Cló Mhuire

The Silent Cry

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 21:06:00 +0000

The agile, elderly woman lifted out the piping hot pie from the microwave with her oven gloved hands and plonked it on the plate.

“Sit up! Sit up straight in your chair!”

The frail, elderly gentleman shifted slightly and coughed, tapping his throat with his bony fingers as he swallowed, and coughed once again.

The clock on the kitchen wall chimed one.

“Well come on then Tom, eat it!”

Tom's gaze remained on the table, the steam from the shepherd's pie wafting into the air and around his face.

Across from the table, the kettle on the counter did a sudden jig as the water gurgled around inside, jumping up and down, hitting the loosening lid. The switch clicked to off.

A woman walked into the kitchen with a visitor.

“Hi, dad, sorry to interrupt your lunch, I'm just doing a quick refill of coffee for my pal and I before we go out. Mom has already been introduced, but you were asleep last night when she arrived. Say hi to Rachel.”

Rachel looked over at the elderly gent. His eyes moved slightly upwards and began following her shoes as she moved a few steps forward to get the milk from the fridge.

“Hello, Tom.”

He raised his head and looked directly at her. Her heart gave a sudden thud. He gave a slight smile, nodded at her and returned his gaze to the table. The elderly couple began their lunch, neither of them saying a word.

Esther took the tray out to the living room while Rachel jotted down a few shopping reminders to get on their return home later.

A minute or so passed. The silence screamed, get out!

“What do you think of my parents then?” Esther asked as she handed Rachel a mug of coffee and closed the living room door.

“Esther, it’s great to meet your parents but I feel I might be intruding. It was lovely of you to invite me to stay in your home for the week of the conference. Hotel accommodation for a week in the UK is not something I could afford, but that can be a blessing in disguise! Your invitation was a fabulous surprise as I hadn’t planned on going.”

“How could you be intruding if I invited you? I want friends visiting. Otherwise how can I connect with those far away.

Mum is eighty years old, dad is eighty nine. When I moved into my new home I invited them to move here. They have the en-suite bedroom on the first floor. I have my rooms and a bathroom on the second. Mum likes to be independent so I gave in to her wanting her own time in the kitchen. In the mornings dad has breakfast in bed. I'm not home from work every day until 4.00 pm.

My father always had a quiet, reassuring presence about him. I never heard him say a bad word about anyone. Mum was sixteen years old when she arrived in England from south-east Ireland. She met dad at a local parish dance.”

That night as Rachel lay in bed she was thinking of Tom. It was the way he had looked at her. Why did it continue to trouble her? She finally turned over and fell asleep.

The following morning, as the car pulled out of the drive, Esther's friend caught the curtain of Nellie's room dropping back into place. The niggle of Tom's look returned to her once again but was soon lost as she walked into the town hall where three thousand Christians were gathered for their first conference held in 1989.

Mass was scheduled for 3.00 pm opening up the conference week and introducing the speakers. It was during the Mass Rachel brought Tom in prayer to the Lord.

That night at supper Rachel mentioned Tom’s meals.

“I hope you don't mind me saying, Esther, but a microwave oven is not good. I never use one. Your dad needs fresh produce and fresh veggies, the best of natural goodness.”

“I know he should not be having microwaved food every day. Funny you mention fresh produce. He used to grow all his own and boy, those fresh veggies were so good. I know I need to do something about his daily food.”

Then she told Rachel a little bit more about her father.

“Dad was a soldier in one of the battalions sent out to Burma during the Second World War. He still has bad nightmares of what happened during his time there. I wake up at night, hearing him call out. I feel a bit scared for some reason, running down to see if he is alright. Mom is over protective and asked that I do not get up at night and come down to the room. She said he talks in his sleep and it passes, that it's recurring nightmares of the war where some of his friends were killed and wounded. She says he suffers from depression.”

“There’s a big difference between depression and oppression, an oppression can be one of imposed suffering. There are those who are too quick to wrongly slap the depression tag on a person’s back.”

“Interesting,” Esther said, thinking of recent incidents.

“Dad was, still is, a man of few words. He loved to sit by the open fire in the evenings lost in a book. He’s a big fan of Malcolm Muggeridge. He’s read all his books and publications and followed his life with avid interest.

Feel free to chat to dad, and call into his room. Pass no heed on my mum. But be warned, she supervises and assesses everything.”

“Do you think that's why there is so much tension in the house?” Rachel asked.

“So there is tension, as I thought! I was reared on a clinical attitude rather than a loving one, I don't mind admitting. I'm not sure everything is alright here, but I don't know what I'm trying to say. Does that sound daft?”

“Not daft at all, Esther. Don't be afraid, Let those niggles speak. Remember, we pull down the shutters of our hearts when fear speaks. But the breath of divine love moves through those shutters, if or when we are ready to invite Him in.”

It was the following evening, after the conference, Rachel decided it was time to pop into Tom. The visit was to end abruptly.

“Thank you for calling in dear, but Tom is tired and likes to rest.”

Rachel walked past Nellie and went over to Tom who was sitting in his chair by the window.

“Hi, Tom. I was at the conference today. It was really good. There were lots of people to meet and some really interesting speakers.”

Tom opened his eyes. He looked over at his wife who was standing at the open door. Then he smiled and nodded at Rachel before closing his eyes.

“Tom, I am here all week. I leave next Monday morning. I will call in again tomorrow to say hello,” she said quietly, placing her hand on his shoulder, before leaving the room.

The rain fell in a light drizzle, a heavenly hose giving earth its much needed shower. The suppressed mood, hanging in the air outside and in the house, was about to give way.

Rachel couldn't sleep. She drew back the curtains, to see the yellow dimmed street lights casting ghostly shadows on the deserted road. Now the rain poured down in heavy streams, the sound cascading like a heavenly waterfall over parched lawns, plants and flowers. The tree branches outside the window gratefully accepted the generous drops, like open-handed leaves outstretched, receiving the awaited downpour. Soon the shower was over, leaving nature refreshed and satisfied. Everything became still and quiet once again. She opened her pad and reached for a pen.

Then she heard the cry.

“Stop it! You're hurting me, you're hurting me, I say.”

It was Tom. Rachel listened, her eyes wide and alert, her pen still poised in mid-air.

“Be quiet you old fool. You'll wake Esther and I'm warning you.”

Rachel didn't wait. She raced down the stairs, her bare feet connecting instantly with the natural fibre from Esther's new carpet.

She stopped outside Nellie's room, her heart pounding. What should I do? She asked herself. Knock on the door? No! Wait, listen!

Then it happened again.

“Help me,” Tom cried out. “You're killing me, stop it. Mother! Mother, please help me.”

“Be quiet, I said! Your mother is long dead, you stupid man. If you don't be quiet I'll make you quiet, and you will have no lunch again tomorrow.”

Rachel walked into the room. Nellie was standing at Tom's bed, leaning over, her hand on his shoulder and speaking in a low, threatening tone. She swung around at the sound of the door.

“How dare you walk into my room without knocking,” she said, trying to contain her anger.

“I heard Tom crying out,” Rachel replied unapologetically.

Tom was breathing with difficulty, his trembling fingers tapping on his throat as he continued to swallow and gulp.

Tom opened his eyes and looked around. Esther arrived in behind Rachel. He began to cry, soft helpless sobs.

“Get out; get out the two of you. Now Esther, see how your Irish friend has upset your father.”

Rachel walked over to Tom's bed and stood in front of Nellie who was blocking her from assisting Tom.

“Stand out of my way, please.” Rachel said to her.

Esther watched on, her face turning white with fear.

Nellie refused to budge and clenched her fists as she looked at Rachel.

“Leave my bedroom, now,” she ordered Rachel.

“Stand out of my way or I will make an urgent night call to the Health Services,” Rachel persisted.

Nellie went over to her bed, grabbed her dressing gown and marched into the bathroom, closing the door.

Esther helped her dad sit up and asked Rachel to get a glass of water. There was nothing on his bedside locker. His shaking hands held the glass as if clinging on to some comfort. Rachel eased back Tom's pyjama sleeve and saw dark bruises on his upper arm.

“Have you been taking my dad's arm roughly,” Esther asked her mother in a shocked voice, as she emerged from the bathroom.

“Of course not, that's ridiculous. I just help him along and he's so slow. Sometimes I have to take his arm. He's thin so he bruises easily.”

The following morning the two women sat down to breakfast heavy hearted.

“I made a few phone calls, one to the doctor's surgery, the other to a local nursing home to see if they have a room for my mother. They have a counselling unit there.” Esther said, the absence of sleep showing on her eyes that had cried.

“If someone suffers any kind of psychological abuse, is it possible they lose weight?” she asked Rachel surprised at how peaceful she was taking it all now that she had looked at it all over a long night and had faced a long time fear.

“Yes, they can lose weight, quite a lot. They are threatened with being put away, so they live in fear and anxiety. Very often they are not given food, only in front of family or friends when they are visiting, or they often lose their appetite because of the way they are treated.”

“I feel so ashamed. Why did I not look at what was in front of me?” Esther asked.

“You have done what many won't do Esther. You did face it. This kind of abuse is also a hidden horror in Ireland and no doubt other countries. Elderly men and women are suffering silently. From what a social worker friend told me recently, the percentage of elderly men being abused is much higher and very hidden behind closed doors and false pious fronts.”

“Quick, quick!” Nellie cried, running into the kitchen.

“Tom slipped in the bathroom and I can't get him up. He's just lying so still and he does not seem to be able to speak.”

Esther grabbed the mobile house phone from its stand and ran upstairs after Rachel, telling her mother to go downstairs, unlock the front door for the doctor and wait there until he arrives.

She knelt by her father, checking the way he lay on the floor. She placed a blanket over him and slipped a pillow under his head. Rachel sat on the floor beside Tom while Esther called the doctor's surgery.

“You are going to be just fine, Tom,” Rachel smiled.

A faint smile appeared on his face. No words spoken. It was a smile that had them both holding back tears of angry and sad emotion.

“Tom, I'd like to ask you a few questions. I hope that's alright with you but there is no need to try and speak. Do you think you might be able to give one blink of your eyes to me in answer for 'yes', two blinks for 'no', and three blinks for 'I don't know.' Would you be able to do that, do you think?”

Tom gave one blink.

“Thank you, Tom. Are you in pain?”

One blink.

Esther sat down beside her dad and took his hand in hers.

“Can you move?”

Two blinks.

“Tom, this is a personal question, and you do not have to answer . Has your wife been cruel to you or putting you down when no one is around, causing you fear and anxiety?”

Silence for a few moments, then one blink as he held on to his daughter's hand.

“One more question, Tom, but only if you feel up to answering it. Did your wife push you?”

No blinks, only silence. Tom's eyes looked up at his daughter and then Rachel saw it – the look that Tom gave her on the first day they met in the kitchen - the silent cry.

“Thank you, Tom. You have nothing to fear. Esther is with you now and she won't leave you.”

Rachel stood up. The ambulance was pulling into the drive.

Esther was thankful for a year's leave of absence granted by her employer. Somehow she knew that time was precious with her dad. The doctor could not say when Tom would be ready to go home. The hair-line fracture would take time to heal and Tom needed to be built up with a weight target to be achieved first. Nellie was not permitted to visit her husband unless Esther was present with her dad and only if Tom agreed to her requested visit. The only other visitor allowed in was Tom's parish priest.

Over the following weeks, Esther enjoyed two daily visits to her dad, wheeling him out to the garden after lunch and reading to him before ending the day. His eyes lit up when Esther arrived in one evening with Malcolm Muggeridge's latest publication, ‘Conversion’.

“The sunlight is back in my heart,” he said to his daughter as they chatted together.

“The shutters in my own heart are up,” Esther said, knowing now that all was well again and Tom was happy once more.

It was late in the night when Tom woke up. A woman stood to the side of the bed, smiling at him.

“Mother? Mother! I knew you would return.”

The youthful serene lady leaned over and kissed her son lightly on the forehead.

The night nurse who was passing by Tom's bed heard what he said and wrote it down. She then called another nurse. Tom lay back on his pillows, his heart restful and peaceful, but his colour beginning to fade.

Esther woke up. It was 5.00am. She stared at the phone ringing beside her, the hospital number visible on the caller display.

The roads were empty of traffic. Another set of lights turned green as she drove through the next empty street. She had known fear, so many times in the past, now she knew interior peace. Tom was about to begin his journey home to God. Esther would just make it to the hospital in time.

The Inner Light

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 21:29:00 +0000

The pilgrims continued to pour into the grounds of the church. A short distance away a group of English speaking youth sat in the shade outside a busy cafe, checking their cameras and latest photos. It was Holy Week 1998.

"Helen, you haven't heard a word I said. What's wrong?"

"Sorry Louise. Everything seems strange, even heavy. I can't seem to settle into this pilgrimage."

Louise laughed. "Aw c'mon. Don't tell me you doubt what is happening here. I know these apparitions are not Church approved yet but look at the crowds, it's just amazing."

Helen shook her head. "No, there's something not quite right and I'm sorry, really sorry I did not choose Lourdes or Fatima as I had first intended. The truth is I followed the sheep instead of the shepherd in my kindergarten school of spiritual learning."

Louise was taken aback. "Are you saying you don't believe Our Lady is appearing here?"

"I'm saying something is wrong and that has stayed with me since I arrived." Helen answered.

"Maybe you're under spiritual attack."

Helen looked at her friend in disbelief. "Have you gone into super religiosity mode or spiritual paranoia? Who's been chipping away at your rock of solid foundation?"

Helen looked around and turned back to her friend.

"Do you know that woman over there, the one wearing the big cross around her neck?"

"Yes, I know her but not very well. She joined our prayer meeting last month with her friend." Louise replied.

"Alright then. Let's go over to her and you tell her you feel dreadful when she asks how you are, okay?"

"But I'm feeling pretty good," Louise said.

"I know that, but she doesn't, come on."

"Hello Elsie, how are you enjoying the pilgrimage?" Louise asked as she joined the nearby group.

"It's wonderful", the woman replied. "I was really ill all morning but I offered it up in reparation for our city and country. I'm feeling better this afternoon. And how are you honey?"

"I feel dreadful," Louise answered, "It's been like this since I arrived."

"Oh honey, I'm so sorry. Let me say a prayer."

The woman closed her eyes praying words that everyone could hear, her eyelashes twitching every few seconds. She nodded to herself, short knowing nods. A minute or two passed, then she looked at Louise with a solemn expression.

"Honey, I think you are under spiritual attack. The enemy doesn't want you here."

Walking back along the country road to the guest house, Louise sighed.

"Okay, so what are you saying, Helen? Is that woman just totally ungrounded, is she over the top or is she involved in something like a witches' coven?"

Helen opened the plastic container in her hand. It was hot. She took a drink of water. Looking around the countryside she thought for a moment before replacing the cap on the bottle.

"It's a learning curve for us all. You'll be able to answer your own question."

That evening Helen took a shortcut across the fields. She was thinking about what Andrew had said the night before when they had all gone to the cafe for an evening meal together.

"She's like a rare lily," he told Helen as he looked down at Louise who was sitting at the far end of the long table.

"A rare lily amongst a bunch of daffodils you mean," Helen joked.

"Maybe, maybe not," Andrew teased, "but that would be telling."

"So when do you plan to ask her out?" Helen asked.

He gulped back the remainder of his beer.

"When I pick up a bit more courage", Andrew replied, becoming more hopeful with Helen's smile. "Maybe in a few weeks!"

The heat of the day's sun left the countryside sleepy. She dropped her back-pack and rolled out the field mat before her brown head of hair disappeared from sight. Lying back, she gazed up at the blue sky. A few unexpected clouds passing overhead assured her this too would pass and soon she would be glad to be back home.

"Hi. Looks like you've had the same idea as me."

Helen sat up to see where the American accent came from. A figure sat up a few metres away, her hand waving in the air.

"Hello, well I sure knew it wasn't a voice from above," Helen answered, laughing at the blonde head that popped up out of nowhere.

"Hey! You're Irish. Yep, you are. Oh boy, maybe this is a sign?"

"I fear there is too much here about signs," Helen replied. Seeing a little smudged mascara under the young woman's eyes she asked,

"Did something upset you?"

The young woman stood up and leaned over, her long blonde hair swinging forward into the tall blades of grass as she picked up her mat, back-pack and packet of Marlboro.

"I'm Bernadette." She shook hands with Helen and sat down beside her. "My grandfather is Irish, or should I say was. He died a few years ago. I haven't met anyone else from Ireland until now."

Helen declined with thanks the cigarette offered. Bernadette pulled a slim silver lighter out of her cream slacks. A soft smooth click was barely heard. Her slender fingers with their manicured, pink-painted nails complimented the pastel pink top she wore. She held the lit cigarette in such a manner that one would be allowed to think she was on a coffee break in between movie shots. She was maybe four or five years younger than her newly acquainted pilgrim friend.

"When I started in college it was a shock. Everything was sex, drugs and abortion clinic, all available if required and that was about it. It depressed me. I want to fall in love, follow the moral route. You know, healthy soul, happy heart. I felt I was climbing a mountain but everyone was in my way and I couldn't get past. Even my pals all jumped into the net of buy and sell to reap the cost of pain and unrest afterwards."

Helen listened and wondered what kind of work was ahead for this American lady endowed with a pioneering spirit still in its embryonic stage.

Bernadette checked one of her varnished nails at close scrutiny before continuing. "I decided to go on pilgrimage on this college break. I heard about what's going on here and the apparitions. Before my granddad died - we were so close, he gave me his beads. Said he had them in Ireland, prayed on them everyday and the rosary got him through some pretty bad storms. He said I would have storms too but that the Mass would be my foundation stone with our Lady putting the steps from there in front of me.

Things got tough at college. When they heard I was going on a Catholic pilgrimage, I got the usual cynical and mocking jabs saying maybe I will return with my beads having turned to gold. They knew about my grandfather and the beads, and of course my love of the faith."

"What happened?" Helen asked.

"I lost my beads yesterday evening climbing the mountain and I searched everywhere. Handmade in Ireland, they were beyond a price. They held a deeper meaning than anyone will know."

Helen pondered this unexpected meeting. Here was a beautiful young woman who would obviously stand out in the crowds wherever she went. Already she was a victim of prejudice and reactions for all that she stood for. Her principles and values were evident in her presence coupled with a natural beauty that was her heritage and blessing. She would have many storms ahead, as her grandfather so well knew. But she would be equipped for those storms through her faith in God and closeness to Mary.

