“Come away to some lonely place all by yourselves!”

(Mark 6:31)


I sit on a dune in the cold dark before dawn, facing east where the sun will rise, contemplating the beauty of God to the restful rhythm of ruminating camels. God is in this place to be adored, honoured and praised. And when I pray “Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit” – a prayer without me in it - it seems as if all of heaven responds “Amen!” and the sands of this desert respond “Amen! Glory be!”

The rising of the sun will be beautiful, awe-inspiring, but it is not the sun that I am waiting for. I wait for Jesus who comes once more from east and west, north and south. He comes anew each day to tell us of the Father’s Love. The sun is a reminder of this reality and even as we wait, He is already present in our waiting.

This is the most silent, still and solitary part of the day – precious as water in this Sahara. I drink about four litres of water here each day. May I drink in even more of the Holy Spirit into my soul and may this time of prayer give due honour to the Most Holy Trinity.

We sing the Divine Office of Lauds (Morning Prayer) after the sun has risen and then go to gather up our belongings before having breakfast which our guides have laid out for us on mats. One of the miracles of the desert is porridge which I seldom eat at home but here somehow my body tells me that this is what it needs. Here I find myself eating food I don’t normally like and I eat it simply because my body asks for it. All of the food is fabulous and we are astounded every day by what Brahim produces. Meals are very happy occasions, true to Psalm 133 that says “how good and how pleasant it is when brothers live in unity!”

We are twelve priests – John from England who was the one entrusted to my prayer, Brother Philip Thomas, also from England, Joe from Ghana, Matthew and Rajiv from India, Brothers Thomas, Luc and Arnold-Sharbel from France, Angelus and Abram from the United States, John (nick-named His Grace on this Pilgrimage) and myself from Ireland. Four are from the community of St. John, two of us are Pallottines and the other six are diocesan. Most of us didn’t know each other before coming here and most of us live in England. John and I have been companions for almost 48 years and it is a blessing for us to be together on this part of life’s journey, to be present to each other without having to say much. All twelve of us here blend very well, are at home with each other and help each other to keep going. Laughter is very much the tonic of our down times, especially in the evenings. And though I am used to much more silence at home, I recognize the importance and necessity of these times of joy.

Once we have finished breakfast and are ready to set out, we have a very valuable presentation of the theme of the day from our leader Father Luc - leaving things behind, letting go, praying unceasingly, gratitude, attentiveness.

There is one young camel who protests long and loud against the burden he has to bear. As soon as he sees the herdsman coming with the saddle, he begins to wail with an anguish that I identify with – though someone said he is only messing. Whatever he’s at, it resonates with something inside me. One morning I said to those standing near, “he doesn’t realize he has another week of this!” to which His Grace responded, “don’t be projecting your own feelings onto that poor camel!” Indeed!


We are led away each day by our young guide Hussein while Hassan takes up the rear to make sure no one gets lost. We don’t talk at all during these morning hours of walking, the mornings being mostly about silence. It is then that one can hear God speak most quietly, delicately.

The first day out was like a piece of cake, being mostly on flat hard ground where my stride is fairly good and I can keep going for a long time but the second day saw us climbing impossibly high dunes along narrow ridges that literally took my breath away. The last time I gasped and panted so much was going up Mount Longonot in Kenya with Mike O’Sullivan but that was just a few hours of a day. This now became an all-day, everyday thing and, on the second day, I struggled very badly both with my breathing and the height which caused something in my head to wobble and my knees to tremble. It was humbling to be so exposed, to be the weak one of the group. Weak and in need in the physical sense but my hope too is that this testing in the desert, the testing of my breath to its very limits is somehow an expression of the Holy Spirit praying, gasping within me beyond the utterance of words.

The desert has its own rhythm that demands that I adapt to its way of walking, forcing me to struggle with it as Jacob wrestled with God at Penniel, prepared for both blessing and injury in the encounter. Both Luc and Philip Thomas told me that there was no need for me to try to keep up with the others, to go at my own pace and this helped me greatly, giving me space to look beyond the struggle to see the utter majesty of God’s Garden. That’s what they say the desert is – it belongs to God and it is His Garden, a quiet lonely place that speaks to my inner loneliness. Not loneliness in a negative sense but in the sense of my deepest desire and yearning, though it may also encounter aspects of human loneliness.

