Holding on to the beads

Saturday Thoughts: hold on to the beads.

These are Rosaries that were made by Catholic prisoners in Nazi concentration camps.

They made them from bread and thread from their clothes.

They made them from bread.

They were starving and they gave up their tiny rations of bread to make the beads.

They were freezing and they took threads from their clothes.

They made Rosaries knowing that to be found with them meant a beating, torture or even death.

But they held on to the beads.

They held on because they knew that to hold on to the beads is to hold on to the hand of the Mother.

They held on knowing that not even the power of hell can cut the cords of love between the Blessed Mother and her people.

They held on to the beads knowing she was with them in her pain and in her sorrow and that she would be with them always.

They held on to the beads when Mass was impossible and the Church looked like it would never live again.

They held on to the beads as a witness to the power of faith, of hope and of love to light the darkest of times.

They held on to the beads and their testimony speaks to us down the ages.

Whatever you are going through… hold on to the beads… 

Your Mother is holding on to you.

The Inner Mysteries of the Visitation

 

The Inner Mysteries of the Feast of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary to her cousin Elizabeth...

A Contemplative Breathing...

There are so many mysteries to be meditated upon in this most beautiful of feasts where the Divine Mysteries are revealed in the most earthly and earthy of moments and places. Two women, blood cousins, elder and younger meet across the generations in the wilderness of the hill country and in the common holding of the mysterious gift of new life, and so much is gifted to us in their meeting…

For the Visitation is the feast of Mary as the Apostle of love as Charity; 

Charity: the love that goes out, that actively seeks the other who is in need and feels the need of the other as its own need. In its ministering to the other in love becomes love even more so in itself… Mary, full of grace, full of the life of God, has only just heard her own call and yet responds immediately to the impulse to care for another… She leaves immediately and with great haste we are told, for love as charity brooks no delay. She will give the first three months of her own flowering to tending the garden of her cousin Elizabeth and helping her prepare for the birth of John… She thinks not of herself or even of the enormity of the miracle that has just been accomplished in her. In the need of her cousin for support she hears the call of God just as surely as she heard it in the words of the Archangel.

May Mary call us from our own self absorption to the Charity that generates life.

For the Visitation is the feast of the call to Spiritual Midwifery:

Mary as midwife to her Cousin… What a beautiful picture… The Archangel tells her that her cousin is six months into her journey towards birth and the scripture tells us that Mary stayed with Elizabeth for three months. Could we possibly believe that Mary left Elizabeth alone for the birth of John? Of course not…for in her midwifery of Eilzabeth she is midwifing the mystery of the birth of the Old Testament Covenant into its new life its fulfilment in the one, John, who holds in himself both the lineages of the prophets and the priesthood, and who on Jordan’s banks will lay them down in homage before the Lamb from whom they first came on Sinai’s height to Moses. 

May Mary midwife the birth in us of our own calling to birth Christ in our own life and in each moment.

For the Visitation is the feast of the mysteries of Woman…

In Mary coming to Elizabeth to care for her and serve her, God in Mary is coming to one who represents all of the mysteries of womanhood… Elizabeth had traversed all of the stages of life, she had been a girl, a young woman, a single young woman who held royal and priestly lineages in her descent and yet lived the life of a poor woman in a land oppressed by foreign occupation where it was dangerous to be a woman alone, where it was simply dangerous to be a woman at all… She had been shamed and excluded by her own people and even by other women for not fitting in, for not becoming what she was supposed to be. She had been labelled as barren, seen as cursed and as even carrying the possibility of cursing others. In Zechariah she knew the pain of loving someone but not being able to give them what they truly want… All of this pain she knew. Yet she never doubted the love of God for her or that His love would eventually bloom in her in a surprising way… Zechariah, the man and the priest doubts the Angel’s word and is struck dumb… Elizabeth, the woman, believes and bears the word of prophecy recognising in Mary the One who is blessed among women and then asks astonished “Who am I that the Mother of my Lord would come to visit me?” Who are you Elizabeth? You are Woman and God will always want to be with you and your heart that believes past man’s un-believing and He comes to you in His Mother, clothing Himself in Woman as His vestment, to reveal to you His love for you so that you may remember for ever His nearness to you in your very womanhood in every generation.

May Mary draw near to all Women and open their eyes to their intimate place in the Divine Mysteries.