"Now I can't find my grandfather's rosary beads. How can I go back without them. It was his gift to me, my link to him and to my prayer."

Helen searched in her own heart. What would she do, she quickly asked herself. It was times like this she wouldn't have minded smoking a cigarette with her American friend!

"Bernadette, your grandfather's beads were to help you set out on the journey. I know those beads were of a personal family link. But seek God within not in external signs. Your grandfather was right in all he said. Stay with that and know the inner house is built on your foundation of prayer."

At supper that night Helen listened to all the stories of who met the alleged visionaries and what they said or what they saw. She wanted to listen with interest but she couldn't. Everyone was there to meet or catch a glimpse of the 'visionaries'. Something wasn't quite right.

The next morning, Helen felt a need to prepare for confession. The image of long queues of people on the church grounds came to mind. Souls unburdening their lot one by one to the priest must be exhausting for him. With that in mind she prayed for the confessor she was yet to meet.

Beneath the hot sun, line after line of each queue continued to grow. Helen walked slowly by. French/English, German/French/Italian, English/Spanish and so forth were the many different languages available. As she was about to turn around and go to the next aisle she read the sign in front of her....English/Portuguese. The queue was moving steadily and before she knew it she had stepped into the line.

The priest took in the approaching penitent in a quick glance. At the end of confessing, Helen looked up and asked,

"Father, I know there is a queue behind me, but may I ask you something about a spiritual matter that will be very brief?"

He thought for a moment and then said something that astonished her.

"Why don't you meet me tomorrow at 11:30 am. Wait for me at the sacristy door after Mass. We will have time to talk then."

Louise was on her second cappuccino after lunch the following day when she saw her pal come out of the building. She jumped up from her chair and ran down the road, her sun hat falling off her head as she caught up with Helen who was walking in the opposite direction.

"How did it go? You were chatting with the priest for ages. Do you know he gives retreats in many countries? What did you talk about?"

"We talked about many things. After giving me wise spiritual counsel regarding my own soul, he then asked me to pray for priests and for the Church. Almost as if he wanted to tell me something but he couldn't. Well, not to a simple soul like myself. I still don't know how I got to speak to such an incredible man of God. I wanted to cry when it was time to say goodbye, it was almost like a sadness. I didn't understand why I felt that, I still don't."

It was Holy Week, two years to the day since her pilgrimage. Helen felt a strong need to pray for the priest who had spoken so much to her heart then. Once again she prayed for him in thanksgiving for his spiritual guidance and extraordinary wisdom. As she did so the words from Scripture came to mind..."A sword will pierce your own soul too, so that the secret thoughts of many hearts will be laid bare." The prophetic words of Simeon took her aback and left her thinking about the priest.

The thought of dropping him a line came to mind but she shied away from doing so, telling herself he must be inundated with mail and would have no recollection of her meeting with him.

"I thought you should read this," Louise said as she stopped by on her way from work one summer's evening.

Helen opened the newspaper. The priest who had given all his time and attention to an endless flow of pilgrims, offering them clean spiritual water to drink, had finally decided to speak publicly.

Helen sat down. Those moments of kneeling before this priest on pilgrimage were before her again. Now here he was in the news.

He could no longer endorse, approve or encourage pilgrims to visit this place of alleged apparitions. What he had come to understand after a time of prayer, fasting, observing, and speaking to the alleged visionaries, confirmed his fears. He did not believe the Mother of God was appearing there.

Helen was silent. Her heart sank. Why had she not followed that prompting to write to this holy man. That night she took out pad and pen and wrote to the priest.

Already the Judas' in the camp feared the priest Helen had knelt before. In his faithful service to God, the Spirit of the Lord was speaking to him and those in the camp knew that and were secretly plotting and planning his removal.

"A sword will pierce your own soul too, so that the secret thoughts of many hearts will be laid bare." And now Helen knew how deep the sword must have pierced his heart.

The letter box gave a little rattle. Helen walked out to the hallway and picked up the airmail letter. Returning to the living room she opened and read the pages. She read and re-read his handwritten reply. He confirmed the article she had read in the newspaper was what he had said. Then Helen read about the horror of the plot and how they had him removed. What he had not mentioned to her were the death threats that he was still receiving, of which she had only come to know about.

That night Helen watched the movie The Song of Bernadette. She was struck by the actress' portrayal of the young seer. Her gracious manner, simplicity and refreshing honesty touched all who had met Bernadette. After the film Helen sat there drinking coffee, thinking about the pilgrimage she had made a few years previously. How could she have overlooked Lourdes or Fatima and allowed herself to be diverted to a place that was shrouded in secrets and strange happenings.

She recalled a story about Bernadette. A businessman arrived in Lourdes, sought out the young seer and pressed money into her hand. The visionary thanked him but returned the money to him and said,

"It burns in my hand."

There were many questions to be answered about the alleged apparations that were still taking place in the country she had visited in Europe. As the network promoting the 'messages' was growing, so too were the questions about how it really began and who exactly or what group was involved from the beginning with the children. The Lord had sent his messenger and in plotting, they found a way to have him removed.

Across the Atlantic ocean, in a country parish many miles from city lights and sensational news, a priest knelt in prayer before the Blessed Sacrament. He had been busy writing that day. Finally seeing beyond his anguish and pain at all that had happened, he was consoled by the fact that certain souls were destined to have crossed his path and what God has blessed, there the flowers would bloom. His work was done, for now.

The doorbell rang. It was Louise and Andrew. She picked up her airmail letter to drop in the post box en route to their engagement party. She grabbed her coat.

As the letter slipped through the post box she whispered a prayer for her priest friend - the priest who had sipped from the cup of suffering. The same priest who like John the Baptist had prepared the way in speaking the truth. It would only be a matter of time.

"Those who sow in tears will reap in joy!"

To Set The Captives Free

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Sun, 01 May 2011 16:23:00 +0000

It was a cool, dry night in late August 1889 when a young Irishman knelt on the ground near where the apparition of Our Lady had taken place. Taking off his cap, he bowed his head and prayed, Blessed Mother, I place my life entirely into your care. You know my faults and failings. You know when I fall, when I am struck down by the very curse of alcohol itself, and so it is to you I call for help. Please stay with me. Don’t leave me and when the evening of life falls upon me, may it be you, Blessed Mother, who will take me home.

Remaining on his knees Seán moved a few feet to the left, facing the spot where St. Joseph had appeared. Again, cap in hand, he bowed his head. St. Joseph, please be with my wife and two children. Be their guard and shield against all adversity. May I find comfort in knowing that you protect my family.

Praying more hastily to St. John the Evangelist, he continued, Bishop John, may you intercede for me and my fellow countrymen and for the rightful reclaiming of our land and Ireland’s freedom.

Thinking of the Lamb on the Altar he concluded;

May the Lamb of God have mercy on our brave men who have recently died and on me at the hour of my death, amen.

The young nationalist remained there for a few moments when a sudden dread came over him. Don’t go, his inner instinct whispered, Don’t go.

Standing up, he walked over to a group of men and shook each one’s hand, some of them unable to hide their tears as yet another voice for the people had to leave his country.

“I will write as soon as I have news of the situation here,” Andrew, a member of the group assured him. “Soon you will return again. I’ll make sure your wife and children get safely home tonight.”

“Let’s go, Seán,” a man standing nearby whispered. “Time is pressing on.”

Holding his wife Anna and their two young children John and Joseph close to him, Seán kissed them goodbye.

“I’ll be waiting for you my love,” she whispered, all choked up. “I’ll be waiting for your return to your family and homeland.”

It was the last time Anna and Seán held each other.

The glorious summer of 1978 enticed artists out of their studios and poets from their pub corners. Botanists toured along the Irish coastland, eager to make further studies on the seaweed by the coastal rocks. Flowers dressed in vibrant yellow sat along the lush green fields. Lilac blossoms and Irish Eyebrights won the visitors’ attention with their pretty bouquets of purple and white decorating the rugged landscape. Trees, heavy with blushing apples, lowered their branches as the harvest season drew near.

On the north-west coast of the country in late July two men were finishing up after a long day. The driver of the tractor waved cheerio to his companion in the field as he drove out onto the country road. Owen was heading for the pub. A pint of Harp would go down well after a great day’s harvest. He lit his Woodbine tobacco and tipped his hat to the evening sun.

Back in the field the whistling youth picked up his farm tools, delighted with the last of the windrows baled. He knew his grandparents would be pleased. As he walked across the field something happened. John was suddenly hit with a dizzy spell.

With his hand on his forehead, he made for the nearby hay stack where his lunch bag sat on the grass. The field began to fade in front of him. He leaned against the sturdy stack and eased himself gently down onto the grass. Reaching for his bag he took out the flask and poured the remainder of the tea into the cup. He was dehydrated. This was the second dizzy spell in a few months. The same strangest longing for a shot of whiskey came over him. John couldn’t understand it as he didn’t drink alcohol. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and his chest. He felt he was in fever. The young man drew up his knees and leaning forward, pressed his forehead upon them. Moments passed and he felt the dizziness subside. It was then he had the strangest experience.

With his forehead resting upon his knees and his left hand dropped to the side, John felt like he was a prisoner chained, with sweat pouring from his weak body. His ankle pinched as if it was trapped in a fetter and he wondered where such a thought came from. The area around his ankle bone became itchy. He took off his boots and socks. There was nothing there, no sign of swelling or insect bites. The young man looked up and around him. He pulled his socks back on, thinking the whole thing very odd. He remained in deep thought as the rhythm of the ocean waves lulled his pounding heart. He rested there a while.

After a short nap, John awoke to the sound of the gulls calling out as they flew overhead. His heart filled with gratitude as he looked at the beauty around him.

He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a pad and pen. The gathering waves from the ocean below, racing into the shore, added a passionate power and free movement to his thinking, as his creative spirit nudged the inspired writer. The sea breeze hurriedly flicked over the pages of his pad, and John grinned as nature played with him in his intention to capture the magnificence of God’s creation in his own words.

A short time passed when he had a sudden need to pray. His early morning and evening prayer had become as natural to him as the ebb and flow of the Atlantic tides. Taking out his beads John turned to Mary. He had not yet finished the last decade of the rosary when he suddenly fell into a deep silence unable to continue. His very soul seemed to be dipped into an ocean of grace from where his spirit was drawn upward to meet with an unseen holy presence that was light itself.

The sound of a tractor broke the silence as a voice shouted from the open gate,

“John, your grandmother is wondering what’s taking you so long. Supper was ready an hour ago.”

He opened his eyes, the experience still evident in his countenance. He wondered how two hours could pass that only felt like a few minutes.

John had no idea what lay ahead.

One month later, on a warm August afternoon, the two men from the north-west arrived at Knock Shrine. The basilica was already full of pilgrims and they were lucky to spy a few empty seats in the second row from the back, with a full view of the altar down in the centre.

Halfway through the Mass, celebrating the Queenship of Mary, something happened that would remain forever in the memory and heart of John.

They had arrived unseen, unheard. The very walls of the building seemed to open out revealing an even greater number in the fields outside. The Liturgy of the Eucharist had just begun.

Immediately after the final blessing, unable to wait for the closing hymn, John slipped out of his seat and walked out the side exit. Owen followed.

“What is it, John? What happened?”

He shook his head, first in disbelief and then in astonishment. Sitting down on a bench he stared into the distant countryside and gathered his thoughts. Overwhelmed at what he had just experienced, John felt an unexplainable pain in his heart and a need to cry at the realisation of what this could mean.

“So many of them,” he shook his head, “so many.”

“Who are ‘them’ John?” Owen asked.

John’s deep composure and inner peace left Owen in no doubt. He knew his friend well.

“Do you mean souls? You mean souls, don’t you?”

John nodded.

“Let’s go over to the Apparition Chapel and spend a few minutes there before we head home,” Owen suggested.

They both knelt down at the apparition site. John asked Our Lady’s intercession that God, in His generosity of grace, might grant him clarity in what it all meant. They remained there for some time.

Outside, sitting on a bench, John related to his long time friend what he had seen.

Owen listened to every word as he continued.

“Though they were not seen with physical eyes they were all there. Closest to me and a little above to my right, there was a brown haired man whose face was hollow-cheeked. He was chained. His shoulder blades were like a hanger for the old shirt he wore. He was bone thin. His head was bowed. He held a cap in his hand and he was looking to the altar where all the priests were concelebrating. Suddenly he raised his head and looked directly over at me. He looked like someone I know. He was about my own age. His gaze returned to the altar as the priests began the Liturgy of the Eucharist. He turned to look at me again before the entire scene disappeared.”

“Do you know about Archdeacon Cavanagh? He was parish priest at the time of the apparition in 1879?”

“I heard of him, but know very little about him,” John replied.

Owen stood up.

“Let’s take a walk over to where he’s buried.”

“The Archdeacon had just offered his hundredth Mass for the souls in purgatory, before the apparition took place. He was known far and wide as a saintly man,” Owen continued.

“Archdeacon Cavanagh gave the Last Rites to thousands of dying souls, many of whom he found homeless and starving. They came from all over to this humble pastor. My father tells me that my great grandfather, Patrick, went to him for confession and received his blessing before he set sail for America.”

John stopped outside the parish church and turned to Owen.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed. “That’s why he looked like someone I know, the man chained I mean. He looks like my grandfather Joseph. His father Seán went to America in 1889. He lost contact with his family. Nothing was ever heard of him again. My grandfather said his mother Anna never gave up hoping. Granddad used to hear her sobbing in her bed at night and he said he and his brother John felt a terrible gloom about the whole thing. For years she prayed and waited, even walking the beach every time a ship was in sight, praying he would be on it.”

Owen and John did their homework. The record of Seán’s passage on the ship that August of 1889 was found and a copy sent to John. His great grandfather’s arrival on Staten Island was also confirmed. The last piece of information took the longest. Prison archives were checked in New York and surrounding states. Finally they found what they had been looking for.

A record from an old prison south of New York City revealed Sean’s name and details. In October 1889, he was sent to prison on a charge of being drunk and disorderly and confined to a cell. He died in that prison five months later.

Fr. Peter, a man of deep personal prayer, was a spiritual director long enough to discern the difference between that which is of God and that which is of something else. He knew before his nephew’s friend had finished speaking, that John’s experiences from the evening in the field to what had happened during the Mass were very real. The priest thought it providential that his holiday to his brother in Ireland was at this particular time. He also believed he had more to take back with him to the United States, to his parishioners, than the promised holy water from Knock.

“Would you like to write about all that you have experienced John, to have it published?”

”No thank you, Father.”

”Why not, if I may ask?” the priest probed already knowing what the answer would be.

“What the Lord has blessed me with is not for monetary gain, Fr. Peter, it is for souls. I am a simple farmer and fisherman who would be poorer without God in my every day. I am not a seer, but if I were it would be even more important that I remain private regarding such things. You are free to speak of this matter, if it will have meaning for others, but without revealing my name. God’s graces are my wealth. This is sufficient for me and something I am deeply thankful for.”

He continued.

“I am a happy man to know a Mass will be offered by you, Father, for the soul of my great grandfather. Through the forgiveness of sins and by your priestly ministry, there awaits his spiritual freedom from the chains which have bound him in life and death.”

Father Peter asked one thing of John.

“Please write down everything and keep writing. I hope we meet again.”

The Mass for his great grandfather Seán was arranged by Fr. Peter. During the Mass, as he listened to the words…The Lord will open to them the gate of paradise and they will return to that homeland where there is no death, but everlasting joy, John thought of what he had experienced and what the pain in his heart had meant.

Little did he know as he knelt at the consecration, that his knees pressed into the very spot where his great grandfather had knelt on that August night of 1889, before his departure for America.

“This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world…”

John bowed his head and prayed for Seán.

At the same time that the Mass was being celebrated in this rural chapel in the West of Ireland, something was happening on an old site where once stood a prison, south of New York City. For with the Lord, one day is as a thousand years and a thousand years as one day…

A young Irishman had lain in death on a cold, damp prison ground, his swollen ankle locked in a rusty manacle. Now, as the Mass came to an end, the spirit of Seán was lifted from the chains of death into eternal life, accompanied home by Our Lady of Knock, Queen of Ireland.

Fallen Angels

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 16:44:00 +0000

The woman took off her glasses and gently rubbed her eyes.

"My daughter has a drug problem. It’s all connected and I was too afraid to even look at it until a few months ago. I miss my husband deeply since his sudden death. When I’m at Mass, it’s as if he’s there in the communion of saints watching over me and saying, ‘have courage, bring the truth into the light.’ I have to do that," Agnes said to her guests.

With her daughter in college, now was the best time to have her friends staying. What Agnes asked of them was confidentiality in what she was about to say. That would also be their protection.

The following morning began with early Mass, and time before the Blessed Sacrament. Agnes, Rebekah and Rose arrived at the church. Agnes looked tired. The dark rings under her eyes told the story of recent months as the sun’s rays filtered through the stained glass window onto her face.

A petite woman and a heavyweight man in a tracksuit appeared through the sacristy doorway. The husband sat in the empty seat behind the visitors while his wife went into the front pew carrying a Bible. She smiled at her children as they walked to the altar to serve at Mass.

A creepy feeling moved up the back of Rebekah’s neck. As the congregation sang the entrance hymn, she found herself turning around to meet the stare of the man in the navy blue tracksuit. Strands of greyish blond hair were pulled in greasy straps across his head. His bloodshot eyes reverted to the hymn sheet.

The young girl in the white serving vestment sat down beside her brother to the side of the altar, as the readings of the day began. She kept looking down at her parents with a mixture of fear and fatigue in her expression. Sophia’s brother turned sideways in his seat with his back to the tabernacle, making strange humming sounds as he pulled at his long alb. His agitation grew as he sat there, his feet swinging back and forth.

Ten year old Sophia moved as if she was sleep walking, her thin body taking slow steps around the altar. She looked like she had not had any sleep all night. A righteous anger welled up in Rebekah as she shot a furious look to the mother. Agnes gave a slight cough, reminding her visitors to stay cool.

Sophia's younger brother ran across the church car park towards his father’s car. Rebekah stopped in front of him.

"Hi there!"

"Hi,” he replied, kicking the loose pebbles around him.

"Did I see you looking at the statue of Our Lady during Mass with a little question on your heart and an anxious frown on your wee forehead?" Rebekah asked, walking alongside him.