            The Way, the Gate, the Door

The other day as I was pondering during the 10-hour drive from Marrakesh to the desert, it seemed like Jesus said to me, “I am the Way, I am the Gate, I am the Door!” And in my mind’s eye I saw the Way like the highway on which we were driven, a direct and simple route to Jesus, a Way along which I am escorted by Our Lady. The Gate led into a beautiful garden at the other end of which was the Door that led into the House of the Lord and the Table of the Most Holy Trinity where a place is reserved for me. All very neat, simple and direct. And now the desert presents me with a very different kind of Way and Gate and Door but I feel that the purpose of this struggle with God’s Garden will lead to greater simplicity within myself. The desert is the outer expression of what is taking place in the interior of my soul.

When I would see Hussein leading the group up yet another dune I would groan out loud and say, “Oh God no!” but I learned very quickly to follow up with “thank you Lord!” and on reaching the top would find myself praying Psalm 117 “O Praise the Lord all you nations, acclaim Him all you peoples. Strong is His love for us. He is faithful forever!”

And when we came face to face with Abid Lia, that seems as great as Croagh Patrick, I was with Jacob again, realizing with delight “How awesome this place is; this is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven…” (Genesis 28:17). It was appropriate for me that we had adoration in the tent in this place. The Tent of meeting.

On the second day I asked the desert how far we had walked, how much further we had to go, how high was that dune and what time of day it was. Of course, the desert remained silent and it soon became clear to me that it does not matter how far, how high or what time. It is what it is. We are where we are. There’s no need to know anything more. We had abandoned our watches and mobile phones which were being carried by the camels in our luggage. We got used to not knowing. The only time it challenged me was when I woke up in the morning – not knowing if it was time to get up or not.


On our morning walk there were a couple of short breaks when we would sit or lay down in silence, eating nuts and dates. It seemed to me that it was early afternoon when we would reach the shade of a Tamarisk tree where the Berber had mats laid out and a table ready for us to celebrate Mass. I loved the fact that, by the Eucharist, we were bringing the Sacramental Presence of Jesus into a land where He is largely absent, a land from which He has long been expulsed. This absence of Jesus is a great mystery that bothers me, a mystery to which only God can give the answer.

I got to lead Mass on February 8th, feast of St. Josephine Bakhita who was sold as a slave at the age of nine. Her day is dedicated to all who are modern day slaves, those trafficked and forced to live unimaginably appalling lives. We offered Mass for them. Much of the prayer of our desert is intercession for those whom we carry in our hearts and for each other. This Pilgrimage would be impossible without the others - the twelve and our seven Berber companions.

While we prayed, they cooked and after lunch we would stretch out in the shade before taking up our trek into the early evening. This was the hottest part of the day, most draining and most difficult and, though talking was permitted during this stretch, I found I had no energy for it and remained mostly silent.

Along the way one of the early days I asked God what I was supposed to get from this retreat, what is its purpose in my life and the reply came swiftly, like He said, “What more do you need?” and then the words of St. John came to me, “we know that we already possess whatever we have asked of him.” (1 John 5:15). So, I returned to Psalm 73:23-26 that was with me before coming on this retreat and it became the centre of my prayer for the remainder:

I am always with you;
you hold me by my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel,
and afterward you will take me into glory.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever.

“You hold me…” Many times along the way one of the brothers – Matthew or Rajiv - would stretch out his hand to hold me steady on a high, narrow ridge or take me by the hand to lead me down the descent. This was particularly true of young Brother Sharbel who would quietly come up beside me and take hold of my hand. And there was Brother Philip Thomas who carried my two litre bottles of water every day. It meant that their own walking was somewhat restricted by their attentiveness to me. They are the hand of God and God bearing the burden.

Others of the twelve kept pace with Hussein - the two Johns, Angelus, Thomas, Joe - and I would look at them with admiration from my distance for they were fleet of foot and agile in spirit, like gazelles bounding up the heights. When Hassan was not with us Luc lingered at the rear keeping us in view like a shepherd his flock. Abram kept his eye on the wonders of the desert, seeing the beauty in the very least of things, the miracle of the tiniest flower, taking the photos that I would like to take myself. The battery in my camera died in the early days because I forgot to turn in off! It was meant to be. Each of us is honoured in the place and pace given us, in this is our glory and I felt at peace in mine.


