OF YOU MY HEART HAS SPOKEN

  You will show me the path of life, the fullness of joy in your presence, at your right hand, bliss for ever.   (Psalm 16 from Mass on Easter Monday) Do not judge and you will not be judged. Words of Jesus. Mostly I have thought of this in terms of not judging others negatively but it also means not judging others at all. Who am I to judge someone to be good or bad, right or wrong? The death of Pope Francis has shocked us all and there has been a great outpouring of affection and respect for him. Largely positive assessments. Yet, even in the positive comments you get the sense that experts are judging him to have done a fairly good job. But who are we to say even that? As Jesus himself said, human assessment or approval means nothing. Only God can judge.  But we have to say something because Pope Francis has touched and affected our lives from the moment he came out onto the balcony and stood in a long silence before speaking on the day he was elected. We remember ...

Holy Saturday morning. An open, empty Tabernacle. Strange praying without the Blessed Sacrament. Strange here where I am so used to having Jesus present to me in this way. It’s like having no reference point for this day. Tabernacle open and empty. Tomb closed and not empty. Waiting. Silent. I close my eyes, imagining myself to be in the tomb with the body of Jesus, in His body, wondering what it was like in the moment when He rose from the dead. But there’s no knowing. Only God was there. Only God knows. We don’t, and there’s something correct about this unknowing of ours, the realization that there are sacred mysteries that we will never know, that it’s not for us to know everything, even if we think we should. There is a mystery within each of us, that place which belongs only to God, that is known only to God and ourselves, and maybe not even to ourselves. It is in that place, from that place that new life is called forth. I see it in the fourteen adults who are baptize...

In the end When there is nothing Left to say And I cannot pray Properly With words  And the finger of silence Rests on my lips As the Holy Spirit broods Upon the formless void Before creation Breathing over The outer whitewashed Handsomeness To the shabbiness Of my inner being Whispering the Name That is dearest to my heart That Holy Name Most beautiful Yet most reviled Jesus! Delight of my eyes Desire of my soul Jesus! The only Name Jesus! The final Prayer Jesus! The ultimate Word Jesus!

  I love You Lord, my strength. My Lord and my God My God and my all My Lord, my life and my love I adore You profoundly To You I surrender, give and offer my whole self For the glory of Your Name For the Mercy of Your plan For the salvation of the world O God You are my God For You I long For You my soul is thirsting  My body pines for You Like a dry weary land without water Through all my disordered affections O Lord it is You who are my portion and cup Against you alone have I sinned O God be merciful to me a sinner Heal me Lord and I shall be healed Save me and I shall be saved For you are my praise. Heal me with the medicine of repentance Grant O Lord a joyful purity of heart Guard me as the apple of Your eye Hide me in the shadow of Your wings It is Your face O Lord that I seek Hide not Your face Show me Your face Let me hear Your voice For Your voice is sweet And Your face is beautiful (A compilation of Scripture and other aspirations that I pray every day)

An April wind swirls About the open door Of the church Gathering fallen feathers To itself The lingering leaves Of last year’s Autumn And every bit of debris That comes its way Sweeping all of it Onto the recently Vacuumed carpet Like some prophetic saying! Are these My own old sins Come back to haunt Or new ones freshly revealed? Or are they the sorrows Of our people And those of strangers Seeking solace here? And is the wind The Holy Spirit That gathers them in?

It’s funny where a reading can take you. Moses on the west side of the wilderness brings my mind to a kind of wilderness of the West of Ireland. The Bog. Not that it’s confined to the West but that’s where I have known it, this very Irish reality. Bogland has yielded up turf to generations of Irish people, gift of the earth to us, this God-given gift that has warmed the homes of countless families when there was little or nothing else to keep them warm. Turf has given us the fire on which the kettle was boiled for the tea. On it bread was baked and dinners cooked. It gave our homes an unparalled atmosphere, feeding the contemplative spirit by which we gazed in long silence upon its flame, learning our own lessons there. It facilitated companionship, the gathering of people around the open fire in night-time conversations and music. The Rosary and other prayers prayed there. The harvesting of turf speaks of good neighbourliness, people out working together, helping each other out. ...

The noble face of a Brazilian Pallottine, taken in Vale Veneto 2008 Frangled is what I feel. Like every nerve in my body is frazzled and jangled. Thought frangled was a non-word but discovered it does in fact exist in the Urban dictionary where it is defined as, “Mixed up or lightly tossed; a cross between frizzle and mangled ” Lightly tossed is what I am not. Mangled maybe! I feel hemmed in, trapped in a traffic jam in my car and it seems like Hastings is besieged on all sides by endless roadworks and there is no escape. My frustration boils over within the confines of my own space and I feel demeaned by it, ashamed. So I force my mind back to something more noble. My encounter with Colm in St. Raphael’s ward at St. Anne’s Mental Health Centre. Interesting that a secular place of healing should be dedicated to two Saints. Colm is seated on a chair in the corridor, head bowed, cap shading his eyes, faced in the direction of the locked door. He is surely hemmed in – within this physica...

Young Jack Six or seven years ago I spotted Jack sitting against the windowsill by the back door of my house. He was dressed in his signature black tracksuit, and he looked at me sideways with a very shy kind of a smile. He didn't ask for anything, but something in me said that he would at some point. That he would make his way into my life and that is exactly what he did. He became part of our life here, mostly looking for help in whatever way he could get it.  Over the years, I came to like him. Came to love him. A bond of friendship developed between us, and I must confess that my helping him was not always the best. He knew how to get out of me what I shouldn't have given him, but we were connected. We did come in some way to belong to each other, and he saw me as a father. It was surprising a couple of years ago as we stood in the centre aisle of the church he said to me, "I want my funeral to take place here and I want you to do it", and of course, I said th...

    “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...

Home alone in the tranquility of Ceannt Avenue on a cold, early January morning.  Spotify spontaneously throws up George Michael singing Jesus to a Child, a song that Maura loved. It’s immediately followed by Françoise Hardy with whom Maura is associated in our family. It's all about Maura.  And going through an old diary from 20 years ago I came on this poem (below) that I wrote in stages following her death.  Divine Providence brings all these things to my attention right now for some reason. Perhaps one person who needs it will stumble upon this post. And though the thought of her still brings tears of love to my eyes,  I bear no sorrow for myself but pray for anyone struggling long with grief. i Some people are great At telling you how To grieve  Or not Not this long anyway  Only the Swan Of the damaged wing And attentive eye Would ever allow this Length of time  These years But she allows it This ageing grief That will not Let go completely  ...