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.
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” ….
As I was leaving Knock earlier today someone asked me “Did you get to shake the Pope’s hand?” “No,” I replied, “but I don’t think he’ll notice that until later!”
It was a great occasion, the Pope’s visit to Knock and I was glad to be there. I was there in 1979 too but don’t remember much about it, other than being a long long way away in the crowd, glad to be there, but not taking too much in.
In the lead-up to the Papal Visit, I was asked to help in a very small way (in the greater scale of things) with putting some information together that media might use. It turned out to be an interesting project. I was given some guidelines and headings, a proposed timetable of events etc and was to flesh them out. Hopefully that happened.
One of the elements of the visit that caught my imagination was the Pope’s time for quiet prayer in the Apparition Chapel. There he was to receive a lighted taper from two small children and light a candle placed in front of the Apparition Statues. It was to be a quiet time, introduced by the sounding of a bell. I liked the idea but liked, in particular, the story behind the stand in which the candle was placed.
Designed by Anne Lavin (with whom I worked in Knock many years ago and who has been a good friend through the years), the wood used was from a tree that fell in the grounds of Knock Shrine. Though it could have been discarded or re-cycled in a less creative way, someone saw its potential. A local man and his son, Tom and Tomás Cunnane worked on the piece and created this wonderful holder – more than a holder, a launching pad for hope. The outside of the tree is polished and bright whilst the inside is chiseled and marked, representing the inner hurts we experience, feel and carry. Through these are shrubs, many of them wild shrubs that grow where they will but add colour to life and remind us that growth is possible. Embedded in, and rising from all of this is the candle, the sign of hope and light where there may well be despair and darkness. So so much going on. I loved it!
I was thinking about it last night and thought it’s a wonderful and challenging image for our church at this time. Like the tree, in the grounds of Knock Shrine, what was once perceived as tall and strong – a source of shade and shelter – has fallen and is damaged. We are at a crossroads, a moment of decision making. How best can we salvage what is and always will be precious to many? It seems to me the answer lies in recognising what weakened the tree, hollowing it, working on it, re-shaping it without air-brushing the hurts that have undoubtedly taken place.
There’s something Soul nourishing about the carpenter and his son working on this piece of timber in Knock Parish. I like to think of them working, side by side, in the shed beside the house. Can’t help but think of another shed in Nazareth and a carpenter there with a little child, working on and shaping wood. I’ve no doubt the carpenter Joseph, part of the Knock Apparition story, took his turn at working on the fallen tree, alongside Tom and Tomás, so that a new story could be told and something precious saved.
So, though I didn’t shake Pope Francis’ hand, these days have touched my Soul and I’m glad to have been there – been part of it.
I’ve been off the mainland for a few hours! On Lough Derg again for a short while, helping with the pilgrimage but with my shoes on! Good to be here and pleased to have been asked.
It’s wonderful to see people so committed to the traditions of this Holy Place and open to its call to visit. Bare-footed and on fast, people spend three days here. Sharing some time in the Basilica for Public Prayer, Mass, Reconciliation, Renewal of Baptismal Promises and private time going around the Penitential Beds, honouring the Prayer traditions that have been handed down.
No more than the Gable Wall of Knock on that August evening in 1879, there are people of “all ages” gathered here. Some generations from within the one family. There’s something happening here that is very deeply rooted in faith and the handing on of faith.
There’s a lovely mix of personalities and of moods. There are times of quiet, times of chanted prayer and times when you hear laughter shared. All that is good is happening here.
That “good” runs deep. I have no doubt there are people who will leave this Island feeling a sense of accomplishment and relief – not just relief that the days have passed but spiritual relief for maybe a burden shared or left behind.
As for me, I will leave it in a little while, glad to have had the chance to minister to people and be among people happy to witness to their faith. I will leave, intending to come back on “pilgrimage” but that’s another story!!!
I’ll leave you with just over two minutes of a chant from last evening’s Night Prayer. Again, talents well used. God bless the singers and musicians who bring so much to the liturgies on Lough Derg.
This is a word that is very much linked with the Feast of Corpus Christi.
The intention is to bring the Eucharist among the people and, in so doing, both give honour to the Real Presence and make the point that the Eucharist is not something to be locked away behind the doors of the Tabernacle.
Yes, the Blessed Sacrament is reserved there but it’s place is among people for Jesus came to walk our streets, change our hearts and to call us to enter “communion” with him and one another.
The procession then, as it winds its way through towns and villages or just in a circuit around the church, is a timely reminder that what happens within the structure of the church building, needs to be carried home so that the Body of Christ may be recognised as alive and active in all God’s people.
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