On Monday I travelled to Enniskillen to spend a few hours with the priests of Clogher Diocese. It was part of their gathering for some reflection on ministry and life in the diocese. I am very thankful to all for their kind welcome and gracious listening. I hope they day was of some benefit to them, certainly I was happy to be in their midst.
As I travelled to Enniskillen, I listened to Max Boyce (mentioned him in a recent blog) and I very much enjoyed his wit, humour, story-telling (which was part of the theme chosen by the Clogher priests) and, of course, his singing. I don’t get all the rugby references as I’m not really a fan and some of the place names are beyond my grasp. Laughter is a common language though and I understood most of it. So too, the power of song.
Somewhere between the laughter and Rugby songs, Max Boyce sang this one! Loved it. I looked it up just now and am happy that Max refers to it as his favourite song.
One afternoon from a Council school
A boy came home to play
With paints and coloured pencils
And his homework for the day
We’ve got to paint the valley mam
For Mrs Davies art
What colour is the valley mam
And will you help me start
Shall I paint the Con Club yellow
And paint the Welfare blue
Paint old Mr Davies red
And all his pigeons too
Paint the man who kept our ball
Paint him looking sad
What colour is the valley mam
What colour is it dad
Dad, if mam goes down the shop
To fetch the milk and bread
Ask her fetch me back some paint
Some gold and white and red
Ask her fetch me back some green
The bit I’ve got gone hard
Ask her fetch me back some green
Ask her will you dad
His father took him by the hand
And they walked down Albion Street
Down past the old Rock Incline
To where the Council put a seat
Where old men say at the close of day Dy’n ni wedi g’neud ein sair (Translates “We’ve done our share”)
And the colour in their faces say
The tools are on the bar The tools are on the bar (Miners’ saying referring to the end of the shift – day’s work)
And that’s the colour that we want
That no shop has ever sold
You can’t buy that in Woolies lad
With your reds and greens and gold
It’s a colour you can’t buy lad
No matter what you pay
But that’s the colour that we want
It’s a sort of Rhondda grey
It’s a colour you can’t buy lad
No matter what you pay
But that’s the colour that we want
They call it Rhondda grey
They call it
Rhonnda grey.
Noticed this version too – something lovely about another taking up the song and doing it justice. Like the emotion in Max’ eyes when he hears the young singer make her own of his words.
A cousin was speaking with me yesterday and she told me she was in London last weekend, with her two young sons, to visit her sister and family. They went for a day trip to London and travelled on a number of trains and by underground. Later in the evening, her younger son told her he’d lost his phone. He was upset as was she. Not life or death, of course, but she’d prefer if it had not been lost and felt upset for her son. They reported the missing phone via an on-line app but she held out little hope.
The next morning she noticed a missed call on her phone and a text. It read something like “I found a phone and I think it may belong to a member of your family”. She called and the person on the other end of the call told her that he’d found the phone the night before. Its battery had run flat so he plugged it in to charge it. When power came back, he noticed it was locked but on the screen there were some words “MISSED CALL MAM” and her number. Hence the contact. She thanked him and said “Red or White?” He was confused and asked what she meant. She said she wanted to thank him and wondered did he like red or white wine. “Neither”, he replied “I’m seventeen”. Seventeen!
In today’s gospel, Thomas was doubtful about Christ’s resurrection and insisted on what was needed for proof. Later, when offered that proof, he no longer required it: “My Lord and my God”, he said. His faith in “Divinity” was restored. My storyteller told me that her experience from last weekend had restored her faith in “humanity”. It’s good to have faith restored.
I thought about that lad afterwards and what it was that made him contact my cousin? There were other options. Though the phone was locked, he could have had it unlocked and sold it or kept it for himself. He could have sold it to a friend and made a quick profit for himself. He could have dumped it. He opted for none of these but called the number of a person he felt would be able to restore it to its rightful owner. He did the decent and right thing. I wondered was it the word “MAM” that struck a chord with him? Could he imagine his own mother calling him or worrying for him if he lost something? Whatever the reason, he did the right thing.