"Mom said I'm not supposed to ask questions or talk to anyone, especially strangers."

"Okay. Let’s see. Tell you what, if you want to tell me a secret, I can't tell anyone unless I have your permission, because a secret is a promise between only a few, right?” She waited.

"Do you want my permission?" The young dark haired child asked wide eyed.

"Sure. If you tell me a secret about a question or a worry you have, I could then ask you if I can tell the secret to my two friends, only if I think they should be told. But they have to keep it a secret. That way I don’t break the promise if I have your permission. What do you think?” Rebekah asked, putting a finger to her lips.

He looked around to see if his parents had come out of the church yet.

“I'll tell you why I was looking at Our Lady's statue,” he whispered, putting his finger to his lips in imitation, as he glanced towards the sacristy door.

“We have a small statue of Our Lady in our house. One night I couldn’t sleep and went downstairs to my mom. There were other adults upstairs.” His fear-filled eyes grew wider as his voice went even lower.

“She had friends in the living room. It was real late. They were standing around the statue and it was on fire. I cried and mom told me it was a party and to go back to bed, that they were putting out the fire. My mom and dad told me not to tell anyone, if I did I would be punished. It is the same as the statue in the church, only the church one is real big, so I was afraid that would go on fire too."

The nervous child clutched his right hand with his left, and stood back a few steps, watching for the stranger’s reaction.

Rebekah hunkered down to meet the child’s height.

"Do you think I could tell my two friends so they can keep an eye on it? That way I know it will be perfectly safe, even at night, because I’m only here on holidays?" Agnes’ guest asked gently.

Shaking hands in an agreed deal, she put her index finger to her lips again. The child responded in like manner, giving the sweetest smile. He ran across the tarmacadam. At the car door he turned around and looked back at the lady with the funny accent. He shook his head slowly from side to side, rolling his eyes towards his father as he appeared from the sacristy door.

"The couple who walked out from the sacristy are Greta and Malcolm Liveston, that’s the heavy guy in the tracksuit who sat behind us,” Agnes said as they walked into the house.

“Does Greta Liveston have the keys to the church?” Rebekah enquired, as they prepared breakfast.

“She is the sacristan, so yes,” Agnes answered. “They have taken over several ministries. Even cleaning the priest’s house is part of it, with Greta Liveston’s sister stepping in there. Shelly McCabe is her name. She lives in an apartment on her own just down the street from the church. She also brings over cooked lunches to the new priest, in her tight jeans and low top.”

“Tell us about Damien. We saw you chatting outside,” Agnes asked Rebekah, as they sat down to a pancake breakfast. As the child’s secret was confided, her worst fears were realised.

“We moved into this neighbourhood fifteen years ago,” Agnes continued with her story. “The next day Greta Liveston arrived over to introduce herself. She offered to baby-sit my four year old daughter while my husband and I attended Mass or if we wanted to go out for an evening. The reason I was taken in with them is because the husband has a theology degree which he acquired from online distance learning. He set up a prayer group in the parish. She is sacristan and Eucharistic minister.

I have been involved in pro-life work for a long time, as you know. So when they said they also were involved, I thought it was great. They even have Our Lady of Guadelupe stickers on the back windows of their cars and a large image in their house.

I deeply regret leaving my daughter with that couple. My husband was very uneasy about it and I ignored his unease. But how could I have seen through such smooth operators?”

Agnes took a deep breath.

“New neighbours moved in next door a short while ago. They took their child to the local playschool. That’s the premises adjoining the parish church rented by friends of the Livestons. Louise took her baby out after five days as the child cried and didn’t want to go back. I don’t think the mom is happy. I think she’s feeling something is amiss.”

"Does the priest know about the Livestons and friends, or is he a friend of theirs?" Rose asked.

"No, as far as I know, he is new to the parish. He only arrived a few weeks ago.”

Night set in. Agnes was restless.

"I need to go for a drive, anyone else?" Agnes asked. Rose picked up her sweater and cell phone.

Rebekah declined. She wanted to watch the documentary on tattoos and their connection with the occult and ritualism. She took her coffee over to the couch and switched on the DVD. She couldn't shake off the feeling that they were in a neighbourhood which held very dark secrets. Her thoughts returned to the sweet child Damien, and the way his eyes directed her to danger.

"It was unbelievable, just unbelievable!" Rose exclaimed, as she took two coffee mugs from the wooden rack.

"Tell me!” Rebekah asked, sitting up on the couch and looking over at Agnes.

"I was driving down the road, when suddenly I had this great desire to do a U-turn, and head back towards the parish church. I parked the car across the road in the cul-de-sac, directly opposite the church entrance, reversing a little until the car was unseen from the main road."

"So?” Rebekah waited as Agnes took off her jacket.

“We just sat in the car with our eyes fixed on the church. About ten minutes later, just coming up to 10 o’clock, a white van appeared. We slipped down in our seats as the driver indicated left into the church driveway. He drove straight through to the back car park.”

"Did the driver see you?"

"No. The car lights were off. I needed to see what was going on. So we jumped out and ran across the road. We went in through the garden to the other side of the parish house. To our astonishment, as we peeped around the wall, we saw him opening the garage door with a key and then unloading boxes. We ran back to the car and got out of there as quick as lighting before he drove out.”

“I think I’ll go lie down and put a damp cloth on my forehead,” Rose half joked.

The next morning at Mass, Rebekah slipped out of the pew and asked the sacristan if she could use the bathroom. While washing her hands, the visitor looked out the window to see a white van pulling up outside. She went out through the side entrance and took the man by surprise.

"Good morning. Do you need assistance?" Rebekah asked, looking over his shoulder at the rows of boxes stacked inside the garage door.

The man was in his mid-forties. A tattoo decorated his upper left arm. Loud heavy rock music screeched out from the open window of his van.

"No thanks.” He replied coolly, looking her up and down.

“I'm just taking some DVDs here for our shop on the high street. We don't have enough storage space there, so we asked Father Don if we could store them here."

“Did you see where the boxes were from or anything written on them?” Agnes asked Rebekah as she drove out of the car park.

“The top box on the stack nearest me had a foreign name and address on a sticker label with a black rose also on it.”

How could I have been so blind, or so proud?” Agnes cried, sitting down on the couch. “My husband felt something was wrong. I didn’t believe him. He thought Greta Liveston a strange and disturbing woman when he met her. He felt the same with her sister and their friends.”

“What about the prayer group that you mentioned?” Rose asked.

“The husband runs it. They have a healing service. The wife and her sister are part of it as well with the couple who own the video store."

“Let me guess,” Rebekah spoke. “They avoid praying the rosary with people by recommending novenas instead. When they turn up for Adoration, which would not be regularly, it’s with some kind of prayer book or note book.”

"So the sacristan, Greta Liveston, who is also a Eucharistic minister, has access to the consecrated hosts?” Do they have the meetings in private houses?” Rose looked at Agnes.

“Yes.”

After discussing it with Agnes and Rebekah, Rose made some calls to friends around the globe asking for intercessory prayer for a private matter that was very grave.

Faithful priests of the Lord in the inner sanctuaries offered Masses, religious sisters living their vows, knelt in prayer. Laity kept vigil before Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament and met with Mary in the rosary through the ongoing intercessory petition of prayer. It would happen when least expected.

It was on a Monday afternoon when Agnes was driving by and saw two cars parked either side of the parish grounds. One man was standing beside his car, speaking on a cell phone. Agnes got out of her car and walked over to him.

"What are you doing here? Who are you?"

"We are private investigators, m'am. Are you in this parish?"

Agnes turned over in her sleep. In the dream a group of people had gathered in a familiar living room while the neighbourhood slept. It was Malcolm Liveston’s house. Agnes cried out at what she saw going on in the room, and trembled. Her eyes shot open. She sat up and checked the time. It was 2:30 am. Her friends were sleeping soundly in the rooms next to hers.

The next morning Rebekah checked everything was in her suitcase before closing it. "Are you sure you will be okay?" She looked at Agnes.

"Would I let you leave if I didn’t think you should go? Psalm 27 gives me strength and comfort,” her brave friend replied. "Rose isn't too far away, she'll be back."

Agnes locked the front door of her house and leaned back against the heavy wood for a few moments. Rose had left two hours earlier. It was right not to have mentioned the frightening dream that had woken her up. It was enough to know Rebekah and Rose had to leave immediately. Once safely home, she would call and tell them. There was no knowing what would happen next.

She took a coffee into the garden, her small peaceful sanctuary where she could think. Agnes sat beneath the willow tree where her husband had sat each evening reading the Psalms. The wide gracious branches swayed slowly with the summer breeze, like a heavenly fan soothing her anxious heart. The air was fresh and clean. Looking around at her new flowers in bloom, Agnes felt a new chapter was also opening up in her life.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she spoke with her daughter on the cell phone. They had a lot to catch up on. A new friendship had begun between mother and daughter. After the call she let out a peaceful sigh and whispered to her beloved departed, “everything’s going to be fine now, Mark, just fine.”

The Searching Heart

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 19:53:00 +0000

It was a warm summer evening when the taxi pulled up outside the presbytery in a London suburb. A woman about sixty years of age rushed out, her face flushed as she greeted the Irish visitor. "Oh heavens above, I'm so sorry, there has been a terrible mix up. Your room is already taken." The grey haired lady introduced herself as Claudia Winston. "Please do come to my home, there is no one there as my two sons are away for the summer. I'm a widow and would be glad to have company. The talks for the month on the spiritual life & new evangelisation will begin as scheduled for nine in the morning. Let’s go to my house now, it’s just around the corner. I’ll show you around the centre in the morning.”

Catherine woke up to a continual drone of distant traffic. As she lay there, she looked at a hand painting on the wall opposite her. She studied the young Geisha girl, dressed in Madam Butterfly costume, sitting on the lawn under a willow tree, holding an open hand fan over her white face. Above the painting a scroll cloth with Japanese writing left her intrigued. To the left of her bed, a corner book shelf containing four rows of books caught her attention. She leaned over and let her fingers trail along the titles until she stopped at a slim book of essays. Sitting up she opened the front page and read down the awarded titles. 'Snow bound...by Edward Winston…page seven.’ She turned the pages to the titled essay written by Claudia’s son and skirted over the paragraphs until she stopped half way. "…I drove deep into the countryside. The beauty of nature whispered to me, almost beckoning me to learn silence, to know solitude. I stopped driving and got out, the click of the car door, the only sound; I remained standing there, beneath the umbrella of an aisle of trees. Suddenly the softest, whitest snow flakes floated dreamily over me and then onto my face and shoulders. Purity of untouched beauty sang her song and no one could interrupt my memories, my sorrowful regrets...." "Good morning!" Catherine jumped, startled as Claudia arrived in with a tray of tea and toast. "Oh, I'm so sorry; I didn't expect you to bring breakfast up to me,” the house guest apologised. "No trouble at all. You needed to rest after the long journey. Why not join me in the garden for a second cup of tea before we get moving?"

Claudia spoke with pride about her two children, their high academic achievements and their plans. “My husband died in an accident seven years ago so it hasn’t been easy.” She began clearing the table before taking out some bread and cheese. Catherine was not quite sure whether the well spoken elite English accent by her hostess was a naturally inherited one, or one that was acquired through practice. Somehow the latter seemed to be the case as Claudia slapped on margarine between two slices of brown bread, before adding processed cheese topped with Yorkshire relish sauce. "What ministry do you work in?" Catherine asked as she sipped her tea. "I’m a Eucharistic Minister for those who can't attend church, due to illness, but I’m also involved in the prayer group ministry, a core team of six who pray with people. I think I am called to be involved in praying for men with homosexual problems." "Why do you feel called to homosexual ministry?" her guest asked, surprised at the self selected choice of ministry. "I think my son Edward is gay. I find him quite difficult. Edward is an accountant. He came first in his exams. Now my other son, Stephen is wonderful. He has just finished college and has started work as a marketing consultant." Sandwiches wrapped, she picked up her Bible, and then checked her lipstick with her pocket mirror. "Well, my dear, let's go and meet the rest of the group.”

It was Wednesday evening, into the third week of her stay in London, when the phone rang. "Why didn't you tell me you were returning home? You were supposed to be in Japan until September?" The strained edge in Claudia's raised voice was a sudden change to her guest. "Alright, I will collect you but you should have told me." She replaced the phone receiver abruptly. “That was my son; he is at Heathrow airport and wants me to collect him. This is very inconvenient," she said to Catherine with an angry expression on her face. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

The sound of voices drifted up the corridor. Catherine sat on the bed, drumming her fingers on her lap, wondering if she should stay there for a while and let Claudia have time with her son. Suddenly the bedroom door opened. The young Irish woman was so taken aback she was unable to find her voice, as the tall sandy haired, handsome man looked down at her sitting there. In an unexpected gentle manner, which touched the heart of Catherine, he smiled and extended his hand. "I'm Edward.” “I'm so sorry.” She stood up. “There was a mix up in accommodation and your mom...." "No, please don't explain. It's perfectly alright. My room was not exactly prepared for a guest, though!" Catherine looked to the right and left of where she stood and said in a whisper, "I'm in your room?" "Oh dear," Claudia interrupted, arriving at the door; "I forgot about this and meant to give you the other room."

The strain and tension between mother and son was rapidly growing as the three adults sat down to dinner. Claudia spoke to her son in a manner that was curt and somewhat cold. He became awkward at the table and suddenly shy. “He does not look twenty nine years old,” Catherine thought as he turned to speak to his mom. “He looks so much older and wiser, and perhaps much too experienced in the ways of the world for me to know.” The young Japanese lady came to mind as she looked at him again. Aware of her simple cotton summer dress, with her hair tied back in a rolled knot, she saw her self as a very ordinary woman. “Someone who must look suitable for convent entry,” she thought to herself smiling, but content in her own freedom. He was looking at her again, almost as if he read her thoughts and smiled back at her, a glimpse of amusement in his eyes. Tensions grew as mother and child ran out of conversation. Catherine wanted to ask about Japan. "I think the Japanese women are known for their gracious manner and their delicate beauty, would that be true?" she asked Edward, as Claudia poured his coffee. His face lit up as the conversation turned to Japan and he began to chat with an obvious affection for the Japanese people. Claudia suddenly stood up and said she had to visit a friend so did not have time to linger. Taking her Bible from the hall table, she walked out. Edward put down his coffee cup and stared at the table cloth for some moments before excusing himself. Upstairs the bedroom door shut with a bang and a sad silence filled the house.

"Good morning." Catherine opened her eyes and looked up to see Edward standing at the open patio doors in his faded wrangler jeans, a coffee cup in his hand, his hair still wet from the shower. "Do you usually stand there and watch people while they are praying?" she asked, a little self conscious. "No, but I am intrigued by your arrival here. Why do you pray?" he asked, pulling up another sun chair beside the rose bush. "When you want to know someone, when you feel something special in their friendship, you want to be with them, right? For me, to pray is to be with God," she replied, finding herself at ease with his gentle presence. "Mom told me on the way home from the airport that you have lived like a hermit for the past ten years, is this true?" he asked directly. "Not like a hermit, but maybe a semi-hermit, yes." "So did you go to university before that?" "No." "Why not?" he asked, a desperate curiosity racing through his thoughts. "They can’t teach the interior life in university, they can’t teach what I wanted to know," she smiled. "Which is...?" he waited. "Which are the things of God. There is the knowledge of experience and the experience of knowledge. There is the spirituality of the heart.” Edward looked intently at the young woman sitting beside him. He was enamoured by her peaceful disposition, her detachment from so much, including his mother. He was drawn to her obvious love affair with heaven and the beauty of the divine, which he sensed from her. But most of all he sensed in her a love that carried justice, a love still young. His gaze upon her was gentle and caring, curious and somewhat penetrating, a searching gaze that made no apologies, leaving her feeling exposed yet undisturbed. Peace fell over them like two souls brought together on a bridge of borrowed time. Here in the garden, the mirror of his soul sent S.O.S. messages to a woman of prayer who found a sincere plea in his eyes and in his ongoing questions. Time passed unnoticed as they both sat in the enclosed garden on a quiet Sunday morning.

The following evening Edward was listening to the radio with the news of the suicide of a local young man. The parents of the dead youth knew he was homosexual and had crushed their son with verbal abuse. Unaware of the front door closing with the radio volume on high, the house guest heard the broadcast as she walked into the kitchen and saw Edward’s face shake in horror and disbelief, as he stood looking out the garden window. Catherine coughed and he swung around. "How long are you standing there?" he asked in an angry tone. Before she could answer he flicked the radio switch off and marched out of the kitchen. Again, the bedroom door upstairs shut with a bang, leaving Catherine in deep thought. In the garden, led by the Spirit of God, she offered her rosary for Edward, and for the pain she saw on his face.

It was the last weekend of Catherine’s stay in London, when she heard the raised voices beneath her window sill. It was still early as she finished her morning coffee. She had left her bedroom window open with the heat wave that hung over London. She leaned her elbows on the sill and looked down into the pretty garden below. Edward had set the summer table with a full breakfast that looked so inviting. He was placing fresh scones just out of the oven, onto a plate. “You should have asked me, I don’t have time to have breakfast with you,” Claudia said to her son in an irritated tone. “You never have time to sit with me, you don’t even want Catherine to sit with me,” Edward replied, his face red with stress and upset. “I prepared this especially...” Before he could continue his mother took out her pocket mirror, and rechecked her lipstick. “I have to go out and do some early shopping. Not now, haven’t time,” she shouted over her shoulder, as she walked out of the house. Edward slumped into a chair, his face buried in his hands. A sight which gripped Catherine’s heart as she slipped back down onto the bed and started to pray.

Catherine continued to pray daily for Edward, at Mass and in the evening. As she prayed for him, she became more aware of his gentleness of soul, his yearning for love, his longing for truth, his desire to return to the Church, his seeking for sincere friendship. He shunned from superficiality, and from toe dipping in shallow waters. He wanted authentic witness, he wanted to walk where buds would bloom, where pain would open up to redemptive grace, where the educated could learn what the heart wants to experience. It would not be an easy journey for him but Catherine knew he thirsted for all of this. She knew little about homosexuality, but now she knew the man in question and the heart that she saw through the eyes of grace. The rest would unfold as it should, according to his desire for truth and love, for confessions and conversion which every pilgrim participates in.