Worn down by the afternoon heat we looked at the dune ahead, hoping it might be the last of the day, so there was a special feeling of relief when we spotted the peak of one of the big tents in the distance. On arriving we would throw ourselves down in any available shade, take off our boots and rest a while, some tending to their blisters, others reading and others simply chilling and chatting.

We sang vespers in the evening on a dune facing the setting sun and at these times of looking westwards I felt I was facing my own family at home.

The main event of the evening was the reflection on Psalm 23 given by Father Thomas. These were most inspiring – the content and his own person that shone through everything he said. It is a Psalm for calming down, a Psalm of trust leading us from a state of being stressed to blessed; anointing our experiences of worry, hurry and fear.

On a couple of evenings we were joined by our seven Berber guides. The first was a getting to know each other session during which they gave each of us an Arabic name, perhaps so that they might more easily identify us. I was given the name Ali who was a cousin of the Prophet and it means high or exalted. In the car in Marrakesh before leaving for the desert, the driver got in, looked back at me and said with a smile, “Ali Baba!” Our guide Hassan had heard this and so decided that in Marrakesh I would be Ali Baba but in the desert I would be Si Ali. The second time we were joined by the seven Berber was for an evening of singing. The rhythm is beautiful and hypnotic and they even sing sad songs joyfully.

At the end of every day we all stood in a circle to sing the Salve Regina before departing to our tents for a quiet night and a perfect end.

In the future, we Twelve Fathers of the Desert will hold within us an emotional memory of this desert, our bodies will remember it and the lessons it teaches us by its silence, the lessons of God contained within its silence. The seven days that we have walked will be engraved within us. I feel that God has refashioned the landscape of my soul in ways that I cannot express or comprehend. He has reshaped my soul in the glory of Jesus, the victory of Love, a Love most uniquely expressed in Ahmed.


He is of the Berber tribe, the chief camel herdsman, thirty-one years old with a wife and three children whom he hasn’t seen since December because he lives much of his life in the desert with his camels and groups like us. He loves the desert, especially rolled up in his mat at night beside the fire, beneath the splendour of the stars.

And for some reason he took a particular liking to me! He would stride up to me in the morning and evening, his face radiating joy, his right hand in the air and his left hand upon his breast. And he would hug me, uttering something in his own language or in French, words I didn’t understand but in a tone that touched my heart. The first time I saw him approaching me like this, I looked over my shoulder to see who he might be approaching and was surprised to discover that it was me. 

One evening I was stretched out on the sand, waiting for the men to finish setting up our tents, when I heard a voice calling, "Si Ali!" It was Ahmed pointing to the tent he had just completed, telling me it was mine. And I felt the grace of being given something as a gift, rather than  me taking it, the grace of waiting and trusting.

There was a night we gathered around the fire outside to watch him bake bread. He moved the burning timber away from the centre and placed the dough in the pit of the fire, covering it with sand and brought the fire in over that again. After a while he removed the fire and the sand and out comes this perfectly baked loaf which he brushed down with a towel, scraping away the burnt parts with the knife. He broke the bread and passed it around and it was truly beautiful.

I was standing on the far side of the fire when Father Luc came to tell me that Ahmed wanted me to sit beside him. Surprised again, I went and sat there. Ahmed put his arm around my shoulder, drew me to him warmly and tenderly and said, “mon ami!” Then he began to sing. And I sang along as best I could and it pleased him!

Father Thomas told us that the glory of Jesus is the victory of Love. I have walked this retreat in the Love of God, always aware of His Love but in Ahmed I experienced the affectivity of that Love, tasted its victory and its glory. He became the embodiment of the Love of God the Father and he became for me the face of the Sahara Desert. It's as if God said to me through Ahmed, "this is how I feel about you, this is how I love you."

Gratitude fills me for this and for every single thing that has been given in this most amazing journey. And while we have made our way fairly quickly back to our homes by plane, Ahmed and his camels spent four days walking back to his. Unhurried and at peace!