That’s where we’re at, I think – a place and world full of choices, choices we meet on a daily basis and the choice can quite often be between right and wrong? There’s something in this story, as I hear it and tell it, about opting for the right – opting for the good. Something about restoring faith in humanity and Divinity.
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.”
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.
This piece was shared with me last week and I thought it was very good. Real feeling and such a great turn of phrase and the timing is incredible. Hope you enjoy it – it rings very true to those of us from counties that haven’t seen much of Croke Park!
We have Mass in Kilmovee this evening (Friday 15th) to celebrate the many people who minister in the community. The idea has floated for a while but comes to fruition this evening. In trying to get an idea of numbers and certainly not having them all, over 15o people are involved in various ministries in the parish – Eucharistic Ministers, Ministers of the Word, choirs, counters, collectors, various committees and community bodies, sacristans, Altar Society and more. It was encouraging to arrive at that number and is undoubtedly a source of consolation. I am glad we have this chance to say thanks and, after Mass, we will gather for a little food and time together in the Community Centre.
In trying to find a few words to share, I thought of a piece I wrote for the Parish Magazine a few years ago and am thinking of using it again tonight. Thought I might share it here too …
Gathered to celebrate – people in Ministry in the Parish of Kilmovee
There was, in poetry, a time I thought things had to rhyme. That was, in poetry, the only way at least that’s what I used to say! But of that today I’m not so sure could it be I’m more mature?
As a student in St Nathy’s College, I never fully understood poems that didn’t rhyme. More than that, I disliked them and the “poets” who wrote them seemingly unaware that poems should have a rhyming pattern!
So is that I’m more mature? Like you, of that, I’m not so sure From whence then came the clue Some don’t rhyme and some just do
The answer I suppose lies in life … as a boy, a student in Maynooth, a newly ordained priest I knew there were questions but I thought answers were easily found. Things had an order about them – a sort of pattern like the rhyming poem.
The rhyme continued. Most people went to Mass. Churches were relatively full most of the time. Prayers were said and it seemed so important to keep the Parish together. I enjoyed those early days.
“The Lord be with you”, I would say “And also with you” as one they’d pray Great to see you; and so it was Together then we’d stand and pause Sins confessed, Sacred Story shared His Body and Blood for all, nothing spared.
First baptism, first wedding – such joyful occasions, shared easily with people oozing joy and happiness owned the day. I don’t remember the First Confession I heard and often think that tells its own reassuring story of the sacredness of that Sacrament. Lines drawn in the sand, and no need to re-live or re-visit – that’s the way it’s meant to be, people move on renewed and refreshed having been forgiven through the gentleness of the Sacrament. First Communion Days and Confirmation in the parish all combined to enrich the rhyme.
He died in a tragic accident. His wife and children were devastated and the community drew to a halt. I went to the hospital for the removal and an elderly woman told me afterwards how sorry she felt for me in my short-sleeved shirt. I could as easily have been a boy in short trousers. Words were scarce and the rhyme was gone … it’s hard to speak in rhyme or think in rhyme when people’s hearts are broken. There were others like that; sudden deaths, car accidents, cancer and sickness, loss of Faith, decline in practice, indifference, hostility, scandals, doubts, anger, negative press, decline of vocations …. and still, through it all, the whispered refrain “I the Lord of sea and sky, I have heard my people cry. I, who made the stars of night, I will make their darkness bright …… Whom shall I send?”
The rhyme was in decline but the poem was still needed. I looked for signs, listened for voices, sought direction – wondered! Somehow, thanks be to God, the heart of the poem remained intact, enriched even by some of life’s questions and held sacred in the lives of many good people who cradled the faith, caressed the verse and, in time, helped me realise:
poems don’t have to rhyme but they should speak to a soul in need of Grace a wound in need of healing a heart in need of mending a darkness in need of light a thought in need of sharing
And that’s what I want to say. Despite the difficulties and the sadness, the changes and the uncertainties, the Poem must go on. We must find time to share thoughts and place with one another, to bring people to that point where the Word is heard even if not fully grasped and prayers are prayed even in uncertainty.
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