For the Visitation is the feast of the mysteries of Motherhood:

In the holy encounter of Mary and Elizabeth we are reminded that all of the life that flows through the veins of humanity begins in the womb of women as they co-operate with God in the creation of life… so important is this lesson that the Divine Word Himself decrees He will incarnate only through a Mother’s yes. There is no apostle, no prophet, no saint, and we can even say in awe, no Christ, who did not come from Woman. Mary journeys through the wilderness of the high country, the hill country, the place of fear and wildness and in her Divine Motherhood she tames it. And mother Earth, long sundered from Man, finds that God walks in her garden again in Mary as mother. In her silent journeying there and back again she allows the silence of motherhood, the silent and intimate communion of Mother and child to prepare the way of the Word. She is with the Wild and the Wild receives its new Eve who carries the new Adam in awe and reverence and enfolds her contemplation in the silence of sunrises, sunsets, moonlight and star light as she travels. For everything that we will receive from Christ as a Man He received from Mary and everything that we receive from Christ as God we receive through Mary… For her mother’s yes will be just as present in the temple, in Cana, on the roads of Palestine, and on Golgotha’s height as it is in this silent journey…  

May Mary call us to reverence and respect for the mysteries of the Mother…

For the Visitation is the first feast of the Holy Eucharist:

Does this astonish you that this feast would hold in itself the echo of the greatest of God’s gifts to humanity? Mary is the first tabernacle of the Lord and she bears Christ within her in the most holy of communions as she travels. Elizabeth then becomes the first Eucharistic adorer as her wise faith beholds the inner mystery beyond the veils of sense and in her adoration receives the gift of not just her own hallowing but the hallowing of the new life that joyously jumps within her. So too when we dwell in communion with the Bread of Life is the new life of His grace quickened in us and the word of prophecy born, as contemplation begets the call to action and from silence psalm erupts in magnifying praise. And from praise we fall back into silence in the  heart-knowing know that every moment of Holy Communion begins from Mary's yes to the Divine Mystery of Love.

May Mary call us to the mystery that lies behind the veils of sense and into ever deeper communion with the One who is our Eucharistic Lord. 

Saturday thoughts for May

 Thoughts for a Saturday of May...

Rosary

Unite 

bead with 

breath 

and being

so

awareness 

appears.

Inspiration 

ignites

Love's 

luminescence 

as

mysteries 

manifest 

in

meditation

with

the

Mother

and

then,

in heat of

Heart's 

hearth,

warmed by 

wonder,

the seed of 

silence

long planted 

in

prayerful 

possibility 

grows 

greatly

until,

in

sacred 

stillness,

the

red rose

buds,

and,

blooms

blessing.

(Pic uncredited on web)

For the May Full Flower Moon tonight

 The May Full Flower Blood Super Moon tonight so this one calls me....

The Path of Lady Moon.

Will you take 

the old path 

of 

the Moon?

The path 

of poetry 

and prayer;

of myth, 

and magic,

of beauty, 

and blessing,

known only to 

monks, 

and mages,

and mystics,

and mothers,

and those who 

keep the vigil

of the long small hours?

Will you sit 

beneath 

her 

golden benediction

and receive her gift of 

stillness,

as you watch her dissolve 

into emptiness 

monthly? 

Will you let her 

teach you,

and all upon

this heart harried Earth, 

to trust

in Resurrection?

Will you bask 

in her 

pure light,

that invites 

you across 

the ocean of dream

to read 

the sacred circles 

of her 

graced Gospel

inscribed by angelic art

upon her

pale pure visage,

long before 

she smiled upon 

those sleeping spouses,

newly named,

and vigilled Eden's first 

dew drenched dawn?

Will you allow 

her light

to illume your life 

with the

silent music

of the forest

when, 

vested in deepest

midnight

and filigreed

in silver, 

the leaves dance in

the liturgy

of life and offer 

their

praise in whispered

choir?

Will you let her shining

tears

wash you in their tides

and beckon you 

to walk upon

the waves from 

storm to still,

as once she shone 

upon His face

and lit His way upon 

the waters?

Will you take 

the old path of 

the Moon,

and touch there the holy 

footprints 

of the Mother 

and the Maiden

and the Queen,

whose orb she proudly is,

in royal resplendence

hung beneath her 

mantled might

and starry crown,

and find

remembrance 

there of 

all that is

and was 

and will be,

in the embrace 

of a mother

and her

son,

as the first 

gift of grace.

Look up and see

my brother,

Look up and see

my sister,

the soul sky is never 

so dark,

that

the old path of the Moon,

the path of blessing,

always ancient 

and ever new,

may not 

be taken

nightly.

Our Lady of Pentecost; the Feast of Fire

 A meditation poem for today’s feast; Mary Mother of the Church, Our Lady of Pentecost

The Feast of Fire

They came creeping, nine days hence,

Cowed and craven, so lately elated

then lost once again,

The Shepherd passing beyond the seeing of the flock.

So they shelter now, each one arriving, drawn back to the familiar

To the place before it all went wrong, 

To sanctuary, to cenacle, to supper room

Seeking a communion with Him who seems 

Withdrawn beyond the clouds of grief

Checking the locks as each arrives, 

Twelve enter and fast reseal the doors

Avoiding all eyes lest they remember and accuse

For even though absolved, the remembrance of their weakness 

Burns them still and makes them afraid.