“Mom hides behind the Bible; she escapes reality by always running away, by always propping an image of God up in front of us. Yet she is not able to sit with herself and others, or to converse naturally without having to bring in prayer, prayer meetings and so forth.” He spoke openly as they cleaned up after dinner. “She sees that everyone has issues that need to be addressed but does not see the need for her own issues to be addressed. Pride is a terrible thing. My brother and I find religion so off putting.” “Some people stay in the same spot without moving on in themselves.” Catherine said. Edward walked over to her. “I want to return to the Church, I want to know Him.”

When the morning arrived for her departure she had a short while alone with Claudia’s son in the garden. “Why did you really return home early?” she asked him. “When my brother phoned to tell me about a missionary lady, in her early thirties, who was in mom’s house I thought it may be an answer to prayer, or to the beginning of prayer,” he smiled. “Is there more to a Geisha girl than mere high society socialising?” she asked unexpectedly. He looked at her, a serious look that searched her face and he knew he couldn’t lie. “Yes, there is more to the Geisha girls that I know,” he replied honestly. He walked with her into the house and held her in his embrace for one brief moment, before he kissed her lightly on the forehead and said farewell.

As the car moved out of the driveway, Catherine turned her face to the window, brushing away the falling tears before Claudia could see them, tears from a heartache which was already given to the Lord, for Edward. It was not everyday she had a little arrow of love shot into her heart. But neither was it everyday that she met a soul such as Edward, a gentle soul who carried the wounds of childhood rejection and sexual abuse, the same young man who still carried the dreams of unknown love. She knew that this sad young man longing for the truth, would sip from the waters of God’s well, grace which would revive his drooping spirit and lead him on, bit by bit into God’s healing light.

Edward watched the car turn the corner, and for the first time in a long time, began to pray. He would not see his Irish friend again but that dart of love, still lingering in his aching heart was already opening up a new hope for the future, in his silent tears. For after all, He who had formed him in his mother’s womb was calling him.

Those who put their hand on the plough….

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 20:08:00 +0000

It was a bitter cold January morning in 1996. The clear blue sky changed to a dull grey. Soon the delicate white snow flakes would fall and the expected forecast of icy roads and sub zero temperatures would set in. Refilling her coffee mug, Victoria returned to the bedroom and picked up the letter to read again.

"…my parents would be delighted if you could stay here while they spend some time in Spain. You will be interested to know that adoration of the Blessed Sacrament continues from morning to night in the adoration chapel next door." Then she read on. "I have to say that I invite you to stay in my family home for several reasons, but prefer to wait until I see you to talk more.” Victoria jumped out of bed, pulled out a suitcase from the closet in the hallway and started packing. She already had the feeling this visit would be very different from previous stays with her friend.

“Who is it?" the voice asked over the intercom. "This is security, reporting for duty, ma'am.” The door opened with the familiar buzzer sound. Victoria stepped into the polished parquet tiled hall, happy to have arrived before the big freeze. “Well look who the wind blew in!"

Anne passed the coffee mug to her guest. She sat back on the sofa looking out onto the garden. Taking a biscuit from the plate, she said “It’s to do with my brother.” “Your brother was in America, he’s back home then?” Victoria asked. Anne sipped some coffee before answering, a worried expression on her face. "He has returned from Chicago with his new girlfriend who’s Austrian. He was working in a pub there for a while. He’s different. He’s not the brother I know and love. When I ran down the stairs to welcome him home, I just froze. At Mass that morning, I prayed for him and suddenly I was crying." She shook her head. "What is it?" Victoria asked, hearing the gravity of the situation. "I'm not sure," Anne hesitated. "Not sure? Or not sure you want to say?" "Not sure I want to say just yet. But I do know that my brother doesn’t have an idea about his girlfriend or what I think I know.”

“So is she staying here, in this house now?” Victoria enquired. “No, she’s temporarily in a flat at the end of the road, a small garage converted into a neat little pad. I know my brother plans for her to move in here. My mother is worried; she has an uneasy feeling about her to say the least, and does not want her in the house while they are away. Which reminds me of another problem, her cooking.” “What do you mean?” Victoria stopped and looked at the home-made cookie in her hand. She listened attentively to all that Anne was saying. “I don’t like what she cooks,” her expression recalling an episode in the kitchen only the day before. “Plus the fact my brother has never looked so unhealthy. He has no idea what this woman is about; both my mom and I feel something is very wrong. Also, in the mornings he finds it difficult to get up. He feels exhausted and without energy. This is not my brother.”

Victoria knew in her heart what her friend feared. “There is one thing more you should know,” Anne added. “I called to her flat unannounced a few days ago, pretending I was looking for Damien. She didn’t invite me in, obviously! But she had the Bible on a coffee table which you can see from the doorway, and a rosary beads hanging from a hook on the corner of a wall shelf.” “H-m-m-m,” Victoria nodded. "This is a typical cover and guise. She probably reads scripture verses to your brother as well.”

“Feel free to use mom’s prayer room at any time,” Anne reminded her friend. “Remember when she converted the old linen closet into a prayer room? It has become a welcome prayer corner, so peaceful in the back corridor. The small silver crucifix on the centre of the wall, with a painting of Our Lady to the right has been admired by all the visitors who have been here.”

The front door opened and shut with such a bang that Victoria swallowed on the biscuit and almost choked. Anne stood up. "They're here!" she whispered. “Be prepared for a hostile reception.” Heavy footsteps marched across the hall floor, down the two steps and in walked Anne’s brother with his Austrian visitor. Damien took one look at Anne’s guest and nodded a curt hello before walking over to the coffee pot. He poured coffee into two cups, neither of them uttering a word as his girlfriend remained standing there staring at Victoria. While she continued to take in every detail of the woman sitting on the sofa, Victoria in turn looked up at the European lady.

Her skin was pale, an off-white colour that raised a question. Her eyes, blue as the ocean and cold as ice, were fanned by dark spiked lashes which tilted up at the edges, curved by dark beliefs and heavy mascara. She was tall and slim, strange and disturbing at closer quarters. Her long hair, black as the raven and glossy as shimmering silk fell across her shoulders. As she stood there with a smile that left one cautious, a door closed quietly in Victoria’s heart, bolted from the inside. Giving a short laugh, that seemed one of disbelief, she walked across the floor, moving in a way that carried the perfect imitation of a model walking across the catwalk. Then, the dark haired woman, seeking a distraction fumbled through her shoulder bag, before placing her hand over the silver pendant hanging on her neck - the pendant that Victoria continued to look at.

Victoria stood up. Slightly taller than the dark lady, she introduced herself and then said “You must be Damien’s girlfriend?” The European lady flung her hair back in a dramatic gesture. She finally spoke in a polite and courteous manner, her Austrian accent giving an air of mystery to the English language. "Hello, I’m Caitlyn." She could almost pass as royalty with her full length fur lined coat and Russian hat. Lifting her face upward with a defiant expression, she waited for attention. Unnerved by Victoria’s direct look and indifference to image, she turned to her boyfriend, her eyes signalling for him to say something. ‘She is like the lone ice princess’, Victoria thought. ‘A sad and beautiful princess, who has secret meetings in the forest; an initiated female who has danced naked before the full moon, for her masters, and drank from the chalice of the pagan gods, giving her body and soul over to the night rituals containing lies and false promises.’ No one knew what either woman was thinking as Victoria remained silent, keeping her inner thoughts to herself, while the Austrian visitor kept her thoughts hidden from her boyfriend watching on. Damien threw the remainder of his coffee into the sink and walked out. His girlfriend followed, throwing one last glance at Victoria - a dark look that refused to remain hidden behind a professional smile.

“Do you know anything about Wicca witches?” Victoria asked as they prepared lunch. “I know that some of them wear a pendant, a five-pointed star with a blue stone in the centre. It’s used as a symbol of Wicca.” “That’s right,” Victoria confirmed. “What she’s wearing is known as a pentacle. But for many folk who don’t know about these symbols, it is just another trendy piece of jewellery worn around the neck. For the practising witches and those involved in pagan ritual, it is a sacred symbol, possibly blessed in their pagan ceremonies before wearing them."

That night Victoria couldn't sleep. It was three o’clock in the morning when the front door opened and closed downstairs. She sat up in the bed. Suddenly the handle of her bedroom door slowly turned around until the door opened and Anne arrived in without a sound. Waving in silence, she pointed to downstairs. “What’s going on?” Victoria whispered. “My brother has just arrived in but she was here all the time and we didn’t know. He must have let her in a few hours ago or else she has a key. We have to pray the rosary.” Anne took a blanket from the chest of drawers beside the bed and stuffed it along the base of the door before she lit a blessed candle. “If she’s creeping around the house, she will see the light on here so that blocks it out.” Victoria grinned. “Are you sure you haven’t been involved in strange gatherings as well?” she joked with her friend. “Hey, I’m a colourful character, just look at who Our Lord chose. He knew what He was doing.” They both started laughing, but knew things were more serious than they cared to admit. “She has been burning incense in the living room,” Anne whispered, pulling up a chair. “I have been out on the corridor for a while. There is a horrible atmosphere.” “So that’s why I couldn’t sleep!” Victoria said. “Probably,” Anne continued. “I waited at the top of the stairs and watched as she came out several times. I could smell the incense.” “Okay, we know now what we are dealing with here.” Victoria whispered. “This is serious. There’s a saying that goes when one is going to prayer...’burning incense invites spirits in, burning a blessed candle keeps them out.’ It looks like we have some kind of witchcraft going on here.”

“So what’s the plan?” Anne asked over breakfast, “now that you’ve got some sleep after you prayed more.” Victoria smiled. “Right, first we need to pack our bags and have them ready to put in the car at a moment’s notice; I suggest you pack a little extra.” Anne looked taken aback. “Are you serious?” she asked. “Yes, I know we have to do this, and then we wait. If this woman is involved in what we think, and they are in a sexual relationship, which is step one for her, then you can’t tell your brother. He won’t believe you because she may already have some kind of hold on him. She carries all the hallmarks of what we think she is. She burns incense, has some good wine for when Damien calls to the flat, or drinks with him here. She may even tell him some sob stories, and I know Damien from being here last year. He is quite gullible and overly compassionate. The sob stories are an old trick which always seems to work for them. Then he in turn opens up to her. She will offer him a body massage with her oils, maybe burning a little incense to create a certain mood. That’s all it takes. It may not be all in that order or all of the same, but it’s the general run of how those involved in pagan worship plan their first steps for their intended.”

Victoria was restless. Something was up. She kept looking out the window at the falling snow and paced the floor but didn’t know why. That evening the two friends returned to the adoration chapel next door. Time passed as the two worshippers stayed longer than intended, aware of the all-powerful majesty of God, as they rested in His divine presence. God would not let His servants down. Unknown to them both, they were being prepared for the trials ahead that every true follower faces. Their willingness to be present before the Lord was all He needed. It was here, in the confines of the beautiful chapel of adoration that Jesus the Lord, was working quietly in the souls who love him. Walking home, the air was fresh and pure, but not for long. The North winds were gathering and the eye of the pagan storm was heading towards Anne’s home. Victoria spoke to Anne. “You are in danger, we both are. She knows we know. It’s time to get our luggage into the car.”

Back in the empty house Victoria picked up the phone and dialled a number. “Hi, Sr. Bernadine, do you happen to have a few rooms vacant without notice?” “Sure honey, I was only wondering lately if you will be out on a visit to us soon.” “Is it alright if it’s pretty immediate, but it could be quite late in the evening?” “Of course! Whatever time is right. I’ll let security know to expect you. Just give me your car registration number again so he can open the gates when he sees you arriving.”

It was late in the evening. Anne walked into the bedroom, her face ashen. “What’s wrong? Anne, tell me!” Victoria persisted. Tears fell down her friend’s face but no words came out. She looked towards the prayer room. Downstairs heavy rock music suddenly filled the house and Victoria froze. The visitors had arrived and they were pretty loaded with wine. Alarm bells rang loud and clear. Victoria followed Anne to the prayer room and saw why her friend was ashen. The small silver crucifix and the painting of Our Lady were both turned upside down. Turning the painting upright, Victoria then took the crucifix, kissed the five wounds of Christ and put it in her pocket. “Get the car keys, quickly! It’s okay, everything’s okay. God is with us.” The sound of the music increased in the living room, “Who’s down there?” Victoria asked, as they ran back to their bedrooms, grabbing their toiletry bags and handbags. “My brother, a few of his friends and his girlfriend,” Anne replied, still shaken. The music became louder; the last reminder that time was running out, as the undertones of the heavy rock band threw aggressive vibrations into the partying group and throughout the house. Victoria stood at the top of the stairs while Anne tip-toed down a few steps, leaning over the banister to check the living room door was still closed. Then signalling to Victoria they ran down the stairs, across the wide hallway and out into the street. Once outside they caught their breath and walked quickly to the car. Seat belts on, they began to recite the prayer to St. Michael the Archangel.

Fifty minutes later they arrived at the convent, the automatic gates opening when security recognized the driver. It was so good to see Charlie again, Victoria thought, as he shone the torch light onto the faces in the car. A man of deep faith, not many knew that in his nightly watch he prayed often while others slept. Once inside, they went straight to the beautiful chapel. There, before the Most Blessed Sacrament they knelt and gave thanks to the Lord that they had arrived safely and at peace! Resting in His presence Victoria and Anne knew there would be no going back. Those who put their hand on the plough don’t look back. And for some - they don’t go back.

The Courage to Love

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Mon, 31 May 2010 17:18:00 +0000

The rain poured down playing hop scotch on the puddles along the road. Rachel jumped to the side of the path as another car zoomed by, sending a spray of muddy water on her white trousers. "I don't believe it," she cried in annoyance, brushing away the dirty water. A Toyota car slowed down and pulled up beside her. "Hi there," the driver called out, "Aren't you from Linden Vale? My name is Patricia Mulvey. I saw you coming out of the train station and heading towards the bus stop. Would you like a lift home?"

A delighted passenger dropped her weekend bag on the back seat before jumping into the front of the car, happy to be rescued from the torrential downpour. She fastened her seat belt, sat back with a sigh of relief and closed her eyes. As she sat there she became aware of a peace and warmth in the confines of the grey Corolla. "Home for a long weekend?" the young driver asked, moving out onto the empty road towards open countryside. "Yes, just four days. There are great flight offers now with Ryanair from London. Book a month in advance and you get a twenty euro return ticket." "Wow, why don't you take this car, work in a factory for a few days and I'll head to London!" Rachel laughed. She recognised the woman's face from shopping in her father's store but didn't know her personally. It was good to be home. Her thoughts returned to the plane journey to Dublin. Before arriving at the airport she had wondered would it bring back the memory of her last visit home – the memory of her boyfriend waiting to take her into his arms when she walked into the arrivals lounge. To her surprise no such emotions or memories returned. When she did arrive she only knew a deep peace in her heart and a closeness of the presence of the Lord as she walked through the airport. She was still amazed at this new awareness of God's grace at work in her heart and soul that signposted her life in a whole new direction.

It was the same peace she experienced again in the car when she turned to look at the driver. As she did so, her eyes fell on a little icon of the Sacred Heart on the dashboard. "You have devotion to the Sacred Heart?" Rachel asked with interest. "Sure do, couldn’t imagine life without Him." For a moment the young vivacious woman with her short dark curls and hazel eyes looked solemn and lost in thought. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel before that joy of life returned to her face. "What do you do in London?" she asked, quickly changing the subject. "Secretarial work, but only three days a week now as I recently got involved in a prayer group which organises Catholic conferences for evangelisation." Patricia gave a quick look towards her passenger as a car zoomed by. "Really, are you serious?" The question opened up a conversation that was going to lead to an unexpected day out for Rachel. All too soon they arrived into their hometown. Patricia was about to say something, then hesitated. "Please do say it?" Rachel prompted, sensing again that wonderful Spirit of God's presence. "This may sound a bit much, seeing as you are just home for a few days, but would you care to join me tomorrow on a pilgrimage to Knock Shrine. I have the day off. I really need a day of prayer but I would be glad to have a prayer companion travel with me. It’s about a two hour car journey. I could pick you up about eleven a.m?" "Sure, why not!"

Saturday arrived and the two pilgrims set out for Our Lady's Shrine, Knock. "I was thinking maybe we could have lunch in the hotel before we go into the Shrine?" Patricia suggested. "We'll have plenty of time for confessions before the three o’clock ceremonies begin." Rachel was amazed by the sudden change of events. Little did she think on a surprise weekend trip home she would be doing a pilgrimage. It was a long time since she had last been to Knock. While she waited for Patricia to park the car, she thought of the time she had spent in the beautiful apparition chapel over a decade previously. She walked over to the historic site once again and knelt down. Suddenly she felt as if she was drinking from a river of purest water that continued to pour into her heart and soul, running over a parched interior land. A few minutes passed when a gentle tap on the shoulder reminded her of Patricia’s return. It was time to go and have lunch before their afternoon of prayer began. As they walked across the grounds of the Shrine, Rachel suddenly felt a new curiosity about the beautiful Lady who had appeared to the astonished villagers in 1879, a curiosity that would lead her to prayer and to the friendship of Mary in the coming years. God had His plans and this visit to Knock was the first step towards a new life for the two pilgrims now on their way to lunch.

"How long have you been married?" Rachel asked as they waited for the lasagnes to arrive. "I have left my husband," Patricia answered without hesitation. "I lived on his farm but moved into a rented apartment in town only a week ago. I don't know why but I'd like to tell you about it, yet you are single and free I’m sure from all such worries or pain." Rachel remained silent. Her thoughts raced back to those moments in the rain when her pilgrim companion had pulled up in the car. This young woman who called out and smiled with a warmth which was easily felt. She thought of when she sat in the car and experienced the same warmth and peace from the good humoured woman who had grinned when she looked at the hanging raindrops clinging to Rachel’s long damp hair. This was the same woman that carried suffering love.