The Lord Jesus is our Good Shepherd, my Shepherd

He shepherds me, comes close to me, to every single one of us

Walking ahead He marks out the Way we must follow

I step into His footprints, the footprints of the Brother in front of me

You are with me

You pursue me with Goodness and Mercy

Your hand stretched out to hold me on the uncertain, narrow ridge, escorting me on the descent

You bear the water that will quench my thirst of body and soul

You are the cheche that protects my head from the burning heat

And in the shade of the Tamarisk tree you spread out the table of the Eucharist,

Your Most Holy, beautiful Body and Blood

The table that will nourish and restore our weary bodies,

Bodies that you make to lie down for a time of rest

In the good, pleasant and joyful gathering of our Brotherhood.

You are the Way, the Gate and the Door leading us into the House of the Lord,

The House of our dwelling, today and forever. Amen!

Tabernacle at the Church of the Franciscan Martyrs, Marrakesh

HORSE WITH NO NAME: Preparing for the Desert

“…the Lord whom you are seeking will suddenly enter His Temple and the Angel of the covenant whom you are longing for, yes He is coming!” (Malachai 3:1)

The Lord whom you are seeking will suddenly enter His Temple.

He is Himself the Temple and we are His Temple.

It is we who seek Him
We who are longing

It is in our longing that we present ourselves before the Lord so that we are there – present and prepared for when that sudden thing happens.

The healing that we seek will suddenly happen
The conversion we are awaiting will unexpectedly take place
The Love we are longing for will suddenly arrive.

And we will, like Simeon, say, “at last!”
That will be our prayer of relief and gratitude.
But we have to be there in the Way and in the Place where it will happen and we have to seize the opportunity when it presents itself.

I’ve been seeking Jesus all my life, often finding Him, often avoiding Him.

For many years I’ve had this image of Jesus and myself. I’m standing in my own life with all my belongings – personal, material, spiritual – all my comforts and securities.

Standing quite close, facing me is Jesus but where He stands is desert – bright, white, blue and empty. Empty except for Him and he’s asking me to step across the line from my place into His. I’ve always resisted taking that step, afraid that He would not be enough, but always knew that I would have to go there one day. He and I have always been very close but, somehow, also in different places.

And now that I have turned 65 and am almost 40 years ordained, I’m about to go there. Last year I received an invitation to take part in a priest’s retreat in the Sahara Desert and I leave on Monday (February 3rd). There are 12 of us taking the retreat and we will be guided by experts as we spend eight full days walking, praying, eating, sleeping, being silent in the desert. We will walk for five to six hours a day. 40 is a very Biblical and Desert number – 40 years of Israel wandering in the desert; Moses spending 40 days and 40 nights on Mount Sinai; Jesus spending 40 days and nights in the desert after His baptism. So, I feel this is a significant event in my life .

I believe that it will be a blessing for the people of this parish whom I will carry with me in my heart. This is not just for my benefit, it's not only about me but about us as a community. I do not carry the parish as an institution but as a people, as specific people and it’s not so much that this parish as an institution will be any different when I return but my hope is that we will be touched as people by my going and returning. And perhaps something that we have been seeking and longing for will come to us or some of us in a defining way. The defining way might not necessarily be pleasant. It might in fact be challenging and even painful but it will be a moment of new life and salvation.

People in the parish have already been equipping me for this pilgrim journey. The kufiya (desert scarf) given me by a young husband and father, a small rucksack and gaiters. There are ski goggles belonging to a young doctor to protect my eyes in the event of a storm. All these will be physical connections with my beloved Hastings, reminders, symbols of the love given me, tangible instruments of prayer.

Apart from the parish, I will of course carry all whom I hold dear with all their needs and in a special way I will be connected to Katie, niece and God-daughter, who will receive the Sacrament of Confirmation while I am away. She generously gave me permission to go to the desert even though she would want me to be at her Confirmation. So, may the Holy Spirit who fills the air in the distance between us, bind us even more closely and fill her with all of the spiritual blessings of Heaven.

The moment draws ever closer. At last all powerful Master! And the old song from the 1970's goes round in my head and makes me smile - "I've been through the desert on a horse with no name...!"

