the parents by hospital staff.

Like all of you, I was deeply saddened when news emerged that all was not well for this little boy and his parents.  Like all of you, I had looked forward to rejoicing rather than weeping, saying hello rather than goodbye, holding rather than letting go.  Like all of you, I was aware of the losses endured by these young parents in 2014 and 2016 and hoped – believed that 2018 would tell a different story.  Not one that would allow for any forgetting of previous events, but one that would offer hope and joy, peace and gratitude.  So, like all of you, I was and am heartbroken.

In baptism ceremonies, we meet the baby and parents at the door of the church, it’s a sign of welcoming and of entering a new home and beginning a new journey alongside the family home and family’s journey.  I’m the one who goes to the door to meet the family and we take it from there.  Last Friday was different.  Instead of me going to the familiar door of this church, I walked into the Coombe Women’s Hospital and, instead of me walking towards the family, David came to meet me.  He told me things were not good and I was amazed at the strength of character displayed.  He asked me if I’d baptize their son and, of course I said yes. Again, in the baptism ceremony, I usually ask the questions, but this too was different.  “Have you ever done this before?” Amy asked me, and, in truth, I hadn’t.  Neither had I cried before baptism.  I know that some of the nurses saw me cry.  They offered me tea and asked repeatedly if I was alright.  I appreciated their kindness and was not totally shocked by my tears.  I’d have been more shocked if I didn’t cry.  This should not be happening.  “Have you ever done this before?”, Amy’s question deserved an answer and I told her that I hadn’t, not like this anyway but that we’d do our best.  She smiled.  She wanted it done the best it could be done.

“What name to give your child?” I asked David and Breda.  “Cian Patrick”, they replied.  “What do you ask of God’s Church for Cian Patrick?”  “Baptism”, they replied.  “In asking to have your child baptized, you are taking on responsibility to show him the ways of faith, to let him know of God’s love, of Jesus’ presence in his life and of the gifts of the Holy Spirit.  Do you clearly understand what you are undertaking?”  “We do”. They did.  There’s no doubt in the world that David and Breda know what it means to be parents.  Repeatedly they’ve shown it through the years – not just with Amy and Seán but also with Sarah Anne and David Michael, whose memories are real and ever present and whose birthdays are celebrated with prayer, balloons and chocolate cake.  They know what it means to be parents.  Cian Patrick was baptized and, though none of us could hold him, the incubator was perhaps God’s hands around and beneath him – the stable of Bethlehem – a temporary home.  Cian Patrick was anointed with Chrism and the waters of baptism trickled down his forehead with the words: “I baptize you Cian Patrick, in the name of The Father and of The Son and of The Holy Spirit, Amen”.  I looked at Amy and Seán, I looked at Breda and David, I looked at Mary and Rita the two nurses in the room with us (Mary being his Godmother).  I looked at Cian Patrick who could not have been any more surrounded by love as he was at that moment. Amy, we did it well.  You and Seán were at your brother’s baptism.  I was proud of you all, heartbroken for you all but glad we were able to have this moment.  Precious Memories.

I was with David and Breda on Saturday when Cian Patrick was taken from the incubator and placed in their arms.  His journey continued and his time with us grew shorter.  I watched again the tenderness of parental love and marvelled at Breda as she took her son in her arms, I would think for the first time.  There wasn’t a hint of self-pity but, instead, the cradling arms of a mother.  Rita re-arranged the chairs and the parents sat side-by-side with their little son.  An hour or so earlier, we watched Amy and Seán play with their brother “Round and round the garden …. one step, two step ….”  They accompanied him on all his steps.  We sang too.  It was suggested I’d sing something and, when Seán was asked what I might sing, he said “The one you do at Christmas”.  On an October Saturday we sang “The Little Drummer Boy”.  I thought of Cian Patrick as the Little Drummer Boy, bringing his gifts to our crib but, later in the day, I thought more about it and realised we were, all of us, the Drummer Boy desperately wanting to bring gifts to Cian Patrick and He, THE CHRIST CHILD, accepting all we brought to him – from the Naval Helicopter Teddy Bear to the Green and Red cap and all else that surrounded him at that moment.

I thought of Michelangelo’s Pieta – that marble statue depicting Mary holding her son in her arms and at the rock of marble out of which that was carved and the artist’s ability to see what lay within and bring it to life.  I left Breda and David.  They deserved to be alone now with each other and their son.  When I returned, Cian Patrick’s short journey had reached its destination.  He died surrounded by love.  Though our wish is that he’d have lived longer, he could not have been loved any more than he was during those days.

David shared a short video clip with me.  He took it while Breda was holding her son.  In a wonderful moment, Cian Patrick’s eyes open and he looks steadily at his mother and smiles.  “That’s enough for me”, David told me.

“Then he smiled at me …… at me and my drum”.

“Then he smiled at them … at his dad and his mum” ….

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