"Please do talk about it if you would like to?" Patricia nodded, rubbing her palms along her jeans in an unexpected nervous gesture. "I married Noel knowing that we would be living with his mother on their farm. Of course I had concerns about it as every newly married woman wants to be alone with her husband, especially at the beginning of their marriage. Noel worked early until late on the farmland.” Rachel knew what was going to unfold. Patricia continued. "So I arrived on the farm and was up with my husband very early every morning eager to help. I had no idea his mom did not want me there. When Noel went out to tend to the animals I prepared breakfast for the three of us. Whatever I did in the house, I was doing wrong.” She stopped as her voice broke with the weight of the emotion coming through. “When I cooked the breakfast, it wasn't cooked right. When I ironed the shirts, they were returned to the ironing board and left there. This was the least of what was happening. Then I discovered my husband was not being told the truth. This was the final warning for me as I came to recognize the workings of a strange possessiveness in the most frightening way. No one could see what was going on.” Rachel nodded as the picture became clear. "Then", Patricia continued, "Noel started going to the pub, saying he was only going out for one pint, but he would not return until the early hours of the morning falling in the doorway. When the subject came up about Noel and a drink problem, I was told by my mother-in-law I resented him having a drink or two after a hard day's work." Patricia looked directly at Rachel, her sad eyes now a mirror of visible suffering and humiliations. "How long did you endure this domination from his mother?" "For six months until I realised I was a victim of her psychological abuse, just like her son is. Every night I prayed seeking help and the answer came. I went to the Catholic Marriage Counselling Agency. Noel wouldn't go. After several conversations with a confidential and supportive team I found the answer in my own heart. I was to leave the farm, get my own place and wait and pray that my husband will join me where we can begin our married life together in our new home. I tried every way to talk with Noel’s mom but she is in denial with her own problems. So the day I left the farm was the day I became free. I cried when I walked into the apartment but I knew I had done the right thing. Noel's mom was furious and the rage that welled up in her when I was leaving, left me in no doubt I was getting out in time. My own mom was wonderful and helped me move my luggage. Now I wait for Noel. He has to make the same decision and in the pain I have in my heart, I give it to the Lord in the hope that it might be used for my husband. As to whether he will make the right decision, only time will tell.” A quick glance at her watch and Patricia exclaimed, “Heavens above! Its two thirty. Before we get confessions and go into the Basilica I need to purchase something in the gift shop. Will you come with me?"

Rachel looked on as the shop assistant wrapped the picture of the Sacred Heart. "This will be a lovely gift for a new home," she smiled at Patricia. "Be sure to have the new home blessed on the First Friday, that's a special day of devotion to the Sacred Heart." The Basilica stood a short distance from the shrine shop. It was packed with pilgrims when they walked in. The Mass had begun and the only empty seats were in the choir where they were directed to by a friendly steward.

After a homily full of encouragement on the virtue of hope, followed by the Liturgy of the Eucharist, the visiting bishop invited all those present who were ill to come forward for the anointing of the sick. He reminded the pilgrims that the Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick was only for those who had an illness. The pilgrim did not need to state the illness, but was invited to come forward for the anointing or to raise their hand where they were seated, if they were unable to walk up to the altar. Rachel opened her eyes to see Patricia stand up and walk up the aisle joining other pilgrims. When she returned, she knew she could not intrude on Patricia’s sacred moments of private conversation with the Lord. She did not know what illness her friend had; neither did she feel she should ask. In her own heart she already knew that she was in the company of a special soul and this was a day that would be remembered. At the end of Mass the pilgrims were invited to hold up any religious objects they had to be blessed.

All too soon the day was over and Patricia dropped Rachel off at her front door. "I will think of you when I'm back in London." Patricia nodded, that warm light in her eyes returning, which spoke of a beautiful friendship with her Creator. "We were meant to meet, that's for sure." They embraced each other knowing that their conversation and meeting was not by chance. Rachel also knew that such suffering love would spill over into the wounds of her husband’s heart leaving him with his own decisions to make. He had not betrayed his wife in unfaithfulness. He was a prisoner of his own mother’s emotional hold that held him in family chains. Only the truth would be the key that would unlock those chains for them to fall away. Patricia knew that and embraced the cross that carried a courageous love beyond her years.

The plane touched down in London. Rachel walked through the airport to see Anna and Paul waiting outside. They looked so happy in their mission life and work. It was good to see them. As the car moved into the city traffic Anna turned to her friend. “So how was the trip? Did you feel any regrets not getting engaged and not being together now?" "No, no regrets Anna, only peace. There are no regrets when we have made the right decisions!" "Well, that's just wonderful,” Anna breathed a sigh of relief. “We have a meeting tomorrow evening in your house if that's alright? We need to plan our work for the conference. Welcome back to the big city!”

Rachel cut three flowers in the garden and went back into the house. She turned right at the top of the staircase and walked into a small alcove where there was an altar to the Sacred Heart. It was the First Friday of June. She removed the faded flowers and put a vase of fresh water on the table. Then beneath the image of the Sacred Heart she placed a red rose in the vase. "This one Lord, is for Patricia and Noel. This one is in thanksgiving. And this rose is for my own intentions, in the hope that I will continue to be led by Your Spirit of Truth in the way of love.”

A Penitential Prayer

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 21:23:00 +0000

It was a glorious summer’s morning in the month of June 1961. The driver whistled away with occasional bouts of robust chorus as he steered the heavy vehicle up a steep narrow hill and down around the pleasant vale. Just a mile away a black and white dog sat in the warm sun, her sleepy disposition one of blissful contentment, in the quiet country farmyard. Suddenly her ear shot up, and she jumped up barking excitedly towards the cottage farmhouse. “Alright, alright, Sheba, I hear you. I’m getting my shopping bags.” The slender Border Collie raced along the country road, excited to escort the truck to the cottage gates once again.

“Good morning! I could hear you singing a mile off,” the elderly lady called out as Martin turned off the engine. “There’s no better place to sing aloud than in the heart of the country, and what a beautiful sight it is, Kathleen.” The plump red-haired woman plonked her bags on the steps of the well stocked vehicle as the driver opened up the back doors. “What would I do if you didn’t come out here, Martin? I give thanks to God every time I hear the sound of the truck arriving. Sure how could I go all the way into town with no transport. I might make it on the bicycle, but I would never be able to carry my groceries back.” “I’m only too delighted to drive out this far,” he replied. “Isn‘t it good business for me and if the customers can't get into town then the shopkeeper needs to go out to the customers!”

Kathleen stood on the steps of the lorry and handed the shopkeeper her grocery accounts book. “I hope you have a nice piece of salted bacon for me today and a few pounds of the Indian tea you get from Dublin?” She looked up at the shelves laden with varied items, then glanced down at the boxes on the ground shelf. “Did you bring the Guinness, Martin?” “Let me see now, did I bring the Guinness? Did the bar next door have any Guinness left?” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his chin and feigning uncertainty as he caught Kathleen’s worried look. “Aha, here we are! One bottle of stout for the best stew in Ireland.” “Now Martin,” Kathleen chuckled, “you know I don’t put the whole bottle in, just half a glass measure, the small glass mind you!” “Sure with a bottle of stout like that there’s eating and drinking in it,” he joked. Kathleen went into the fit of giggles that sounded like the keys on a piano running up and down in a scale. It put Martin laughing and Sheba barking, joining in the fun.

It was time to get going. Ten houses done, eighteen more to do. It was getting hot. The shopkeeper opened the top buttons of his shirt, with one hand remaining on the steering wheel as he drove along the quiet country road. Suddenly he pressed on the brakes as a big black car turned the sharp corner and stopped inches in front of him. “Glory be,” he whistled, “that’s the bishop’s car and that’s the bishop himself sitting in the back.” He looked into his side mirror, putting the truck into reverse gear. “No point in me asking the bishop’s driver to reverse a short distance,” he said to himself, “I’ll have to do it and go back the entire side road.” “Wait, don’t reverse!” Martin looked up to see the bishop walking towards the truck. He stopped the lorry and jumped down from his high vehicle to stand in front of the man in charge of the western diocese. A great inadequacy swept over the young man and he knelt on the narrow country lane, the pebbles pressing into his knees. “I’d sure be glad of your blessing, Bishop Flanagan.” With his head bowed, waiting, the bishop took in this humble gesture unable to miss the string of the Brown Scapular peeping out between the top buttons opened on the man’s shirt. The birds and the animals of the fields watched on as the softly spoken words in Latin, addressed to the shopkeeper, were held momentarily in the summer breeze and carried like a poem to the heart of the brown haired man kneeling. The short prayer ended with a blessing in English as the bishop raised his hand making the sign of the cross over Martin. The shop owner stood up, brushing the dust from his trousers and saying his thanks. The bishop told Mr. McGuire he was returning from a visit to an elderly relative who had let him know about the mobile grocery store and he was delighted to have met the man himself!

The big black car reversed into a nearby country yard and once again the bishop raised his hand, this time in farewell as Martin’s truck passed on by. Tears filled the eyes of the young father of three. Why had he felt such awe and then a sudden solemn silence in those moments on his knees. Can a simple country man have a prophetic sense of the prayers he had just heard said? Yet he didn’t understand Latin. But soon he would understand the meaning of those silent moments. For now he had no idea what lay ahead. Instinctively, his hand sought the brown fabric of the scapular, only then realising his buttons were still open! He grinned, “a country man to be sure, that’s what that lovely bishop is.”

It was three weeks later that the solemnity of those silent moments where he knelt, would return to Martin. He had only two houses left to call on when the accident happened. It was a warm evening and the sliding door of the truck was part opened. A chill in the air was creeping in and the driver decided to pull the door shut while keeping an eye on the narrow lane ahead as farmers were returning home on tractors from their work in the fields. The door seemed stuck, so once again Martin pulled the handle towards him, this time with a harder tug, while one eye remained on the road. Disaster struck! Before he knew what happened or how it happened he was thrown from the seat out onto the rough road and landed with a heavy thud between the ditch and dusty lane. The big double tyres loomed nearer as he watched on helplessly, unable to move. A sharp pain stifled his voice as the rolling vehicle moved towards his side. Martin slipped under a blanket of darkness.

Sheba stood up and whimpered. She was restless. She walked back and forth to her mistress, continually whimpering and pawing the door. “What’s wrong Sheba?” Kathleen went outside. Martin was late passing by. She should have heard the truck an hour earlier, but still no sign of it. Sheba raced across country fields, returning twenty minutes later barking loudly. Beckoning to her mistress, she raced back along the road. Kathleen followed on her bicycle. Then she saw it and dropped the bicycle against the hedges.The front of the truck was buried in the thick ditch - a few meters from where Martin lay. “Go Sheba, go, fetch help!”

The news spread throughout the town and countryside. Prayers were ongoing for Martin and the terrible accident. Prayers that asked to save his crushed hip and wounded body. In his unconscious state, his spirit looked to Our Lady and was strengthened within him as his body fell into exhaustion and acute pain as he was prepared for surgery. To the hope and relief of his anxious family, friends and customers, the young shopkeeper came through the emergency operation, but there were serious hurdles to get over and nothing was guaranteed. The doctors did all they could, but they could not ease the pain that would continue as the hip had been badly damaged. There was no more they could do.

Lying on his bed during the weeks that followed, Martin was thinking about what he would do. In his quiet suffering he offered it to Our Lady, a penitential prayer with each darting pain, that she might take it as an offering to her Son. It was in those moments, late at night, when the pain prevented him from sleeping, that he heard the call to Fatima.

It was the following October that the trip was arranged. Martin was delighted to be travelling to Portugal with a fellow townsman. The two men arrived at Fatima, awe and wonder written all over Martin's face as he stood in the place where Our Lady had spoken to the young children. It was there, at the holy shrine, that he prayed for guidance about his pained hip. On the second day he thought of bringing a gift to Our Lady, but what kind of gift? Then he saw them, sitting outside a shop, the most beautiful lilies, unstained in their heavenly white, with the sweetest scent emanating from their pure beauty. Minutes later, he placed the flowers before the altar where he stood with his walking stick, and bowed in heart to Our Lady of the Rosary. “Remember me a sinner, to your beloved Son."

Some time after he returned home, Martin heard about a surgeon in Dublin who might be interested in his case. He could not go on in pain and with the added worry of his mortgage and young family to look after, the future looked dim. It was time to write to the new surgeon.

Dr. Staunton remained quiet for a few minutes after he put down the x-rays. He looked at Martin and then back at the x-rays once again. “This is a very risky operation, Mr. McGuire.” Martin remained composed. “It is high risk.” Silence sat between them as the surgeon sat back in his seat. Then he leaned forward. “But I’ll do it.”

The surgeon was not to regret it. The operation was a success after a six hour battle in surgery. After the operation, when the surgical gown was removed, replaced by pyjamas, Martin whispered to the nurse for his scapular. Placed over his head, he felt the brown fabric brush against his heart and tears of gratitude slid down his cheeks as he fell into a sedated sleep.

Ten weeks passed. It was a quiet winter morning. Sheba opened her sleepy eyes. That rumbling on the ground, it was familiar. Suddenly she jumped up barking, running excitedly along the side road. Kathleen smiled, and put away her rosary beads. “Buíochas le Dia,” she whispered - Thanks be to God.

Through The Ministry of the Church....and I absolve....

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 14:31:00 +0000

Richard put down his pint. "I have one pint, then I have two, now I'm on my fifth." Sarah turned to look at him, her head still bopping in beat to the lively jazz music from the band near their table. "That's a common complaint among the Irish," she laughed. "It's not funny Sarah," Richard said solemnly. "Why can't we all just live in moderation. You know, moderate eating, moderate drinking, moderate living..." Now it was Sarah's turn to be serious. "I'm sorry Richard, I didn't mean to be insensitive. I know you want to give up the booze and maybe you do drink too much. Why don't you come to the Catholic conference next month? I just know you will love it. You should have been there last year. There are so many things to do there for the week. Interesting talks and discussions, question time, confessions throughout the week, Adoration, and best of all meeting so many lively Christians?" "Alright," Richard relented. "Why not!"

The queues of people waiting to register astonished Richard. They had arrived in camper vans, by taxis, trains, buses, landrovers, cars, on foot. You name it they arrived. A small square plastic badge was pinned on Richard's lapel. "Have a blessed week," the receptionist smiled. Richard picked up his zip-up bag and passing by the elevator, followed the staircase to the top floor. Young men & women, middle aged folks, senior citizens, priests, religious, seminarians, laity, all nationalities nodded with warm hellos as they passed each other on the corridors. Downstairs the music ministry was warming up. The familiar sound of worship hymns floating along up the stairs meeting the listening Spirit of each new arrival.

Richard slipped off his shoes and lay back on the single bed. Hands clasped behind his head he thought back to the year gone by. So many questions he wanted answered, so many whys and if onlys. He loved his girlfriend dearly and had lost her. It was only a matter of time before it happened again. He was doing fine until he started to drink. He promised himself it would only be one pint, maybe two. But it never ended that way. What was so awful is that he seemed to lose sight of how much he was consuming until it was too late. If I really do search, - he thought to himself - if I pray constantly asking God to help, why do I feel my prayers are in vain?

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Come in." A tall thin man popped his head around the door. "Hi, I'm Stephen, heard from Sarah you were here." Richard invited the well spoken English man to sit down and they soon were chatting away about the Lord and the excitement of this annual event. Stephen had only recently joined the seminary and spoke of his amazement at how it all happened. "Step by step though, nothing dramatic for me, just knowing where I'm called to." "What about women?" Richard probed. "Had a girlfriend, couldn't have met anyone nicer, but that ironically is what showed me what's in my heart! First though, I needed to be free of other things that, without me knowing, were a block to my own call." "What do you mean?" Richard asked. "I thought I wasn't called to the priesthood because of my desire to be with a woman. Over time I found out that desiring to be with a woman and being in love with a woman are two very different things. It was like the physical thought that directed towards a need, but the call to live a life beyond that went much deeper. It was recognising that, in fact wanting that above all, that I found the stepping stones in my life to where I should be." After a time conversing, Stephen looked at his watch and jumped up. "I have to go, I'm in the music ministry for the Mass. See you there!"

The packed hall had Richard momentarily hesitate before going in a little late. Five feet ten inches in height with dark hair and deep brown eyes he didn't pass by unnoticed. As he continued to look down each row, one lady, obviously aware of his uncertainty, raised her hand indicating a free seat beside her. He sank into it uttering his thanks. "I know the feeling!" she whispered, "walked down the aisle myself two years back and seemed like an age before I found an empty seat." The music started and Richard stood up with everyone else as a long line of priests processed along the blue carpeted aisle. Two by two they arrived. Each bowing down to kiss the altar before moving around to the rows of seats behind. The unity of voices singing in harmony from the music ministry moved Richard deeply. He glanced at his hymn book hoping that his concentration on the words would distract him from a need to cry. He thought back in memory to his grandfather sitting on the armchair opposite him in his family living room singing in his deep tenor voice the beautiful 'How Great Thou Art'. Hours later his mom would ask him to go fetch his grandad from the pub and he would obey the regular request to assist his grandad home. What was it about alcohol and the Irish? Why was it such a curse, as they say? Did weaknesses go so deep to run over into present generations? Seated once again he looked to the altar. A priest walked over to the microphone and spoke in a soft French accent. His face one of joy as he spoke with obvious peace. First he welcomed everyone and then went on to explain the format of the Mass. ...."after the homily I invite each of you to write down on a slip of paper one sin, just one sin that you feel has the stronger hold on you. Then when you have it written down keep it in your hand and follow the queue going up to the altar." Richard sat up, interested to see what he was pointing to. "Place the slip of paper into one of the baskets here and then proceed around the hall to where the priests will be waiting along the side to hear confession." Richard looked around to see where the designated area for each priest would be. "When you see a priest free, go to that priest. Bring to him that one sin which you have left in the basket on the altar. Please do remember that confessions are available every day while you are here, when you can bring all of your sins to the confessional. For now we will do this particular exercise for all who wish to participate."