“At last, all-powerful Master, You give leave to your servant to go in peace, according to your promise. For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared for all nations, the light to enlighten the Gentiles, and give glory to Israel, your people.” (Lk 2:29-32; the song of Simeon)


I don’t like Monday but I love the Word of God. Monday morning, even though it’s my day off, feels like a hangover. Heavy, slow, dull. And it’s raining, so the temptation is to stay in but there’s a movie that I want to see – A Hidden Life – and it’s only on in Ashford at lunchtime. I get myself together and out the door.

Walking down the street I run into a young family from the parish who are on their way back from the doctor. I hear them before seeing them. The young voices exclaim my name in unison and one of them looks up at me and says, “I am sorry about your brother-in-law!” It is so tender the way she says it. “Thank you!” I reply, adding that he needed to die because he was in a lot of pain. “He rests now” I say and she adds “in peace!”

The Word of God is alive and active and it comes to us in many forms. It is impossible to resist it when spoken by a child and my mood is completely altered, the strain in me dissolved.

Yesterday was Word of God Sunday, named so by Pope Francis so that we might pay greater attention to the Sacred Word of God in Scripture which I consider to be the most precious of gifts given me from the time I was a young student.

It’s as if God touched my lips with It, placed It in my mouth, gave me the prophetic scroll to consume in all Its bitterness and sweetness and wrote It upon my heart, a painful and ecstatic engraving.

In the Liturgy we reverence the Word, holding It aloft, incensing It, kissing It. In Nairobi they dance and sing the Word up the aisle as a mark of respect and love. But we reverence the Word most by listening to It, receiving It into our hearts, that It may take root and bear fruit in our lives.

It can only be properly read, heard and understood under the influence of the Holy Spirit, that is why it is essential to pray to the Spirit before reading or hearing the Word. Then the Holy Spirit uses the Word to resonate within our souls, stirring us to a response. The external written Word of the Bible seeks out the interior Word that is written in our hearts and the meeting of these two aspects causes the one Word to spark into a flame.

When I read yesterday’s Gospel what resonated with me was, “…He went and settled in Capernaum.” Jesus, the Eternal living Word, seeks to settle into my life, make His home in me so that I become His Capernaum, the Word made flesh within me. And He is my most welcome guest, my abiding and permanent resident.

His very name -Jesus – is the highest of all God’s Words. Name above all names, most sublime, beautiful, powerful. The name I wish to be on my lips when I draw my last breath. Sadly, it is a name spoken most casually and disrespectfully, especially in television and movie dramas, when it should only be spoken with reverence and love.

The movie, A Hidden Life, is a rare exception. Here God is spoken of and spoken to so tenderly, reverently, even in times of great suffering when questions are being asked of Him. And it’s never sentimental. I would love to watch it again, if only to hear the way they speak to God – the couple, Franz and Fani whose love for each other is exquisite. Their enemies and others speak scornfully about Christ and God but never this couple. “One must accept everything that He sends us with gratitude. He loves us. He won’t send us more than we can bear.” (Fani)

An aspect of the Word that we don’t often advert to is Its silence. A lot of communication in A Hidden Life is done is silence. God’s own communication is sometimes done in silence. There’s a hint of such silence in the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet – Aleph that corresponds to the Greek Alpha (beginning) has no sound of its own, it is silent, suggesting the silence that was before the beginning of things. Jesus says of Himself, “I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.” I am the Aleph! The soundless beginning.

We witness the silence of Jesus in the face of the accusations made against the woman taken in adultery; His silence in the face of His own trial; the silence of the Father when Jesus cries out in Gethsemane and on the Cross at Calvary. I suspect we also witness something of the silence of God in Pope Francis whose refusal to give answers is scorned by a world that demands immediate reactions leaving little or no space for reflection. And sometimes complete silence is the only true response that we receive from God.

I return to the Name of Jesus, the exquisite Word. May we take a silent moment to let this Name, this Word of life, settle silently into our hearts, touching the places that are sore and sorrowful bringing consolation and healing. May we speak His Name as a blessing over all that is in need of transformation and conversion.

