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AN UNSTIRRED STILLNESS (Surrender)

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There's an unstirred stillness about fog. Silence of a Sunday morning, the sun attempting to break through, promising something, delivering nothing. The beautifully haunting violin of Spiegel Im Spiegel is the only sound to enter into the day, reminding me of my friend Fr Míceal. We used to listen to it together in the car. It's in the car now that it spontaneously pops up on my playlist.  A high tide blubbers in the chambers of my soul, like the swell of the sea in the crevices of rocks at Ballyloughán. An echo of emptiness in the falling night. A young man on a bench is doing something I've only ever seen in Argentina. He's pouring hot water from a thermos into a gourd cup with a steel straw. I nod at him and say, "Mate" - pronounced mathé, a kind of tea made with bitter herbs. His face breaks into a big smile, delighted at the recognition. A man alone and far from home. We are briefly connected in that moment. Briefly, and perhaps forever. Aloneness hovers ...
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Imprisoned Fire

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Imprisoned fire Of a kiln Burns within My bones Rages within My heart I just don't know What to do To hope Or not to hope To trust Or not to trust To speak Or not to speak To reach out Or not to reach out To be restrained Or To burst forth A bellowing flame And wail and wail Like an animal in travail Writhing in the horror That has befallen From the blueness Of a Summer's Fading day Do I bellow Or do I remain Silent?  
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BUT NOW I SEE

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Yesterday I helped with the Pallottine Mission Appeals in Limerick Cathedral and St. Michael's church. I'm useless at selling anything and can't do the usual pitch that will motivate people to empty their pockets, so I settle for the Word of God as it was given to us in the readings. For the first Mass I concelebrated with the young Father Peter from Nigeria, a member of the Sons of Mary Mother of Mercy, four of whom serve in the diocese of Limerick. A tall, fit and charming man who was most hospitable. It was an interesting expression of how the Mission of the Church has evolved. An African missionary to Ireland who leads the penitential rite in Irish and a former Missionary to Tanzania. "Think of God's Mercy...and worship Him." So wrote St. Paul. The Mission of the Church, our Mission in East Africa, is nothing other than one great act of God's Mercy and one great act of worship. God's Mercy in Hosea is expressed in terms of a Mother leaning over her...
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PRAYER TO GOD THE FATHER

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  Prayer to God the Father Almighty God, my Eternal Father, from the fullness of my soul I adore You. I am deeply grateful that You have made me in Your image and likeness, and that You ever hold me in Your loving embrace. Direct me to love You with all my heart, with all my soul, and with my whole mind. Direct me to love all Your children as I love myself. O, my Father, my soul longs to be united to You, and to rest in You forever. Have the Holy Spirit touch my soul so that I may love You as He does, and as Your Beloved Son Jesus does. Amen . https://www.myprayertower.com/prayers/prayer-to-god-the-father
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NO NEED TO GO (Come Listen Live)

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A lonely place, this is A lonely place A place of Hunger Anxiety Unsettlement The sadness of loss The yearning for a belonging That only exists in the womb Every conceivable form Of suffering And they would send us away To other places in search of All that we lack There is no need to go Says the Master Come to Me Surrender to me The little you have Remain with Me And eat with me The loaves and fishes Of My abundance Come Let your hunger Be satisfied Listen Let your thirst Be quenched Live Let your sorrow Be consoled
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Muddied Boots

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  Oh my Lord I am here again In the muddied boots Of my soul Having stumbled and fallen Through mire and dark I am embarrassed And yet In your great lenience You bring me To Your Sanctuary Stable of shepherds  Clothing me once more In the robes of Your own White brightness Without removing These boots
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This is a Lonely Place (In Memory of Johnny Carty)

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  "... a lonely place... this is a lonely place" (Matthew 14) I went to visit my cousin Johnny in hospital late last year. His regret was that he had forgotten to bring his Rosary beads with him. They were as familiar to his hands as the mobile phone is to mine. I gave him my beads and we prayed the Rosary together. Anyone who ever visited his house would understand that at least a decade of the Rosary would be said before they left. It was as natural to him as a cup of tea. Unashamed. Unpretentious.  The Rosary and the Mass were pillars of his life. Nothing could separate him from them. As in the words of St. Paul in  Romans 8: " Nothing can come between us and the love of Christ, even if we are troubled or worried, or being persecuted, or lacking food or clothes, or being threatened or even attacked. These are the trials through which we triumph, by the power of him who loved us. For I am certain of this: neither death nor life, no angel, no prince, nothing that exists...
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