After the homily Richard watched each row of people moving towards the altar with their slip of paper. Sudden panic seized him. What should he do! The lady beside him noticed his fear. "Don't worry, just write down what you feel is the sin that chains you, the one that keeps tripping you up!" She smiled with such understanding, again he felt that welling up of tears hidden for so long. Then, as if inspired, he whispered "Dear Lord, you know everything, you know me, please help me." Suddenly it all became clear. But of course, why didn't he see it straight away. He thought of sexual sins, he thought of swearing, offending the Holy Spirit, he thought of endless things and then he knew. Getting drunk! The curse of the drink. Why didn't he think of it before. Wasn't it this very weakness that tripped him up leading him into the other sins? Of course it was. The seats started to empty beside him and he quickly wrote down "Drunkenness. Please Lord deliver me." Following the queue he dropped his note into a basket containing so many other white notes and he proceeded, as requested, around to the right and stood waiting as one by one each person moved to the next free priest. Beads of sweat broke out on Richard's forehead as he waited. Suddenly he wanted to turn around and walk away. His heart began to pound and he wondered was there something terribly wrong with him. Now it was Richard at the top of the queue. Wearing an anxious look, caught by the free priest, he walked over to him. Hands joined he whispered his sin to the lowered head of the confessor and waited what seemed to be an age. It was only a few seconds. The priest lifted his head, looked with gentleness at his penitent and then raised his hand over Richard's head. ..."Through the ministry of the Church may God grant you pardon and peace... and I absolve you..." Richard whispered his thanks and walked down the aisle looking for his seat in a bit of a daze. Once again his guardian angel waved to him and he smiled in relief. Seated in his chair he relaxed his trembling legs and closed his eyes. Amazed at this awesome Mass he began to pray his short penance. Without warning Richard's chest began to heave and shake. Before he knew what was happening he began to weep quietly and then in deep, deep sobs. His face in his hands the tears continued, like a gushing river that ran over him and through him and he sat there bewildered and helpless. Lady Fair beside him discreetly handed him a packet of tissues which he gratefully accepted. "I always bring at least six packs," she whispered quietly, "usually for myself." Richard smiled, his face hidden behind the big white tissue. As the music ministry sang "You are beautiful beyond comprehension, ..too marvellous for words," the tears continued to spill. Years of anxiety and fear, regrets and sadness all fell over in the tears until finally the dark haired handsome Irish man sat back, exhausted and spent. He fell into a peaceful rest as the spirit filled hymns of praise and thanks to God passed by his way.

In the dining hall the next day Stephen arrived over with his plate. "Am I disturbing you? May I eat with you?" Richard was glad to see Stephen. Not a man for conversing easily, without a few pints, he was delighted to have this English gentleman sit with him once again. Sarah was meeting a new group just arriving and Stephen's timing was perfect. "I saw you crying at the Mass, you okay now?" "Absolutely!" Richard grinned. "Never even knew I needed to cry. I'm not quite sure what happened?" "It looks like you received the healing grace of the Holy Spirit. That happens." "I've been praying for a long time Stephen, so long!" "Yes, I know, I do know. We can all identify with that. But sometimes we have to be absolutely ready. Maybe now is the time you are ready and not really before?" Stephen asked gently. Richard thought for a moment. "Yes I guess that's it. Like Augustine, not today Lord, tomorrow!" They both laughed and commented happily on how delicious and good the most simple of meals tasted and the best of home cooking too.

It was Friday night as usual and Richard walked into Sam's Place, the familiar sound of live Jazz music bringing a happy grin to his face. Sarah waved to where she was sitting. "There you are, I wasn't sure if you'd turn up tonight. What's it to be?" she asked, as the waiter took down her order and looked at Richard. "Pint of Guinness," Richard answered and then stopped. He didn't actually feel like a Guinness, his throat was dry and he could do with a fresh orange drink. "Make that an orange juice please." Sarah didn't question it, she doubled the order. When the chilled drinks arrived they both spontaneously raised their glasses in toast. "To what Richard?" Sarah asked. "To the next step in God's wonderful plan."

A Light That Shines On The Darkness

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 20:02:00 +0000

Dawn stretched forth and yawned, opening out bright new colours along the sky on the morning of the 22nd December. The old grey house stood a few meters away from the small white country church on the two acre land. The sound of crunched gravel groaned beneath the tyres as the car moved into the grounds and stopped outside the side door entrance. "Well here we are, welcome to Woodland Corner," Maria said. Siobhan opened the car door, stepped out and walked around to the front of the house. "It's a bit creepy," she whispered, as if the neighbouring house could hear her. At the front of the premises three crows flew hurriedly from the chimney above, flapping their wings in haste away from their claimed territory. "Don't like crows," she added, stepping aside for Maria to put the key in the door. "It's just the country birds and bees, you'll get used to it," Maria chuckled trying to be braver than she actually felt.

Inside the house, on the left of the corridor an open doorway revealed a spacious room. "This must have been the priest's living room then?" "That's right," Maria answered. "I think some of the parishioners still come in here for monthly parish meetings." Siobhan walked across the floor, rubbing her arms as she looked around the room. "I don't like it, this is a strange house. It's hard to believe this is a priest's house." Maria feared everything Siobhan voiced and her heart sank at what she felt was ahead. "Father Peter said the house hasn't been occupied since Father Brendan died three years ago. Obviously it needs a bit of a clean up!"

Down the corridor in the kitchen more worries presented themselves. There was no cooker. What was there was already broken beyond repair and everything else had been removed from the kitchen. "I know we arrived a day earlier than planned but there could have been even a little show of welcome from the parishioners? This house hasn't been cleaned in ages and it will take months to get it back in shape. Also how are we supposed to cook?" Maria questioned. The two women remained silent for a moment and then looked at each other. "You're not thinking what I'm thinking?" Maria asked. "That's right," Siobhan answered. "There is no welcome because we are not welcome." "Oh boy," Maria whistled, "looks like our evangelization work is going to be of a different kind in this parish and one that we ourselves might be educated in."

Upstairs there were four bedrooms. The windows had not been cleaned in years. Siobhan reached up with a brush, sweeping it over the doorway ledges to see the extent of the gathered dirt and dust. She jumped back as dead butterflies and moths fell down. "Heavens above, this is not good." "Ok," Maria said, "Let's get the kettle on and have a cuppa, the rest we'll sort out later." Siobhan picked one of the bedrooms overlooking the front of the house, while Maria was happy with the bedroom on the side corridor overlooking the sacristy entrance to the church.

"The sacristan and her husband have arrived, let's go over to meet them." The cobbled path ran from the house to the side of the church and within seconds Siobhan found herself in the sacristy in front of Harriet and Ted. Remembering her manners she shook their hands in greeting but stood back feeling shaken and shocked by this couple. The open drawer beside them revealed the linen altar cloths, the corporals and purificators all thrown in carelessly on top of a mixed bunch of objects. The old antique dresser was stained and dull, the absence of polish demeaning the dark wood, the same dresser the priests vestments were laid out on. There was neither order nor cleanliness visible. Disturbed by what she felt Siobhan walked through the hallway into the main church. She looked around on all the walls then back again to the altar. "Where's the crucifix?" she whispered to Maria. "There's no crucifix in the church." They returned to the house. "I've never seen a sacristy like it! Every sacristy I've been in, and they were only a few, were so beautifully looked after. The altar cloths, the altar vessels, the priests vestments, they were all attended to with reverence and care," Maria said concerned. "Who are these people?" Siobhan asked. "Apparently Harriet was the priest's housekeeper and she worked her way into the sacristy, she's been working here for over twelve years." "Oh heavens above, I think we've got trouble," Siobhan said as she went to her room and began to unpack the waiting cases. She took a small crucifix out of her case and went downstairs, placing it on the wall directly inside the front door. Then they sprinkled the house with holy water, deciding to make an appointment with the priest for a proper house blessing.

The doorbell rang. It was Sophie. She called to introduce herself. A friend of Harriet's and Ted's, she was tall with long black hair brushed back from her face which sat like a dark veil over her head. Her eyes were disturbing, an expression she was unable to shield as she looked with disdain at Siobhan. Behind the actress smile her dislike for the new residents was obvious as the cold eyes assessed the two ladies. "So you are in the choir then?" Siobhan asked. "Yes, I'm involved in several projects here in the parish. One is the choir, the other is a committee meeting and then there's a youth group and children's playgroup." "A children's playgroup? Would that have been here in this house?" "Yes," she replied, shifting nervously and looking at her watch. "I have to go, you'll be seeing me around."

Sleep would not come. Siobhan tossed and turned and finally got out of bed. Pulling on her dressing gown she walked out onto the corridor. She let out a roar as she bumped into Maria. "Oh my God, don't tell me you couldn't sleep either." They went into Siobhan's room and over to the window. The curtains were opened back. It was pitch black outside, no lights to be seen. "What is it?" Maria asked. "Don't know, but I think we should make some tea and sit by the window. Something is terribly wrong." Sitting in the dark they waited. Half way through their tea the sound of a car engine droned through the stillness of the night. It was 3.30am. The white car crept along the front of the premises, its white spoilers sticking out the back, making it easy to recognise again. Slowly, so very slowly the driver kerb crawled by the house, his car lights off. Siobhan's heart pounded with each beat as her eyes remained fixed on the vehicle. The car stopped outside the front entrance and reversed back as the driver looked up at all of the windows. The women sat back, heads hidden behind the curtain edges. Finally the car moved on again and disappeared into the night. "Oh boy," Maria let out a sigh. "This means we have to start praying, right?"

One week later and sleep was still impossible. Despite the days spent washing windows, washing floors and cleaning bathrooms, no extent of exhaustion could make way for sleep. Once again Siobhan was up and watching the cars come and go. Now it was a red car, each seemed to take its turn and always between two and four in the morning. Their concern was growing. They were in the heart of the country. The only house beside them was the pub across the road. The owners had made it known they did not like new occupants in the presbytery house. In the event of danger, they would be of no assistance. The question arose, were they also connected to this strange group of people?

Morning Mass was becoming a half hour of tension rather than the joy of the celebration of Mass as it always is. Maria's offer to assist in the sacristy was abruptly dismissed, a further nervousness appearing on the couple's faces as Maria explained she was a Eucharistic Minister. Her feeling that something was terribly amiss was soon to be confirmed.

The last room to be cleaned was the living room. Siobhan went over to the fireplace and looked at the rubbish inside. Maria arrived in, walked over and opened a match box. Taking out a match, she struck it, ready to put it on the rubbish on the grate. "Wait, don't!" Siobhan exclaimed and blew out the match. She stood up and listened. "Do you hear those crows, they have been building nests up there. I have seen them flying over to the woodland, taking sticks and bringing them back to this chimney. I think the chimney is blocked. We have to get it cleaned. Until then, we need to remove all this rubbish and not set light to it." Putting on household gloves Siobhan stooped down again at the fireplace. She began to take out the rubbish, bit by bit, putting it into the bin beside her. Suddenly they both stopped in shock. At the bottom of the rubbish, sitting in a clear see-through bag appeared to be two Hosts. Both women made the sign of the cross. Maria carefully removed the cello bag from the fireplace. "God protect us and have mercy on us, it's the sacred Hosts!" She phoned Fr. Peter.

When Fr. Peter was told what had been discovered his shaken reaction only confirmed their worst fears. He assured his new residents he would attend to the matter immediately. Somehow both ladies knew that now more than ever they were in danger. They didn't have long to wonder.

Finally exhausted Siobhan fell asleep. A short time passed. Suddenly three men in balaclavas kicked in the front door, ran up the stairs and burst open the bedroom door. They dragged Siobhan out of her bed and told her they were bringing her over to the Church. She sat up in the bed crying out. Maria ran in. "You called out, are you okay?" Siobhan fell back against the pillows, relieved it was only a bad dream and told her friend about it. "What were the men like?" "One was tall and heavily built, the second was small and heavy, the third was tall and thin."

Ten days later the women were sitting at the table in the kitchen, having lunch by the front window when three cars pulled up in front of the house. First a white car arrived, its white spoilers familiar, next a black citroen and then the red car swerved in beside the other two. The three men got out and walked to each other to chat, lighting up their tobacco. They turned towards the house, studying it as they smoked their cigarettes. Siobhan put down her cup and stared at the men. Alarms bells rang loud. "They're the same men in the dream. Okay, that's our cue to get the packed bags into the hallway. We cannot stay any longer. Our prayers are being answered, this is a clear indication we must go. Now is the time."

That same evening at 9.30pm the side door of the house opened and cases one by one were slipped quietly into the boot of the car. Checking the door was locked Maria sat into the driver's seat, took a deep breath and looked at her companion. "Ready?" "Yes." Without any lights on, Maria eased the car onto the avenue leading out of the house and both started praying as the car moved quietly past the pub and along the deserted country road. Deep into the country they drove as each mile ticked on the meter. "Just another few miles now and we are leaving enemy territory," Maria assured Siobhan. Once on the main town route they let out a sigh of relief as they moved beyond the dark veil of Woodland Corner that fell behind them.

Over the weeks the prompting for prayers continued. As the prayers went up, the light began to shine down on the darkness in Woodland Corner. A month after their departure a local house break-in two miles from the old presbytery opened up an investigation that would lead to sinister findings. The investigation was the beginning of revelations of the secret network that had taken over a quiet country parish, eventually having control over the empty parochial house. The house where they gathered once a month for clandestine meetings.

It was also the beginning of the evangelisation work for Maria and Siobhan. Part of the preparation being an education in Woodland Corner. A preparation that would be of value to them for the years ahead. Equipped and ready, they were sent forth in the knowledge of what they had learnt. That not everyone who says "Lord, Lord" is necessarily of the Lord. But for those who go forth in His name... what marvels the Lord will do!

"I am the Bread of Life.."

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 22:07:00 +0000

Bridget tossed and turned. The night was cold. She pulled the sheet over her shoulder, shivering beneath the covers. She turned over on her side once again, restless in her sleep. It was 12.30am in the morning of the 2nd November. Her eyes opened suddenly. Still on her side, the child blinked several times before turning over onto her back. The woman at the end of the bed was looking at Bridget her hand outstretched, pleading. Bridget sat up on her elbow, rubbed her eyes and looked on at the figure in front of her. The woman was dressed in a long black dress. She wore a shawl around her shoulders which was also dark in colour and frayed at the edges. She was tall, with distinct features, dark brown hair combed back from her face and held in a clip. She had a strong face with blue eyes clouded with grief. Her outstretched hand was red, almost brown. She again pleaded with the young child, "please help us, we have no bread!" Bridget looked to the right of the woman where two men stood, back a little in the distance, almost silhouetted as they were not so visible. One man seemed much younger and thiner than the other. The young child looked down at their tweed trousers and saw that they had no shoes. They were in their bare feet with caps in their hands and heads bowed. Bridget watched the incredible scene at the end of her bed unable to move, as she continued to take in this extraordinary sight. Suddenly the three figures disappeared as quietly as they had presented themselves. The young girl turned her head to the bedroom door which remained closed. The window was closed, the night air sitting in a grey film over the glass pane.

She called over to her sister in the bed opposite. "Helen, Helen, wake up! Wake up!" Helen popped her head out from under the blanket. "Stop calling me, I was asleep." "Helen, there was a woman here, she was so sad." "I'm not listening, you're trying to scare me, I'm going to sleep." Bridget continued to look at the spot at the end of the bed where she had seen the woman and the two men. She wasn't afraid and she wasn't scared, she told herself, but who were they? She slipped down beneath the blankets, her wide eyes peeking out over the covers for one more check before falling into a deep sleep.

"I did see her, I know exactly what she looks like," Bridget insisted as her sister teased her. "Then just forget about it, okay?" Bridget's mom repeated. "How can I forget if she was asking for help?" Bridget persisted. "Tell me what she looked like?" Bridget's father put down his newspaper, speaking for the first time about the incident. Bridget described the woman exactly as she had seen her. Her father looked at his wife then looked back at his daughter. "Well maybe your mom did have a visitor and she just had to pop into your room to get a glimpse of you adorable girls sleeping!" Happy that at least someone believed her, Bridget grabbed her school satchel and waved goodbye to her parents. She didn't get any explanation for the woman dressed in old clothes but she couldn't forget the three figures. The weeks and months passed. Every now and then but most especially in early November Bridget remembered the sad lady and she became sad, feeling helpless and worried that she had not helped. She could not forget the scene of that night. From then on every late October/early November cast a shadow of gloom over her young heart that she could not shake off and which remained until Christmas week of each year.

The years passed and Bridget turned eighteen. Her desire to work with the elderly was about to be fulfilled. A letter in the post confirmed her application acceptance for Nurse's Aide in a home for the elderly. It was the other side of the country, a five hour journey but she was excited at the thought of going to work for a religious order who looked after the aged and infirm. The excitement remained with her as she waved goodbye to her parents from the train pulling out. "I'm only going on a six month work experience with the elderly" she thought to herself, "but why am I so deeply excited?" she questioned. She would look back on this moment in years to come and see why the almost prophetic-like sense of something ahead was speaking to her heart!

Sister Mary gave a warm welcome to Bridget. Taking her suitcase she led the way upstairs. "I'm giving you this room, it's near the main entrance, chapel, and seafront, so you are free to come and go as you wish. If you need to know anything don't hesitate to ask! Also, feel free to make coffee or tea in your room and to visit the chapel at anytime."

That night, when the sisters had finished prayer and the lights were dimmed, Bridget walked along the back corridor to the chapel and opened the door. She stepped inside and genuflected. She looked around in wonder at the beautiful stained glass windows. There was a reverence here, a sacred worship to the Lord that greeted one immediately on entering this house of prayer. It was the tabernacle that drew her. She walked up to the top of the aisle and slipped into the front seat. Kneeling there, she studied the cloth over the tabernacle. It was made of old Irish lace, so delicate and fine, like an exquisite veil especially made for a royal throne. The pure white lace, placed over the tabernacle, took her breath away and she sat back in her seat, unable to take her eyes off the sanctuary in front of her.

The summer passed quickly and only two weeks remained of her six month work experience. "Good morning Bridget!" Bridget turned to see Sr. Mary smiling at her. "I have a new resident this morning, I'd like you to attend to Canon Moran if you don't mind. He's an elderly priest who is recovering from surgery. Would you assist him on short walks?"

The priest closed his prayer book and looked up at Bridget with interest. "You are from the country?" "Yes Father," she replied as she took his black jacket and put it on a hanger. "Glendusk." "Glendusk! Good heavens, that's my homeland," the priest replied, liking everything about this nursing home! "What is your surname?" "Quinn." "Quinn! But your ancestors were my neighbours. That would be Marie and Martin Quinn. Did you know that?" Bridget shook her head. "Oh yes, your great grandmother was well known in the village. She worked hard in the fields. For hours a day she would be out there, late into the evening, her hands red almost brown in the long hours of tilling and planting. She lost a son from fever and she died herself while waiting for the return of her husband who had gone to America in search of work. All very sad. It was feared he died tragically shortly after arriving on Staten Island, no trace of him anywhere. My own family spoke often of Marie Quinn. You would be very like her I would think!" "Why would you say that?" Bridget asked curiously. "Well Marie was tall, her brown hair always held back in a clip, and her blue eyes that held laughter before difficult times." Bridget was folding towels and stopped suddenly. She walked over to the priest...."sorry father, what did you just say?" Canon Moran described again his neighbour of years gone by and Bridget knew without a doubt he had described the woman she had seen seven years previously in her room. "What's the matter?" Canon Moran asked as he saw her look of amazement.