“…on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles – the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.’” (Isaiah 9:1-4 and Matthew 4:12-23)


“This is the war on the ordinary people”, the man shouts and shouts again on the crowded train. We’re squeezed in like sardines. Standing. There’s chaos at the station. Delays and cancellations. Yet, most of us remain silent in the face of it and some try to stop the man shouting his protest against this form of war on the people. I’m happy to have gotten in to the train at all but I wonder if it is our silence, our quiet resignation that allows government to become so detached from what is happening in ordinary lives. Although, it’s only a week since people had the opportunity to protest by means of the ballot box and they chose not to protest at all. Maybe they are too tired.

At Dublin airport the wind howled through the departure door, rain swept down across the tarmac. We were left standing on the stairs for quite a while after having presented out boarding passes. A young official asked, “would anyone like to skip the queue?” Two of us accepted the invitation to go down in the lift. The woman said, “I never look a gift horse in the mouth.”

There’s something odd about going away from home this close to Christmas. We should be travelling in the opposite direction and I wonder how many of my fellow travellers might be feeling lonely, though it’s not like it was 30 or more years ago when travel was more difficult, more expensive and communications were more challenging. Thankfully, in this instance, I’m not among the lonely. I’ll be home again soon.

On board I’m in E27 having been randomly allocated this middle seat because I chose not to pay £4 for the privilege of selecting a more suitable one. It was just as well because the aisle seat remained empty. A stewardess came down, stood by our row and asked would anyone agree to sit at the emergency exit. “Yes!” I said, so I got to have a row all to myself with plenty of room to stretch my legs. Serendipity!

Serendipity followed me. The morning after I arrived in Dublin, I phoned to enquire about my friend Ita who has been ill. Her daughter told me that she was now in the Hospice in Blackrock. My intention was to visit her in January but I asked if I could do so now, that morning. Yes! And Ita, surprised, said when she saw me, “this is a miracle!” She was very calm, peaceful and said she had no worries. Only praise for her family. We prayed. I kissed her goodbye and told her I love her, something I say now to friends departing this world.

The morning after the wedding in Monaghan three of us headed back to Galway for Katie’s ballet concert in the Town Hall. Ah, what it does to me when she appears on stage! My heart swells with tearful pride and she is so intent, focused.  

Monday was the funeral of our dear Pallottine Father Ned O’Brien, aged 87, whom I have known for 47 years. His was a noble and timely dying. He was ready, waiting. And his funeral Mass was a beautiful gathering of family and Pallottines, some of the music being provided by Ned’s grandnephews, one of whom played the banjo for him the day he died.

When I sent word to my family that Ned had died, my sister replied, "Priest, Prophet and King", referring to a theme that was dear to Ned's heart which she heard him preach about at an Associates retreat in Esker back in the 1990's. The titles refer to Jesus and they are applied to a child with the anointing of sacred Chrism in the ceremony of Baptism. "As Christ was anointed Priest, Prophet, and King, so may you live always as a member of his body, sharing everlasting life." Ned spoke this message with great enthusiasm, insisting loudly to his hearers, "YOU are priests, prophets and kings!" This concept of sharing in the person and ministry of Christ was at the core of his Pallottine life.

In 1972 Ned was staying at the Pallottine College, having broken his leg in a car crash. He and our Rector, Pat Dwyer, were good friends. Ned always had a love for students. He hung around us under the awning outside the back door where we lingered before going in to sacred study as the cathedral clock struck four. He gave us advice on many subjects, including how we should pray the Breviary in common. It should have life and tempo in it, not dragged out. In later years during a period when I was sick, he told me I could simply pray Psalms that I remember rather than struggling through the full daily obligation of the Breviary, this from a man who was scrupulously faithful to those same obligations. His love for students continued right up to the end of his life and, though never officially a formator in our communities, he formed many by his learning and wisdom.

We were to be together again in Dundrum from the mid 90's for about 12 years, with a break between 2002 and 2005 when I was back in Thurles as Rector. A few things stand out in my memory, apart from his love of music - his passion for dogs, souped-up cars, and the two of us melting Cracker Barrell cheese on toast in the grill of the Provincial House. Cooking for the community was something he enjoyed doing spontaneously on the occasional evening. The George Foreman in the kitchen is a constant reminder of him.

A couple of years ago on my way home from England I borrowed his Twingo which he was no longer able to drive and I felt like a boy racer roaring down the M6 until the little machine broke down somewhere near Ballinasloe and I had to wait in the bitter cold for a tow truck to come. But I was still very pleased and so was Ned.

