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Showing posts from May, 2018

FOG ON THE HORIZON

Symbolic of where I'm going, Fog on the horizon Cloaking the hills Draping the trees The serene fields of England Fresh in vibrant green White Hawthorne blossoms Crowning - fifth mystery Queen of the May Help of Christians Gazing Down The dead-slow stress of morning traffic Mine a high speed pilgrim train No less tranquil than the gentle pace of barges on the canal Below I take a different route Kick the ball in another direction Sail against the current For the glory of You the One True God and Jesus Christ whom You have sent The saving of the soul The unheard voice Of the unseen child, Hard pressed mother, Troubled father Leaders who act as if they were God and reach to touch the Tree of Life At the risk of Paradise The entertaining gods At whose feet the masses lay down their approving ckoaks Jesus said, "In them is fulfilled the prophecy of Isaiah: "'You will be ever hearing but never understanding; you will be ever s

OF YOU MY HEART HAS SPOKEN: Seeking the Face of God - Eamonn Monson

Katie's First Communion 2017 When I was preparing to move to Hastings last year I asked God for a Word for this new venture in my life and what came to me is, "of You my heart has spoken, seek His F ace; it is Your Face O Lord that I seek," from Psalm  27. This is also the entrance antiphon for the seventh Sunday of Easter.   So, it has seemed to me that the core of my life here is to seek the Face of God, to seek it constantly. It is not, of course, a seeing in the ordinary sense and it can also be a hearing and an instinct which indicates the presence of God in a particular moment.   The seeking and the seeing has to be true. "Keep those you have given me true to your name!" - the prayer of Jesus in today's Gospel. Tru e to the name, the identity of who God really is and not who I want Him to be.    God's identity is always Love. "We have come to know and to believe in God's love for us. God is Love and whoever lives in l

LOURDES: Silent Witness To Love - Eamonn Monson

You can smell the flood, the after-effects wafting from the closed hotels and shops. In the river a snapped tree juts sideways into the air. Reconstruction, sacred areas cordoned off, inaccessible for now.  Thankfully the Grotto is open. There’s an overwhelming innocence in the unpretentious humble pilgrims. A recently born baby in her father’s arms, toddlers, ordinary modern young women and men, the old, the sick; every race and nation.  I kneel in the spot where St. Bernadette prayed when she saw Mary and my prayer is intense, sad with the sorrow of those I’m pleading for. It is incredibly beautiful and peaceful.  A strong breeze blows down the rock rustling the leaves, blowing out the candles that the attendant is trying to light. I always feel that Mary is present in the breeze in the trees but I wonder would she extinguish the flame and the joy of her people.  And I wonder about the floods that destroyed this place twice in two years. Nothing is as it should b