Bridget related all that had happened on that November night in her room. The priest listened attentively, nodding occasionally. "When did this happen did you say?" "It was very late in the night, going into the 2nd of November," Bridget replied. "Do you know what day that is in the Church year?" He asked. "I know it's the month for the Holy Souls," Bridget answered. "I know that now, but at the time I wasn't aware of that." Canon Moran never took anything for granted that spelt out grace at work and once again here it was in an every day work situation. "We pray for the Holy Souls on the 2nd of November. It is important we do not forget them," he told her. "Our loved ones, gone before us benefit greatly from our prayers at that time. If they are in purgatory they need our prayers to assist them on their final steps home to heaven." The priest continued, "having listened to your account of what happened I think we should have a Mass said for the woman who asked for prayers, it may well be that you had a dream, it may be that you did actually see her, whatever it is, God's mercy works in wonderful ways!"

The following week Bridget attended a private Mass for her great grandmother, and the two men, mentioned also in the prayers for the deceased, her son and husband. At the consecration of the Mass, as the priest raised the host, Bridget burst into tears without any warning. Her hands covered her face as the tears of generations spilled through her fingers onto the polished floor of the prayerful chapel. Like a small river dam set free to flow, on and on the tears spilled, while the spirit filled eyes of Canon Moran took in those moments of grace and mercy. Gathering herself together to receive the Eucharist Bridget stood up and walked up the aisle, head bowed before the Lord as she received the sacred host for the pleading lady of many years earlier. Back in the pew, kneeling down, the words flowed up, sweet as honey, from the depths of her being into her heart and thoughts - "I am the Bread of Life, whoever comes to me shall never be hungry..." Suddenly, a dark invisible weight, like a heavy winter coat that had sat as a burden upon her young shoulders for seven years was now being removed. The heavy weight taken off and lifted up into the air disappeared. For some time after Mass Bridget remained there deep in thought, immersed in profound peace.

As she stepped outside the chapel, Canon Moran walked towards her, his hand outstretched. "Well, it's time to go! I have made a very good recovery and I continue to do the Lord's work for another while, if He wishes it to be so!" He smiled at Bridget, his head nodding in quiet understanding while his thoughts spoke inwardly of the work ahead that this young woman had. A call that would take her to places unknown. Bridget in her own private thoughts wondered was she actually putting her hand into the hand of a saintly man as she bid farewell to a close friend of the Lord's. As the taxi drove off, she remained standing there waving. She knew something had happened, she didn't need to question any more. She also knew that when it was time for Canon Moran to be taken to his heavenly home there would be many souls there waiting to welcome him, one in particular - her great grandmother Marie.

A Good Turn Always Comes Round

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 18:09:00 +0000

The sound of thunder roared over the county with a fury that was heard across the borders. The small white thatched cottages separated by fields and stone walls became more illuminated as each strike of lightening lit up the evening sky. Margaret O'Reilly pulled her Aran cardigan closer around her shoulders and turned to the picture of the Sacred Heart over the fireplace. She reached up and took down the holy water bottle and handed it to her husband. Seán took it, opened the cap and gathered his family around him. Young Michael trembled as the next bolt flashed across the room. He ran to his father's side. Kathleen was swept up into her mother's arms not quite sure what was going on. The soft red light from the lantern on the Sacred Heart picture cast a calm and peace over the family room. The man of the house made the sign of the cross, the rest of the O'Reilly family following. Asking God's protection upon him and and his loved ones, Seán sprinkled himself and his family first with the blessed water before proceeding to the rooms in the cottage.

The drops of water continued to pour down through the roof above, sounding like touch typing hitting the galvanised buckets on the kitchen floor. The damaged slates rattled under the pushing winds. "I'll have to climb up there, if I don't we'll lose the entire roof." Margaret nodded, determined that the fear of what might happen will not overtake her trust in God. Seán pulled on his heavy tweed coat and called young Michael into his embrace. "Don't you be afraid now, your father won't be long up there and you'll be saying your prayers for me, won't you son?" Michael nodded and stood back to let his dad go. The door swept open with a heavy wind sweeping in. It was Patrick, their neighbour from across the fields. "In the name of God, what are you doing out in this storm Patrick Kelly?" "Well I'm hardly going to let you up there on your own. You'll need another man to pass the slates and nails. C'mon then, we only have a short time before the storm gathers strength."

Outside, Seán took the holy water container from his coat pocket. Going to the four corners of the cottage perimeter he prayed, asking God's protection and for the Lord to send His angels, appointing them to each corner of the field where his humble dwelling stood. Then, sprinkling the blessed water over the land Seán gave thanks to God for His mercy and protection on his loved ones and home.

Patrick placed the ladder against the side wall and leaned his back against it. "You go on up, nice and easy now. I'll follow with the slates." Seán ascended the steps one by one, stopping before taking the next step to be sure his footing was secure. The rain poured down in heavy streams to be quickly upsurged and scattered by the strong gusts. Seán averted his face each time the wind struck with the rain and waited before continuing on up. Next, it was Patrick's turn. Holding the small black slates in front of him, he steadied his hand on the ladder and moved up slowly, the ladder shaking at the push of the wind. Michael darted out of the cottage and rushed to the ladder, his mother calling after him. He sat on the second rung placing his arms on the sides of the ladder, watching Patrick continue to climb. Finally on top, the men kept their heads down. Removing the damaged and broken slates they quickly eased the new ones into place and pounded the nails into the marked holes. The lightening struck with a stronger force finding the figures of the men bent over on the roof. Returning to the ladder Patrick made his way down until he reached the second rung from the bottom and then called out for Séan to hurry. Safely down, the three figures ran back into the cottage removing their soaked coats. The young family, along with Patrick, gathered around the fire and warmed themselves, thanking their neighbour for his courageous trek across the fields in the gathering storm.

Dawn arrived and radio news bulletins informed the neighbouring villages of the immense damage done around the countryside. To many farmers grief, animals were struck by lightening and found dead lying in the fields. Fallen trees blocked roads leading into local towns. Flooding spanned a twenty mile radius with many villagers unable to travel to the towns for work. It was a week before things began to be normal again.

Many years passed and once again Michael jumped the stone walls and raced across the fields to Patrick's cottage. By road it would be a mile driving, by running across the fields he was there as quick. He lifted the latch on the cottage door and walked in. The fire crackled softly, its red embers heating Patrick's stew cooking slowly over the grills. "I've come to tell you my news Patrick." "Well now, let me guess, you'll be leaving us soon eh?" Michael nodded as he sat in the old rocking chair beside the fire. "You'll be heading in the direction of Dublin?" Michael nodded again. "You'll be going beyond the love of the land to serve a greater cause?" Michael chuckled. "So you know I'm off to Maynooth then?" "Well you better sit down lad and tell me all about it," Patrick said, as he handed him a mug of tea and pulled up the other armchair closer to the fire.
"I'm going to be a priest." The dark brown eyes full of depth looked at his old friend. Patrick tried not to show any emotion. "It's a fine priest you'll be and with the Sacred Heart watching over you, you'll be returning to give me your blessing." Some time later Michael waved goodbye and jumped the first stone wall with a leap that left Patrick deep in thought as he walked back into his living room. Thoughts of the spiritual and emotional hurdles that lay ahead for this young man. Hurdles jumped that would lead him down into valleys and up into mountain heights, paving an interior pathway marked out by God. He sat down at his fireplace and closed his eyes in prayer before the six bells rang.

The following week the family and neighbours all gathered for dinner in the cottage. Bridie O'Callaghan, Michael's Godmother, presented the young man with an old Latin Missal handed down by her Grand Uncle who had been Bishop of the Diocese. Michael expressed his heartfelt thanks to each neighbour who presented their farewell gifts and prayers. Finally his father, unable to hold back his emotion, handed his son a new Bible. Tears spilled down Seán's cheeks as the parents embraced their son, confirming their support and blessing for his priestly call. The next morning Michael waved goodbye from the train as it pulled out. They would see their son again soon. In the letting go, God's peace filled Seán and Margaret's hearts as they walked together down the country road.

Seven years passed very quickly. Every summer Michael had returned to work on the land. The months of study in Maynooth seemed shorter as each year went by. He knew he was blessed with parents who prayed for him every day. He was united in Spirit through their prayers and he settled easily into study with a peaceful disposition of heart. Now his Ordination had come to pass and he wouldn't forget the deep emotion he experienced as he was ordained priest. One neighbour couldn't make the celebration. Patrick's letter to him on his Ordination morning was deeply moving, wishing him ever blessing and joy in his priesthood. His illness wasn't anything too serious, he had said in his note, but after a long time with a chest infection, he didn't think he'd be able for the day. Michael understood as he knew these flus and viruses could leave you quite weak. But he wondered was his old neighbour really alright? Divine intervention was to lead Michael in a way that he wasn't to expect as his old neighbour remained on his mind,but soon he was to know why.

At the evening celebration of his Ordination, an invited guest had an unusual request. "I'd be grateful if you would help me out with a favour?" "Sure, what is it?" Michael asked. Mr. O' Leary explained. "I bought a second hand car in Dublin, a Humber Hawk, 1952, she's a beauty. But it won't be ready for travelling across country until tomorrow and I have to return home tonight. Do you think if the car was sent here, you would drive it down for me and I can collect it from your home the next day?" Michael was delighted to be able to help. He wasn't due to travel home until the following week but could change that easily. He was looking forward to going home a newly ordained priest.

The rain poured down as Michael left Maynooth. He had no idea it was to get worse, that a storm was moving in from the Atlantic across the western coast. Settling back into the soft leather seat of the Humber Hawk he moved her out slowly onto the Maynooth road. Familiar now with the gears he began his four hour journey.
Five miles from his country village the storm hit with a vengeance and Michael slowed down to a snail's pace. It was impossible to make out the road in front of him. Only memory of the well known route he had walked since childhood led him along. He turned left at the village crossing and drove very slowly. Suddenly he braked. A big tree lay across the narrow road. He got out and saw that the entire road was blocked. Back in the car he reversed with extreme caution and sighed with relief when he arrived onto the main road. His only hope now was to drive on to the next left turning and go around by Patrick's cottage. Torrential rain flooded the windscreen. He leaned over the steering wheel watching the landmarks of the familiar countryside, taking each sharp corner with skilled driving. Michael pulled up at Patrick's cottage deciding to call in, now that he was passing, rather than leaving it until the morning. Lifting the latch on the cottage door he walked into the old living room. The low light over the Sacred Heart sent its warmth across to the visitor who had arrived. The room was empty. "Patrick, Patrick are you there?" Michael called out. The bedroom door to the left of the fireplace was slightly ajar. A bedside lamp shed its light across the floor. Michael stood there in the silence, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall. "Patrick, are you in there? It's Michael, I'm home." Michael pushed open the bedroom door, its hinges creaking a little as the door moved back. He stepped inside and looked towards the bed. An eldery man lay there, an ashen face, rosary beads entwined in his hands, his breathing shallow. Michael rushed out to the car, took his black bag out of the seat and ran back in. Putting on his stole and bringing his prayer book and holy oil with him he returned to the bedroom. He pulled up a chair beside the bed and made the sign of the cross. Patrick opened his eyes. "Michael! You've arrived! The Lord sent you!" Reaching across he took Michael's hand. "Patrick," Michael whispered, "if you like, and if you are able, I can hear your confession. Then I will give you the anointing of the sick." Patrick nodded, a smile appearing on his face. After giving absolution to his old friend, Patrick's hand fell gently to the side of the bed as the priest uttered the words "Go forth, Christian soul, from this world in the name of God the almighty Father, who created you....."

The lightening struck the green fields around the countryside, hitting all corners of the quiet village area. But a different kind of light filled the bedroom of a small white-washed cottage in the same fields. A light that was unseen to the human eye, a light that illuminated the heart of Fr. Michael as he remained on his knees in prayer beside the body of Patrick Joseph Kelly.

The Wrong Kind of Power

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 20:45:00 +0000

The apartment block sat at the end of a narrow side street leading into a cul de sac. Catherine took her bag from the back seat of the taxi and looked up at the two storey townhouse before walking down the three steps into the ground floor apartment. "Who has cultivated such beautiful roses?" she asked, stopping at the small square lawn. "Oh I like to have a few flowers every year," Maria replied. "Yes, and not everyone can produce beauties like that," Catherine said, looking at the deep red of the roses. "A royal family you've got there!" Maria laughed away her compliment and welcomed her friend to her apartment.

"Let's just fill you in on the neighbours," Maria remarked. "Upstairs to the right of us, there are three Chinese students studying medicine. They have just arrived and their English is not the best. The eldest of the three may call in to you. He was here yesterday to ask for assistance with some forms they had to fill out again for the Immigration Office. In the ground apartment beneath them are a young couple recently married. In the townhouse over us there are no tenants, they have just vacated the premises and the curtains have been taken down. It should be a pretty quiet time for you. I won't be home any evening until about eight so I do hope you enjoy the rest and prayer. Across from the apartment block you'll see a big old house on private grounds. That's a centre for religious studies and the residents here in Cobbler's Court are free to walk around those beautiful gardens anytime. It really is lovely over there in the evenings if you'd like to have a walk around.

The next morning, after Maria left for work, Catherine made some breakfast and walked outside. She was delighted at Maria's invitation to have a week over at her apartment, the other side of the city. It couldn't have come at a better time. The house on Mary's Road, beside the parish church, was busier than usual with the doorbell ringing non stop, the phones ringing and several guests staying. One lively character who repeatedly sang "New York, New York," into the late evening hours added a lot of laughter and humour to the already busy house. It seemed just the right time to get away for a quiet week. Her hopes of such a week wasn't going to work out quite like that.

Outside, the sun spilled in golden strips onto the rose bush, prompting Catherine to make a quick return into the apartment and bring out a chair with her Bible. "I really must settle down and get in some scripture reading," she thought. She fixed the chair neatly in by the window. The red roses were in full bloom. The morning was warm with a soft breeze that swept over the petals like a heavenly duster, displaying the beauty of God's creation in the most hidden corners of Ireland. With the scriptures on her lap she closed her eyes for a few moments enjoying the sun's warm light on her face. Lost in her own thoughts she was unaware of the long silver car that pulled silently into the kerb.

The door of the car opened. A song on the radio stopped in mid chorus and a travel bag dropped onto the path in front of her, shaking her out of her private thoughts. Catherine wanted to look up but somehow she couldn't. She opened the scriptures still sitting on her lap pretending to read. Next, a pair of black slip on shoes appeared in front of her. The driver continued to sit there for a few seconds before getting out. He locked his car door and then walked around to the boot. Catherine remained as she was looking at the page in front of her. Tins of paint were carried to the stairs of the townhouse. The man stood on the bottom step and waited there, the view of his neighbour down the steps a lot clearer. His silent presence commanded her attention and she found herself looking up into a face that both surprised and startled her. "Hello," he spoke to her. "Hello" she replied in turn. He was dark haired, a neat hair cut that heightened his deep set blue eyes. They were not kind or warm eyes but they held your attention. His grey shirt, tucked inside casual grey trousers displayed a fit and healthy body that moved with agility and confidence as he picked up the tins of paint, threw his luggage bag over his shoulder and checked his key ring as he ascended the steps. Halfway up he stopped, looked down over the railings at the Bible on her lap, and then walked up into his house and locked the door behind him. "Wow," Catherine thought. "Wonder why a look like that would make a heartbeat stop for a second. He was a mystery man, that's what he was. A mystery man with a cold authority that made one feel one had to stand to attention in the presence of this stranger."

That evening, deciding to have a short stroll, Catherine went up the three steps and walked towards the private grounds of the Religious House in front of her. As she turned into the garden her shoelace became loose and she stopped at a corner seat lifting up her foot to retie it. As she was fixing her shoe she noticed the man from the townhouse standing out on the steps, his thumbs in his trouser pockets, watching her walking. Catherine returned to the apartment a short while later. She descended the steps only to see him looking out at her from where he now sat in his front room upstairs. Rows of books were stacked on the table beside him. He looked up from where he was reading and nodded at her.

The next day the sun beckoned her out and she sat in her chair. Hardly three minutes passed when the man appeared and startled her with an unexpected "Good morning!" She opened her eyes. "I didn't hear you. Are you there long?" He took a newspaper from under his arm. "Nope, I'm just returning from the shop." Once again his eyes fell on her Bible "You a nun?" "Do I look like one?" He laughed. "It's hard to tell these days." He walked down the steps. "May I join you for a few moments? I should have introduced myself yesterday. My name is Gary, I own the apartment upstairs. I have new tenants arriving soon so I'm here to do a bit of painting." Catherine brought out another chair. "If you're not a nun why are you reading the Bible?" "I work for the Lord," she replied. He looked at Catherine for a long time. "So you have a vocation? My mother is very Catholic. She prays all the time. She says everyone has a vocation, would you agree?" This was not what the young woman expected and she in turn looked at the mystery man. "May I ask," she said, "what are you studying?" "Oh just a bit of study." "What did you study?" he asked her without answering the question. "I didn't," she replied. "You didn't go to college?" he asked, astonished. "No." She laughed at his disbelief. "Why did you think I did?" He became disturbed and then suddenly jumped up, mumbling quietly to himself. "Excuse me, I've just remembered I have to make a call." He walked off with a quiet goodbye that contradicted the icy aloofness which greeted her the previous day.
The following morning Gary arrived down. "Sorry about yesterday. I have to leave again. I've business abroad so I have to go tomorrow." "Where do you travel to?" she asked. "I go to Spain, Holland and Italy mostly." Again, he gave her that look that made her feel a little uneasy. Somehow she didn't want to know about his work abroad. "Anyway, I'd like to ask you something before I go?" Catherine waited. He sat down on the empty chair beside her. "I was chatting to a guy in the pub the other night and he was talking about people involved in certain organisations." He looked at Catherine before continuing. "This guy said that there are people who take oaths, you know, like promises and they make them within secret societies, or secret political groups? This guy said that the people involved, who take these oaths have power." He stretched out his legs and folded his arms across his chest. He looked intently at her and said "Now, my question to you is, do you think that could be right?" Catherine thought of the man the evening before who commanded her attention and she looked back again at his expression. "You speak of the wrong kind of power." "And what do you mean by that?" he asked abruptly, his arms still folded across his chest. "You speak of a power that harms, that works in secret, a power that works in opposition to God and to the Light. Therefore, a power that inevitably leads to the destruction of all that God has created good. In answer to your question? - it's the wrong kind of power." As Catherine finished speaking a police car swerved into the kerb beside them and two policemen got out, checking the small notebook in their hands. Gary jumped up and looked at Catherine in disbelief, his facial expression almost accusing her of something she couldn't comprehend. She looked at the policemen and then back at Gary. He rushed off and took the steps two at a time before locking his front door. The policemen continued to check the notebook with the house numbers on the doors overhead. Eventually one of the policemen pointed to the house where the Chinese students were staying and they walked up and rang the bell.

