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.

Double Green Shield Stamps

Double Green Shield Stamps

On Saturday last, as we gathered for Evening Mass in Glann Church, there was a major downpour nearing Biblical proportion!  It rained as if there were no tomorrow and Noah was just around the corner:)  Despite this a fine congregation gathered and, as I began Mass, I jokingly welcomed them and added “You will get double green shield stamps for this!”  People laughed but then I wondered how many there had no idea what I meant.  The thought stayed with me and I came back to it in the homily.

I asked if anybody there who did not know what I meant when I mentioned “Green Shield Stamps” would mind holding up a hand.  I had targeted, in saying that, a few of the younger adults and children there and, yes, sure enough, a number of hands went up.  They had no idea what I meant.

I remember Green Shield Stamps very well.  My mother used to collect them and paste them into “stamp books”.  They were issued when someone bought petrol, food, various products. There was a bonus in making a purchase and an interest in collecting the stamps.  A sort of hobby, a pastime, in many ways.  Each stamp had a value (looking at Google just now, I realise the value was something in the region of 5c – if even that) and the stamps could be traded in for products in a catalogue.  Interestingly I now discover that these stamps and catalogue were the precursor to today’s Argos.  There was fun in collecting them, looking at the catalogue and setting your mind on something therein.  I remember, for example, my mother getting a step ladder at one stage.  The idea was that the stamps were put towards the overall cost and the balance was paid in cash. Some smaller items could be purchased entirely by the use of the stamps.

In any case, what struck me was how quickly something can pass from memory and slip from our vocabulary. We need to keep reminding ourselves of things, speaking about the more important things or they too could, in time, slip from memory.

I think the Faith and our prayers could all too easily slip into this category and much has, could and will be lost in the passing of the generations unless we keep reminding, keep wondering and keep praying and handing on the story – the truth of our faith, with its struggles and blessings, joys and sorrows, questions and answers.

Big Heart, Big Man, Big Loss

Big Heart, Big Man, Big Loss

Was saddened today to hear the news of the death of Big Tom McBride.  May he rest in peace.  A long-time friend of my family – especially to my brother Gerard – it’s as if he was always there.  He had a unique singing voice and the sound, especially the sound associated with his Mainliners and Travellers band, had a tone of its own.  That, at least, will live on and I’m sure will get many spins in days, weeks, months and years to come.

Back in 2001 we had a festival down on the shores of Lough Gara.  We called it “Flock to The Lough” and at a planning meeting I suggested we might ask Big Tom to come and perform there.  A suggestion taken on board and a phonecall later, it was in train.  He absolutely packed the place that night and the sound bouncing off the surface of Lough Gara is a lasting memory.  It paved the way for a few more “Flock to The Loughs” but his willingness to come and play on the shores of a lake in a packed marquee, gave courage when it was needed.  A happy memory!

His songs, typically country in many ways, told stories and some of them, in keeping with the genre, sad stories.  He told them, through song, in a convincing way.  The last time I heard him sing live was ironically in Templeronan Cemetery on the day my father, Bill, was buried.  Tom and Rose were there.  My brothers had a desire to fill in the grave and while it was being filled, we said the Rosary and the filling was still taking place when we finished.  I looked over to Big Tom and asked if he’d sing something.  He did.  He sang “Where we’ll never grow old” and it’s a moment – as I think of it now – on the opposite shore of the same Lough Gara, that I will never forget.

The last time I saw him was in late January on the day his beloved Rose was laid to rest in the grounds of their local church.  The big man was at a big loss that day and looked so sad and it wasn’t difficult to see him following her.  I’ve seen that many times in life.  It’s a sign of something running very deep and something very real.  It is love.  I had truly hoped to meet him again and the chance of that happening this month was very real.  Alas, that’s not the case anymore.

“Don’t forget to give my love to Rose” was one of his songs.  Made famous by Johnny Cash, I’ve no doubt for Tom it had a special meaning and his “Rose” was very real to him.  May they both rest in the togetherness they lived – in peace and in love in God’s presence.

In the coming days, I’m sure many people will have and discuss their own memories of Big Tom and that’s the way we cope with loss.  Jesus knew that when he asked his “disciples” on the Emmaus Road, “What matters are you discussing as you walk along?”  He gave them the chance to talk, remember and come to a deeper truth.  For Tom’s family, fans and countless friends, may that conversation and journey take place as well.

May he rest in peace.  Amen.

February 23rd

February 23rd

Bill, my father, R.I.P.

I love this photo!  It’s not the best one I have of my father and I often wonder what he’s thinking but I know where he was just before the photo was taken.

We were in Edinburgh and had just visited the Botanical Garden.  I’d discovered just days before that both my great-grandfather and grandfather had worked there.  We went to see the place my father had heard about from his father but had never visited. It’s one of those days that I knew we were doing the right thing.  My mother and aunt were there too and we spent a fair bit of time, wandering around, looking and (no doubt) thinking about other days.

As we came away from the Botanical Garden in a black taxi, I sat opposite my father and just looked at him as he looked out to some place in his memory and, I like to think, gave thanks that he had walked where his father walked, seen what he’d seen and had a new memory to add to the old.  He gazed, perhaps, into what someone has called “a room called remember.” I am so glad I clicked that moment – for his memory gave me mine.

Today, February 23rd, Bill would have celebrated his 98th Birthday.  I’m thinking of him and my mother (both gone to their reward) and encouraging anyone who reads these words on this Lenten Day, to take every opportunity to share time and place with your people.

The time spent today may well prove to be tomorrow’s happy memory.

Bill – between the garden and the taxi!

 

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