CLOSE YOUR EYES: Portraits of Maura

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After my sister Maura died unexpectedly in 1999 at the age of 46, our brother Harry wrote this song for her. It came to birth as a recording during the coronavirus pandemic.

Maura Monson Foster May 9, 1953-July 28, 1999

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  We stand in the temple of our reality, in the presence of God, like the two men in the Gospel. What brings us close to God has been given us. The One who is close to the broken-hearted has humbled us with sorrow so that we might come near to Him. There are two things that bring us into intimate union with Him – the humbled contrite heart of the sinner who cries out for Mercy and the humbled heart that is broken by sorrow. Heart-broken. One prays, “O God be merciful to me a sinner” and the other simply says “O God…” We are shocked and heart-broken by the unexpected death, at the age of forty-seven, of Father Emmanuel Msuri whose arrival here in Hastings we have been waiting for with great anticipation. This was to be another kind of Advent; the meaning of his name not lost on us. Emmanuel – God is with us. He was not known personally to any of the parishioners, with the exception of Alexandra who, as leader of the welcoming group had been in contact with him by email. But, t...
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When Jesus enters the room My hands are still on the money Fingers fiddling My mind distracted by it My soul oppressed by its demands My heart tangled in its deception Then glancing sideward I see the Hand outstretched Finger pointing like a new creation’s Dawning light And when He speaks It is clear that I cannot Serve both God and money It is He that I must follow However harrowed be my life I grow younger as I near Him A beauty ever ancient Emerges ever new Sitting with Him at table We sinners are drawn in To an intimacy Most Divine Mercy
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  A garden in the city. The only cool place on this rather hot morning. Beautiful. Nothing to do but watch the antics of two cats. The mother, who has been named Beauty and her unnamed kitten, whom I have decided to call Binti. A wild, frightened thing and very funny to watch. I think if I remained long enough in the garden and sat still enough she would become accustomed to my presence, not take off in fright every time I stand up. It's the morning after a very emotional weekend. Part of me feels like a traitor. It's the kind of road I naturally go down. But I really must start taking into myself the sheer depth and strength of the love that the people of Hastings parish have for me. That there is love between us has been clear all along. I know this in my head. But it's another thing to absorb it into the fibres of my being, to risk being possessed by it, overwhelmed by it, consumed. Consumed. I have been consumed by my work in Hastings. Only now do I realise it. People h...
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FESTIVAL OF THE UNEXCEPTIONAL: Celebrating the Ordinary

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We were talking about cars. The flash sporty ones and car shows that he attended. He has a lot of knowledge. I don’t. But I’ve loved all cars since I was a boy. There weren’t that many of them in Mervue in the 1960’s. Enough, though, for me to fill a notebook with their registration numbers, make and model. Ordinary cars of ordinary people. Of the sixteen homes in Ceannt Avenue, there were four or five cars and I would tell friends that my Dad was getting one next year. A pale blue Anglia, like the one uncle Josie had. It never happened! In our teen years Mam would lament the fact that we were still “the walking Monsons”. Back to the conversation with my friend! He told me about the Festival of the Unexceptional that he attended, a car show at which they celebrate the ordinary cars of ordinary people who tell of the significance of their particular vehicle in their lives. I looked it up online. Fabulous! It strikes me that Christianity is a Festival of Unexceptional, ordinary people w...
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Love Was His Meaning

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‘Love was his meaning’: a conversation about Julian of Norwich between Dr Claire Gilbert and Fr Eamonn Monson. Click on the link below to listen to the conversation https://drive.google.com/file/d/16euftBoLdrM3X1YvEAhK3RznhdAI1LFj/view?usp=drivesdk Claire Gilbert wrote her doctoral thesis on Julian in relation to the ecological crisis, but when she was diagnosed with myeloma, a cancer of the blood, Julian stopped being the subject of her academic study and became her spiritual companion and guide through two and a half years of gruelling treatment.  Claire wrote about this in letters to friends, published as  Miles to Go Before I Sleep .  At the end of the treatment she heard a call to tell Julian’s story and wrote  I, Julian , a fictional autobiography which seeks to do justice to this extraordinary woman’s life. Dr Claire Gilbert is an author.  She is the founding director of the Westminster Abbey Institute, and has worked for the Archbishops’ Council of the C...
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    “From the womb before the dawn I begot you…” (Psalm 110)   Maura Monson, Andrew Molloy, Eamonn Monson, Rosaleen Monson & Noreen Carr A Sunday morning sky of two parts. To the West an ominous deep blue grey, to the East the astonishing unfolding of dawn. Hundreds of screeching, swirling seagulls are black against the emerging light and strangely luminous against the dark clouds. I’ve been up since shortly after 3am, waking as I often do now in the fourth watch of the night – that period between 3 and 6am that’s spoken of in the Bible. It was during this watch that Jacob wrestled with God and during this watch that Jesus walked on water. I was born during this watch at 3.30am and for many years I could not sleep until after that time, my nights being a constant battle, a time of conflict and injury. Now I tend to sleep early and wake up during the fourth watch and it is a quiet, peaceful, blessed experience. Perhaps I am being brought to new birth. We’re told that i...
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TABOR (The Call to Holiness)

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  The Climb The Cloud The Vision and The Voice Word without Speech No Sound The Holy One Calling Be Holy I am struck With amazement Astonished Transported To the hushed Half-light Of Saturday night's Cathedral Waiting For confession's Mercy The ardent Thirst for holiness Inflaming My soul Centre-point On the horizon Of my destiny Hope that Sustains My every endeavour The mountain The valley The desert and The river Of my heart Oh my Holy One My Love I offer you Childlike obeisance On the earth floor Of my life Glimpsing glory Through a prism Of clay (In memory of my First Profession as a Pallottine, September 12, 1975)
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