The following morning Gary arrived down to where Catherine sat, carrying his luggage bag. "I'd like to apologise about yesterday. I was in a hurry to make a phonecall." "Well, let's just say my plan for a quiet few days didn't exactly go that way, but when we walk God's road we can expect the unexpected!" "Will you pray for me?" he asked suddenly. "Yes." "Then there's one thing you need to know" his voice softened. "I'm not studying. Those books you saw me reading? It was an act. I left school very young. Yesterday evening I wanted to make an impression. The truth is I suffer from dyslexia." Catherine knew it to be an important moment. "When we follow God, Gary, we don't need to impress, we find our own call and we become who we are intended to be." He nodded, his deep set blue eyes almost changing colour as the sun's rays fell over onto his face. "Maybe we'll talk again, if you're still following the Lord that is," he added humourously. She walked with him to the car. "Where to this time?" "I have a meeting in Spain tomorrow morning, I'm flying out tonight." Catherine suddenly remembered she was only on a short holiday. "I won't be here when you return," she called out as the engine started. "I'll know where to find you," he said from the open window, saluting her before the car moved off as silently as it had arrived.
The next evening, after dinner, Catherine took the plates to the sink while Maria turned on the TV for the evening news. The headlines flashed across the screen. "Concerns are growing over possible paramilitary activity in Spain following a report this morning of three Irish men seen in a hotel in Spain in the company of a known terrorist......." Suddenly the man sitting in the chair, his arms folded across his chest, flashed through her mind. That night, as she lit the blessed candle, Catherine joined her prayers with the mother who sought the repentance and conversion of her son, the son who was bound by the dark power of a secret oath. With the prayers rising to the Almighty, she recalled the words from the Mass - 'All powerful and ever living God......'

'You need not fear the terrors of night nor the arrow that flies in the daytime...'

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 21:18:00 +0000

The names and places in the short stories on this posting are changed for privacy or anonymity of any person therein. The stories themselves are real life events.

Catherine heard the sound of the car turning into the driveway. She ran out, dishcloth still in her hand. Her heart sank at Teresa’s solemn face looking out the car window. "It didn’t pass?" she asked as Teresa closed the car door. Suddenly there were shouts of joy "Of course it did. Thanks be to God." "Oh don’t do that," Catherine replied but couldn’t resist the whoopee shout as the two friends walked indoors. Not sure if it was all the excitement, but as she closed the door she noticed a tall thin man across the street standing there, chatting on his mobile as he looked over at the two women walking into the house.
"I just can’t believe we have the car for another two years. What a good ol’ buddy! She should run pretty well through the country roads," Teresa said as she put down her handbag and took out the certificate of the National Car Test. It only seemed like yesterday when Fr. John was over to bless the car. They recalled how he stood at the car doors. "Do you have a blessed medal in here" he asked. Noting their obvious answer he said "Okay, here is a miraculous medal, now I will bless it" and with his hand he blessed the medal and placed it inside on the dashboard. Five years had passed since then and it was hard to believe how quickly the time had gone. The following week they would be driving West and it couldn’t arrive soon enough. To walk in the green fields again, count the many different hues hidden in the landscape, watch the swallows build their nests, and perhaps hear a few of their sweeter songs to the Creator in early morning or late evening. "A time for everything," Catherine thought, a time to move West!

Catherine went out into the garden and sat beneath the big old apple tree that was older than the house itself. Their mission time in Dublin was drawing to a close. Mary was well settled now in the cloister and while at first she was very much missed, their prayers for each other united them more closely in Spirit than perhaps when they all shared accommodation together. She smiled as she remembered Mary’s last words to them both "Want to come with me?" Catherine knew her place was in the world, as it had been since she devoted her life to the Lord at the age of twenty five. Twenty two years later she marvelled at the way in which she had been led by His Spirit. In many ways she felt her work was only beginning, perhaps the longest part had been the life of quiet prayer. She delighted in the walled garden, a shield from neighbouring houses, giving privacy to enjoy the blossoms around her. Once again she looked at the white and lilac flowers hanging over the old wooden gate leading into the back garden. The pastel colours, splashed across the walls, were an attractive contrast against the deep green of the trees and lawns. The different fragrances, especially in the late evening, mingled in the fresh air that skirted around her face and hands as she wrote.

Teresa waved as she drove off suggesting her flat mate should stay indoors this time until she returned. She had a small grocery list for shopping and wouldn’t be away too long. Catherine went back into the living room and sat down to some work at the computer. Suddenly she became uneasy and restless. She got up and went into the kitchen to make a tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil she walked over to the window and looked out at the front lawn. More flowers were budding. She went upstairs. "I’ll get full view here," she thought. As she looked down into the flower beds that unease suddenly moved over Catherine again and she stood still. Standing to one side of the bedroom window she looked out and across the road. All along the tree lined avenue it was quiet. No one was in sight. Hardly a car passed by. The avenue was empty of traffic and pedestrians. She turned to move away dismissing the unease but paused one more time to scan the tree lined avenue and then her heart seemed to stop. A pair of grey blue tennis shoes were visible underneath the blossom trees across from her front door. Slowly her eyes moved up to see a patch of worn denim jeans. The rest of the man was hidden by the wide green bush all around the wall. Catherine picked up her mobile and began texting "Pls return, we seem to have trouble." She then went down the stairs to check all doors and windows and said a short prayer.

The sound of the car in the driveway was music to her ears as Catherine walked out and looked up and down the street. Teresa looked around. "He’s gone," "I know that" Teresa replied. "But why is he hanging around and who is he? I don't like it."
"I would really like to pray Psalm 91, if that's okay with you," Catherine said as they began evening prayer. "Sure, but we always ask God's protection every morning so is there any reason for this?" "Don't know, just have a need to say it every day in these days" was the reply.
The weather forecast warned of heavy rain on the way and all doors and windows were checked before dark set it. A headache continued to niggle at Catherine who was now also feeling the beginnings of a fevery flu. She decided to call it a night. "I’m going to stay up a while and catch up on some online english teaching." Teresa called from the kitchen.

Catherine pulled the duvet over her, glad to have rest in her cosy bedroom.. The evening prayer time was so peaceful but sleep wouldn’t come. She sat up, propped another pillow behind her head and sat back. "It’s too humid," she thought. "Need to let the night air at this headache." She jumped out of bed and eased the window open enough for the cool night air to move in and not too much that the raindrops would follow! Settling back against the pillows she sat in silence, listening to the pounding drops hit the deserted streets and roof of the car in the driveway. The rain continued to pour down, the sky darker than its night colour. Suddenly her eyes shot open at the loud thumping sound. She sat up. "What is that?" she thought. It was so difficult to figure it out with the noise of the raindrops falling in heavy sheets of grey. Again she listened. There it was. A thumping sound, like a thud, a continuing thud. Her heart began to race. She ran out into the corridor calling down to Teresa. "What’s going on?" "S-h-h-h," Catherine whispered, with her finger to her lips. "Come upstairs and look out the window." Teresa rushed to the window. "Oh no" she cried. "There are two guys, with hoods over them and they are kicking in the door of my car." "Quick, turn on all lights in the house, every room, except this one quickly." As Catherine looked out the window in disbelief one of the "hoodies" looked up and spotted her white face in the dark room. "Let’s get out of here," he cried to his mate. To her astonishment, a low whistle sounded through the dark night air. A car out of nowhere screeched up to the outside of the house. A door shot open with the driver shouting aggressively to the two men to hurry. Catherine watched on speechless. As the second guy jumped into the car she got a glimpse of a grey blue tennis shoe hanging out of the doorway as the driver sped off turning the corner on two wheels and heading towards the dual carriageway into the city.

Catherine reached over for the arm of the chair beside her bed and lowered herself down into the cushions. "Did I just see a getaway car speeding off like in the movies, or has this flu got the better of me and I'm delirious?"

The police officer jotted down the last note and closed his book. "Well ladies, your car is the only one this criminal gang didn’t get. They have been doing the neighbourhood and many more besides." "But why would they want an old banger like ours" Teresa asked. "To do a job, they have a robbery planned, they get an old car first, hit the place and then dump or burn the car." replied the Garda. "Do you mean these are a professional gang?" "That’s right."

The next morning the car was brought to the garage. To their delight it could be fixed. "The gang kicked in the door, that’s the way they can open it, but one of you guys saw them before they got very far in their efforts and so there is little damage done after all." The garage man told Teresa. The old reliable was returned two days later as good as new and the following day the car was packed up with everything ready for the journey West. As Catherine and Teresa opened the Psalms of thanksgiving, a lilac petal fell from the Bible where Catherine had put it on the night they had prayed Psalm 91 - '..you need not fear the terrors of night nor the arrow that flies in the daytime...'

"I am with you always...."

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Mon, 11 May 2009 18:21:00 +0000

The elderly lady closed the front door with a loud thud, the bang causing me to lift my head. Buttoning her coat she walked slowly down the pathway and crossed over the narrow street. I stopped the lawn mower and walked towards her as she waved. "I'm Olive" she said shyly. "Welcome to the neighbourhood." She looked past my shoulder into the open porch way. I answered her silent question "my friend Therese is out, she'll be back in an hour." She nodded "I just wondered would you like to come over and have a cup of tea with me?"
I walked into the bright neat living room and sat down where Olive pointed. She moved slowly and graciously towards the table. Placing the small flowered china cup on to the saucer she then lifted the heavy tea pot and poured the golden liquid slowly into the cup. My first thought was to jump up and offer to do it but a sudden glance from Olive assured me she was used to this and was well able, thank you, which she certainly was!
I sank into the comfortable couch and sipped my tea as Olive chatted about the neighbourhood. "Do the neighbours call in?" She looked at me for a moment and answered candidly. "I don't encourage them to call in. I don't like gossip, I too may be a victim of that!" As a final gesture on the matter her hand firmly brushed away the few biscuit crumbs that fell on to her soft wool skirt.
In the peaceful atmosphere of the room I felt I was in the presence of a beautiful soul, a heart only known to God. A pleasant hour passed before we knew it and it was time to go. The caution to tread easily and respectfully stayed with me as I waved goodbye, leaving our front door open for our guest to pop in at anytime.
The weeks moved on and Olive continued to make the occasional stroll down her pathway and across the road, her frail hand waving in the air as she passed by. Now on return from her short stroll she would call in, first giving the door bell a quick two beeps before walking in through the open porch way. We loved to see her and she began to believe it! On leaving, there would appear that quiet smile and then the direct look that seemed to speak of private pain.
It was a month or so later, when Andrew called to the house to introduce himself. He stepped into the living room where he told us of his cousin's illness and his concern. "She won't go into a home for the elderly. She dearly desires to stay in her own home." The following question was put to us. "Would you assist Olive for a few hours a day and see how it goes?" How could we refuse. If this was Olive's request we were happy to do so. Andrew was delighted and said he must thank Mrs Gorman for telling him. "Telling you what?" I asked curiously. "Well, that you had worked with the elderly and you might..." At my raised eyebrow, a light pink colour flooded the gentleman's face and words stuck in his throat. We had yet to meet Mrs Gorman ...but she seemed to have already made her enquiries!
We went over to the house. At first I thought I should just go ahead and do a few minor chores but on second thoughts from my experience of working with the elderly it was always better to ask rather than assume. "I don't mind you dusting the shelves downstairs, but there are quite a few books and ornaments so it may be a lot to get through!" Once Olive knew our intentions she relaxed more and I set to dusting while Therese assisted Olive with washing and dressing. It was while dusting a book shelf that I saw the beautiful soft white leather-bound book hidden behind some encyclopaedias. A book that spoke of something private and intimate. I went upstairs to Olive. She looked at what was in my hands and invited me to sit down. She opened the book, looked at it quietly for a moment and then closing it again lay her head back gently against the pillows. "It is my keepsake of my act of consecration to the Sacred Heart. When I was young I made this act of consecration. Some years later I got married. However, six months into the marriage, I ran away from my husband and fled home to my parents to this very house where I remain to this day." Her eyes looked up at me and I remained silent as she continued. "My mother welcomed me with 'I told you so,' my father welcomed me with a warm embrace." Then she gave a sad smile. "I haven't been to Church in a while, neither have I been to confession. This old heart is tired. Life moves on."
I couldn't sleep much that night and I prayed that God might enlighten me as to how I could help Olive. I kept thinking of the beautiful leather-bound book containing the inscribed writing of her act of consecration at the age of sixteen, and I fell asleep.
The next evening, sitting with my elderly friend, perhaps the answer came. "Olive, you gave your heart to the Sacred Heart, and asked that He might be your guide?" "Yes," she nodded. "Then", I went on, "if this is so, and if you will forgive me for speaking on a personal note, would it be right to say that the Sacred Heart always really was your first love, the love that leads love?" "Okay" she nodded. "Well," I continued, holding my breath, "I can't help but feel the Sacred Heart wants to be with you again in a very special way. He knows your pain of so many years and He knocks on the door of your heart asking if you might let Him in again?" She closed her eyes signalling a need for a little sleep. I closed the door quietly after me and felt my little part was done, but not sure if I had done it right! It was just Olive and the Lord now.
The next day Olive phoned across to say that she did not need any help anymore as she felt she was now recovering. I resigned myself to the fact that I had spoken out of turn. It was to be a while before our friend rang again but not too long!
"I called the priest and he will be here in a few hours, I would like some help to get ready, if you are free, and have a tea tray set up for my guest." Olive was back in form! I had just put the tea tray on the table when the door bell rang. It was Fr. Bradley. His interest in her beautiful garden was a wonderful introduction to Olive and I left them chatting as I raced across the road to check the roast chicken in the oven. Later on, I popped in to see our neighbour who had settled down for the evening. As I walked into the room I couldn't miss the new light in her eyes and the peace in her resting. "Everything's fine" she smiled.
The door across the road gave a loud bang and I rushed out to meet Olive as she was passing by. She followed into the kitchen to hear our news. "We're leaving the neighbourhood, moving to the country. It's just been confirmed today!" Olive didn't seem surprised and nodded in understanding. Our tea time together that evening was without any trace of sadness - real friendships are built on trust.
To our joy, Olive visited us in our new place in the early summer. Unknown to us then, it was to be the last time we'd meet. On 6th November, Andrew phoned. He had sad news. His cousin had passed away peacefully in her sleep, in her own home at the age of eighty two. I put down the phone and picked up the beads. I was on the second decade of the Rosary when I stopped and thought of the soft white leather-bound book. Peace filled my heart as I inwardly said farewell to a soul who was always destined to be with the Sacred Heart. Rest in Peace Olive.

A pilgrimage - not what I thought!

noreply@blogger.com (Clo Mhuire) — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 20:09:00 +0000

"I think you should go on this pilgrimage?" I looked at Tricia and knew she was right. Everything in me was resisting and looking for excuses. I was now in England two months and had settled into the hectic secretarial day of nine to five in busy central London. My next plan of action was perhaps a long weekend over in France. I was surprised at how quickly my friend and I had adapted to London life. From a rural West of Ireland town, to Dublin, to a multi-cultural city of many faiths and religions. It was all so interesting.
Travelling on the bus with a group of friends from the prayer group, I thought back on the scrapped plans for France and wondered what this Catholic Conference would be like. I knew in the quiet moments of the day, the Spirit of God was gently prompting me towards prayer, and I, thirsty for pure water, from early days in Ireland, drank deep from the celebration of daily Mass.
I was taken aback by the buzz of activity as I stepped down from the bus, stretching my legs and finding myself on solid ground. We were in the heart of beautiful countryside. Crops of golden wheat dotted the folding fields and narrow winding pathways marked the convenient shortcuts to the village one mile away. We had arrived in the North East of England at Our Lady's Shrine in Walsingham.
Groups of happy folk queued at the registration tent and as I joined the queue my eyes fell on the big notice pinned to the bill board outside. A long list of events were written up. Times of Mass, Confessions, talks, workshops, adoration, Divine Office, etc. Reading my face, one of the prayer group, Paul, laughed light heartedly and said "You don't have to attend them all. It's your choice!"
On the second day, now familiar with the routine and warmth of the entire event, I sat in the main tent to listen to the speakers and the workshops they would be presenting. The next priest introduced himself as Fr. Kevin. He invited us to join him for his session that afternoon. I knew he was the priest I was to listen to.
About thirty of us arrived at the quiet little chapel and sat before a humble gentle priest, whose love of God and every soul was in his smile and words. His 'talk' for his session was to be something that would have a lasting effect on me for the rest of my life, the seed that would grow, so gradually and carefully over time.
"What I want you to do is go out into the fields. Look for a spot where you can sit and enjoy God's creation around you. Find a place where you are completely alone and not near your friend or other member of the group. Then, stay there an hour, just listening. Don't bring anything with you, no writing pad, Bible, beads. Just sit in the quiet and listen to every sound around you - that's it."
As I sat there, beneath the tall trees, and only metres from rows of golden wheat, everything was quiet. Far in the distance the drone of a tractor faded gradually into the meandering roads. The softest swaying of flowers met with the mood, fanning away all fret and concerns. The birds chirped happily and then ceased as if they too rested in the Creator's silent presence. I didn't know it then, but as I completed the hour, I had given to God time that was to be the beginning of the gentle drawing into contemplative prayer. Prayer that would happen gradually and certainly, carved and etched by trials and tears, by joy and peace. But always with His grace at work. It was the little seed of quiet that found its way into my heart and silently rested there until it was to awake, under the watchful eye of the Spirit in the coming years.
The following morning Fr. Kevin slipped into the seat beside us for breakfast. "So, how did you find the pilgrimage?" I looked into the eyes that carried beauty and truth, and no doubt hidden concerns and personal crosses, and I thanked God for the gift of priesthood.