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OF YOU MY HEART HAS SPOKEN

Eamonn Monson SAC

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INSOMNIA: They Who Fly Home To God

on July 09, 2019

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GLASTONBURY: Do You Love Me More?

on July 02, 2019

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RETIREMENT?

on July 01, 2019

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Fathers Day 2019

on June 16, 2019

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SLOWING TO THE PACE OF A POND

on June 15, 2019

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Fr. Mick Timlin Remembered: 20 Years On

on June 13, 2019

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FREEING THE PIGEON: A Pentecost First Communion

on June 09, 2019

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A Divine and Continuous Silence:

on June 05, 2019

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I AM SUSTAINED BY THE PEOPLE OF THIS PARISH

on June 03, 2019

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REMEMBERING JULIA: 10 Years On

on May 27, 2019

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FROM THE HAND OF A CHILD TO THE HEART OF A MAN

on May 26, 2019

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Popular Posts

INSOMNIA: They Who Fly Home To God

"Insomnia can become a form of contemplation. You just lie there, inert, helpless, alone, in the dark, and let yourself be crushed by the inscrutable tyranny of time. The plank bed becomes an altar and you lie there without trying to understand any longer in what sense you can be called a sacrifice." (Thomas Merton, The Sign of Jonas)

Insomnia! A brand of coffee and a state of being! Being awake when you should be asleep. It's been part of my whole life since childhood, though it's less of an affliction now. Most religious people seem to resort to formal prayer like the rosary to help them through the dark hours. Not me! I just groan - "oh God!"

One such night many years ago my distress was so great that I sat up, took hold of my Bible and asked God to speak to me. What opened before me was Ezekiel Chapter 13, and I was particularly struck by verse 10: "...they have misled my people by saying Peace! when there is no peace."
My inclination is toward…

FREEING THE PIGEON: A Pentecost First Communion

It's 7.30 the morning of Pentecost Sunday, the sun shines bright into my kitchen and there is a silence, the silence of seagulls that allows the other birds to be heard for a while. A beautiful, sweet sound that comes from the trees across the way.

My house has had a stale smell lately, so when I got up yesterday I opened all the windows wide to let fresh air in. A strong breeze blew from the outside, circulating vigorously within. I realized that, in the same moment, I was opening wide the windows of my soul, allowing the fresh air of the Holy Spirit to come and fill me, removing what has become stale in my heart and soul and mind.

In the afternoon a pigeon entered through the lower part of my bedroom window, stood there looking happy and curious until he spotted me. He went into a right flap, flying madly around the room, knocking, scattering what got in his way, clawing at the curtain, unable to get out the way he came in. So, I spoke kindly to him but I'm no St. Francis a…

RAFORD: A Place of Grace

I’m remembering Raford, the house on the hill in the country that was my mother’s birthplace, and I’m thinking of the clear cold water from the rain barrel at the gable end, cold water scooped up in a white enamel basin put standing on the kitchen table. White soap in a saucer and a blue towel to wipe away from my face the shock of the cold water of the morning. Granny cut slices of brown bread made by her own hands, the wholemeal wholeness of her heart in it and lavished with salty country butter churned by the same hands and mine. Everything and everybody was washed in rainwater and we went to the well down the lane to draw that which would quench our thirst and wet the tea. We brought tea in a billy can across the fields to Grandad in the bog and helped him load the cart with turf, sitting on top of it for the journey home, staring down into the black water of the bog holes, terrified that the cart would turn over when its wheels went to the very edge. It never did and we never fell …

RETIREMENT?

It's a long enough journey home - 10 hours from house to house - but there's no complaint except a weary body which is not a complaint. Just a fact of nature. There's a great amount of pleasure in the whole process - the train, the airport with an americano stretched out to last an hour so that I can charge my phone, a delayed but lovely flight and running in the rain to catch the 19.45 GoBus with only minutes to spare. And there I listened to all 10 episodes of Vesna Goldsworthy's 'Gorsky' on BBC Radio 4, so beautifully read by Philip Arditti. A voice that has soothed me to sleep some nights. It brought me to within 10 miles of Galway.
I'm home for my brother's retirement as head teacher. He's seven years younger than me, so it's natural that I might taunt myself with the question, "what about me?" A taunt and a temptation. I’m naturally and essentially a very lazy person attracted by idle thoughts of spending my life dreaming, writin…

GLASTONBURY: Do You Love Me More?

https://photos.app.goo.gl/mVxV38WkJiKszP6C6
It’s Monday, my day off and knackered is the only word for what I feel. I’m having an americano on the pier in sunshine. It must have to do with the intensity with which I live the weekends, especially in celebrating Mass. A surprising thought entered my mind during the consecration at the last Mass yesterday, just as a weary knee genuflected - "this is where I would like to die - here, celebrating Mass!" And in the state of grace! An honest, unbidden desire! And I thought of how awful that would be for my family and all who love me. I know the awful shock of sudden death and yet, if God chose to call me in that way, then I would serve them best by it. You never know the kind of thoughts that fly through your head at such sacred moments.

