This morning, when I opened the blinds I was pleased to see the sun rising through the bared branches of Winter trees. It was not the first time I had seen this but it never fails to take me by surprise for there is something very reassuring about the sun and its ability to bring warmth to the day. So often we waken to grey and dull skies so I am more than happy to welcome the sun when it makes such a glorious appearance.
From the rising of the sun
I had Masses in Kilmovee and Kilkelly and was mindful of the starkness of today’s Gospel that speaks to the final day. It is a day that cannot be avoided and one that calls us to be prepared.
I decided to share a story that I heard during the week. I got it one of those WhatsApp messages that sometimes you delete but sometimes too find thought-provoking! This one fell into that category.
THE STORY
A small boy named Roger lived in the local village. None of his classmates liked him because of his stupidity, especially his teacher, who was always yelling at him “You are driving me crazy Roger!”
One day Roger’s mother came into school to check on how he was doing. The teacher told his mother honestly, that her son is simply a disaster, getting very low marks and even she had never seen such a difficult boy to teach in her entire teaching career.
The mother was shocked at the feedback and withdrew her son from the school and even moved to another town.
Twenty-five years later, the teacher was diagnosed with an incurable cardio disease! All the doctors strongly advised her to have open heart surgery, which only one surgeon could perform. Left with no other options, the teacher decided to have the operation, which was successful.
When she opened her eyes after the surgery she saw a handsome doctor smiling down at her. She wanted to thank him, but could not talk. Her face started to turn blue, she raised her hand, trying to tell him something but eventually died!
The doctor was shocked and was trying to work out what went wrong, when he turned around he saw Roger, working as a cleaner in the clinic, who had unplugged the oxygen equipment to connect his Hoover!
Don’t tell me you thought that Roger became a doctor!
Part of me realises that this story is, in so many ways, politically incorrect but the part of me that switches that button marked “laughter” kicked in and I laughed. The story stayed with me and I shared it at the Masses this weekend. Thankfully my switch was not on its own and people laughed. I so love the sound of laughter because it is the anti-dote to so much negativity and pain.
I told them that I was happy they laughed because I believe in laughter and, that as we hear the bleakness of the Gospel message that so desperately needs to call us to attentiveness, that if we could leave this world feeling we had helped people laugh and find a tune to hum or a song to sing, we would leave it in a good place and could happily face that call “home”. On the other hand, should it be the case that we have made life difficult for people and, in any way added to their pain or made life difficult for them we may well need to reassess our attitudes and approach to life.
I know it’s not as simple as telling a joke but life need not be overly complicated either. There is a balance there that can be found and utilised.
Later in the day I prayed the Rosary with people in two of our Parish Cemeteries and, in between that was present for the turning of the sod at the local GAA pitch for the building of a new stand. I was struck by the need to break ground to build and make something new and felt the link there with the graves around which we prayed today. Earth had to be broken there too, that something new might be built for those in whose memory we gathered.
I watched a few episodes of a show on Netflix and later this evening saw the sun on the other side of my house as it prepared to say goodbye to our day. I remembered some of the people I had met and spoken with during the day, recalled the new Altar Servers at Mass in Kilkelly and was glad they chose to be there. I met good people and realised that sunshine is a wonderful backdrop to the day – even if we only remember it!
Do you know something? I felt happy that it had been a good day – between sunrise and sunset.
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.
Where do I find a quiet place
to spend some time with the Lord?
Is there a monastery or an island
that I can escape to, so that
distractions are limited, time is given and He is met?
Must I abandon my family, my responsibility, my job?
Do I need to set hours or days aside?
Where is the quiet place?
Maybe it’s everyplace!
First thought of the day or last one at night!
The children dropped off at school and Mass at 9.30.
Maybe it’s turning off the radio for a few minutes
or leaving down the phone.
It could just be a few words, thoughts – prayer.
There’s no doubt, it’s needed.
To clear the head, free the mind
open the heart, nourish the Soul.
It can be as organised as a pilgrimage
or as unplanned as a hiccup but, be sure of this,
it is necessary.
Take a minute or two in the days to come. Notice! The difference.
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.
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