TIME OF MY DEPARTURE

 

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 have been saying how much I do, how hard I work. And I could never see this. But now I see that it has been my everything from morning to night and that takes its toll. I feel somewhat spent and, while I have loved the solitary aspect of my life, the lack of Pallottine community also comes at a cost, because when the day is done, and I turn in home, I hold everything to myself with no one to bounce things off.

It is a role that people in the parish could not fill, though many would have liked to. It's a Pallottine thing. Brothers dwelling in unity, though I know too how challenging that dwelling can be.

It seems providential that my hand was forced by the rumours of my going. I wanted to wait till everything was fully in place but word of rumours made me realise that the people should hear this news from me.

It was also providential that I told the people on the feast of Saints, Peter and Paul, both of whose lives were repeatedly uprooted in the service of the Gospel. And it's not only me being uprooted, we are all being uprooted as a parish. Uprooting is painful, but also necessary for growth.

It surprised me to read In yesterday's first reading that the Angel of God "struck" Peter on the side. A strong word. He didn't nudge him awake, as we might do. He struck him. And it occurs to me that this is what God is doing to me, to us as a parish community in Hastings, striking us to rouse us and to bring us to the place of his choosing.

I had asked God to give me a word from the readings for the Feast Day that would guide me in what I needed to say to the parish. And sure enough, it was there in the second reading from saint Paul, who wrote, "the time of my departure has come." Not an immediate departure for me, but the beginning of the time of departure.

Telling this news was stressful and emotional but, by the third Mass, I was more in possession of myself. The children didn't seem to cry, they were more subdued, silent. Some of them hugged me at communion time and again after Mass. I think many people were speechless and many cried.

Religion seems to come more naturally to women and they are also better at showing emotion, so I was struck by the number of men crying, telling me how I had helped them come close to God. And this aspect of my ministry surprises me and is something I am grateful for.

We have a few months to get used to what is coming; there will be time for us to talk, pray, express what we feel - our concerns, our love and our gratitude. And, as I experience time and again during periods of uncertainty, "God will provide!" And all will be well. In time.

The last word for the moment goes to a child, as children have been a very special part of my life here. A boy came home from school and said,."Jesus has asked Father Eamonn to move to a different country and work in a different school."