Friday, we had Mass for the feast of the Sacred Heart up at the school. Always a special experience from the time I walk in the gate to be mobbed by the children from Reception, many of whom want to …

By Pelham Beach: I Think As I Pray

A beautiful Friday afternoon. Walking the sea front by Pelham Beach in the direction of the Bathing Hut Café which never seems to be open and is exactly three miles from my door. It’s a walk I do every other day, mostly in the evening. Six miles in total and it’s really good for my head.
I pray as I go and think as I pray and often just let my eyes and my mind float, taking in what’s there. The beauty of everything. Every one.
September 28th. I remember it’s exactly a year ago since I was inducted as Parish Priest of St. Mary Star of the Sea. 28 is a significant number – January and July. I was 28 years old the last time I became a Parish Priest in Galapo, Tanzania.

I don’t know how to assess the last year, to know whether I’m doing well or not. There’s always a bit of a shadow lurking to suggest I will never really get it right, that I never have in fact gotten it right. The shadow suggests that my mistakes - past and present - are bigger than they actually are.
The devil is an accuser. …

Fathers Day 2019

My Dad and I had a particular kind of love that was born of years and years of family life, time spent together – bad and good times. We spent a lot of time together as family – moody morning breakfasts, hurried lunchtimes and long evenings that were often peaceful and sometimes filled with arguments. And in the era before television we spent our time by the fire talking. As little children, it was he who put us to bed saying as we walked up the stairs, “all together like Brown’s cows!”
He was gentle and silent and somewhat overlooked, still is overlooked in some ways because we have always paid more attention to our Mother. And he had his weaknesses that we came to know; I had my arguments and misunderstandings with him; we got over them again and again. And through it all there was an intimacy developing, a kind of knowing that cannot be spoken but is real and deep as the ocean. From the time I was thirteen years old I worked for the summer holidays in the factory where he worked. We…

The Lord Has Opened My Ear

“The Lord has opened my ear. For my part I made no resistance, neither did I turn away.” (Isaiah 50:5)
Sometime before he died, Fr. Seamus Stapleton commissioned a painting to be hung by the baptismal font. Sadly, he died before it was completed but the artist, Gerry Flaherty carried on the work which is entitled “The Great Commission”. I collected it when I was in Ireland in August and we hung it in its place on September 14th which is Seamus’ birthday and feast of the Triumph of the Cross.

The setting is Rockanore here in Hastings, so it localizes the Gospel, brings it home to us and depicts Jesus on the shore with St. Peter and some saints who were of importance to Seamus and includes St. Vincent Pallotti. The rest of the apostles are on their fishing boats coming in to shore and you will notice on the front on one boat is Fr. Seamus himself dressed in white. The decision to include Seamus was made by the artist after his death and it means for us that Seamus is present with us in a …

DAD

FEAST OF THE HOLY FAMILY

This time 28 years ago – December 29th - on the eve of the Holy Family Maura and I were in hospital visiting Dad who had taken ill on St. Stephen's Day and was being checked out. As we were leaving him, she and I looked at each other and said "he's dying." There was something in his eyes that made us both think this. So, we went to the nurse in charge and said we thought our father was dying. She said, "not at all. He's fine." And we went off home.
When I told Mam what Maura and I were thinking she said, "well if you think he's dying then go back and anoint him." This we did and when the praying was done two interesting things happened. First Mam took hold of his hand but he took it away as if to say this is not the time for holding but the time for letting go. Then he pulled the bed clothes up under his chin looking content and complete and told us to go off and get a drink for ourselves. We did!
And at home we …

MOTHER & DAUGHTER: Hands Enfolded

The Grotto in Castlegar - a lovely place to be on a dry, cool August morning. Feast of St. Clare and Autumn seems to have arrived.
We prayed here for a miracle on May 25th - an incredibly beautiful evening - but there was none given. We came here in our youth across the fields when faith was strong and swift.
Now I'm here preparing for the funeral of our neighbour who was 103 years old, whose daughter has been part of our family for over 60 years and I have the honour of being the brother she never had.
No matter what's going on, this place delivers a peace that is to be found in no other grotto, except perhaps Lourdes.

I'm thinking of the days in the hospital. There was a short period of quiet one evening when conversation ceased and I was alone with Mother and Daughter. In the silence I observed both their hands so effortlessly and tenderly enfolded in each other. They didn’t grasp or hold on tightly; they didn't cling but there was reverence and love.
In the hands of the…

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