The last time I saw him was the end of August before I returned to England and this was perhaps the loveliest moment of our two lives together. He asked me to bless him and I did what I did with Noel O’Connor a few months earlier. We held hands, huddled in together because he was completely doubled over and prayed and blessed each other. It was as physically close as we could get and only once before did, we get so close was when he hugged me as he cried on hearing of my sister Maura’s death. Family mattered to him - his own above all but mine too and many others.

After the funeral it was straight back to Galway where the family had arranged a tea party gathering for me as a way of celebrating Christmas together. Initially there was talk of cooking a Christmas dinner but I appealed for something simple because I find large meals oppressive and I keep thinking of the homeless people I see here in Hastings who have very little to eat. Besides, cooking a dinner would have meant half of the family spending the whole time working to get it on the table. As it turned out this was one of the loveliest gatherings we’ve had, enhanced by the presence of the younger members of the family – one in the womb, another seven months born. Katie and Laura presented me with my first ever Christmas jumper which I wore to school on my first day back here. It gave great delight to the children who swarmed about screaming my name, clinging to me like bees as soon as I entered the playground. What joy is this!

A Page That Aches For A Word

“The nail bomb is an anti-personnel explosive device packed with nails to increase its effectiveness at harming victims." (Wikipedia) Death is like a nail bomb that scatters itself indiscriminately, fragmenting further what is already fragmented. It scatters people, pushes them against each other, pulls them apart. Some deaths do that.

Others are grace-filled, a grace that bathes the most severe sorrow in peace.

Those who survive have a choice to make. It's within our gift to decide what to do with what we inherit. That choice is simple enough, though never easy, when what comes to us is a loving legacy. When division is left behind, the task given us is much harder and it calls us to be more than who we are, to go far beyond ourselves, so that painful history does not have power to destroy our present and future. 

Being mourner and priest is seriously challenging, more than those closest can ever imagine. There is the moment when the Funeral Director calls him to step away from the intimacy, the warm embrace of family and friends, called to stand alone with the cold body of death. He may never learn to be professional, never able to be "in role", never able to separate the man from the priest. 

Waves of emotion, memories good and bad alike come crashing into each other. Hurts like rocks emerge. All in a split second. He might want to cry. Feel he will fall apart and surrender to the disintegration descending upon him. But he can't surrender to that. He has to steady himself as best he can. It's not about him. It's about God and the other, so he prays as God would have him pray, as the dead and the bereaved need him to pray. No matter who the deceased is, no matter how good or bad a life lived, whatever the state of the legacy, the priest sees the one created in the image and likeness of God and he sees the severity of the illness that has mined away, sucked the life out of the person, suffering that must in some way stand as recompense for any wrongs done. The priest sees this and when it is a personal grief he feels it intensely, to the point of feeling ill in his entire being.

Such are the thoughts going through my mind as the plane lifts off the ground and the song on my random playlist is "Be" from Neil Diamond's 'Jonathan Livingston Seagull', a song of ascent. "Lost on a painted sky where the clouds are hung for the poet's eye."

In September I used a phrase from the same song for the late Fr. Michael Cremin - a song in search of a voice. There's another phrase from it that I have often applied to myself - "Be as a page that aches for a word that speaks on a theme which is timeless."

A blank page that aches for the ink of other people's sorrow, their brokenness, anger, pain, their hatred - as well, of course, their love and goodness and joy. But the need of sorrow is more urgent, intense and it is written upon the blank page of my heart, written by God in a way that makes sense of what baffles us, in a language that God knows,  language that God's Holy Spirit can teach us to translate in ways that are not verbal.

Bare trees
Naked rosebush
Spiking the dawn

Dripping drops of dew
The tears I cannot shed

My heart a mayhem of crows
Swooping on a single seagull
Outside in the Green
Where we played by day
And partied by night

Until grief disfigured our joy
Love fatally fractured

The man has died
He who became my enemy

We made our peace
A defrosting
Long before it was too late

Yet still a broken legacy

The wounds of hate
The scars of love
Debris of human frailty

We must stand still
And wait for God
To win the victory
For us all