So each takes their shadowed place and falls 

Exhausted into prayer as longing and lament,

For days seeming now lost, for nearness now only yearned for

As their fear and frantic flight comes at last to rest drawn divinely

To this place and more, gently pulled into the orbit 

Of she who is the still centre of the room, of the world, 

Of all that is made, and whose very presence is prayer, 

Is participation in oneness, in mystery, in motherhood.

A green leaf on a long wintered tree, a veiled and hidden spark, 

A dark lantern bright with flame hidden 

From all as yet but on them luminous enough 

To draw them mothlike home again and calm their cowardice 

And grief with remembrance of a promise made, 

Of an advocate, a counsellor, a witness, a teacher, a friend who follows.

So, resting in her graced gaze they sit

Until at last, empty of expectation, they touch the holy quiet 

Where grief becomes grace and the doors of the soul 

At last burst the bolts of pride to creak open and wait, 

Watching as farmers and fisherfolk both gaze upon the sky 

Knowing, feeling in their bones the first stirring of a change

Which comes this day at dawn’s first touch, 

Beginning gentle as Elijah’s breeze,

Hardly noticed but for it’s waking in tired hearts 

And souls the remembrance of gilded childhood memories, 

Of first kisses, favourite foods and strains of soul songs heard 

On the very edge of sleep,

So subtle that they feel only the change of air 

Upon their skin; or is it simply 

The first stirring of hope in hearts who ache for absence?

Now a rustling is heard, around, about, within 

As, despite their shuttered darkness

The gloom appears to lift, and in a predawn glow

They see each others faces for the first time again

Then a wind begins to catch and lift the settled sad dust of days 

Bring with it the sudden bright blessing of recall of Him 

Who called them once, and calls again and will ever call, 

Until they answer as apostles and know in Him their life and love anew.

And looking up they see now sparks, begin to fall as light as feathers from the breast Of some gentle bird who hovers over the chaotic waters 

Of their tears and restores to order their broken hearts 

Now split and open, raw and ready to receive the revelation.

Roaring then the Spirit comes, the crimson dove become a phoenix 

In pyre pinioned flighting gale, 

Now a whirlwind, a hurricane, a breath of power, 

Fiery and flaming descending from on high, 

Surrounding and filling each and all, consuming conflagration,

remaking and renewing they become a burning bush of revelation, 

A flaming brand, a gospelled sword, their once frightened hearts 

And tongues of twelve now forged anew in fire

And in their midst the One who is the holy mountain 

Shines Sinai like and is revealed herself 

As Queen and Spouse of Glory, crowned with living fire, 

The Ark of God made manifest unveiled.

Full of flame they erupt out onto the waking street their fiery eyes and hearts

Sparking understanding in all who hear, for fire knows no boundaries, 

Needs no dialects but speaks the spirit word from burning heart to heart reversing babel’s curse and shines now brightly

Upon this birthday, burnday, blessed new beginning day, 

When humankind beheld the fiery glory of their God at last 

Not upon a distant mountain but now and evermore within the heart, the breath, the flame tipped tongue where the burning Dove now dwells and for those who will surrender all remakes them too to become, 

Always, fire.

May Thoughts

              May Thoughts:

Even our sister Mother Earth speaks of the Heavenly Mother often and keeps her ever before us for those with eyes to see... a shadow of stone, a shape in the clouds, an angle in the crook of a tree, a turning of the head or the rising and falling of the light, these are the sermons of the earth and they always reveal her. In these gentle whisperings she is always near... always watching over us... always leading us to her Son... always calling us home... always calling us into the embrace of the sacred totality of her yes to God.

The May Magnificat

 The Month of May is dedicated to Our Lady and brings with it a plenitude of heavenly riches indeed! 

Our Mother is the one who in her own person brings in the One who is the Light of the World and, with Joseph as his earthly guardian, guides Him to readiness for His Mission. 

In and through Mary we receive every gift: for while the Church, and the Sacraments come to us from Christ, Christ comes to us through Mary. 

Christ, the Eternal Word is spoken into our world by Mary's word: it is through her "fiat!", her "Yes!" that we have communion with Christ. 

Salve Regina Angelorum!

Today traditionally people greeted the May sunrise and gave thanks for the first fruits and flowers of Summer by dressing the Holy Wells and the wayside shrines to Mary. In the home the May Altar was erected and fresh flowers placed there throughout the month. Consecration of homes, families and individuals to Mary’s protection took place and May processions and crownings of Our Lady’s Icons and statues were celebrated...

So however you celebrate these days may our holy Mother be with you and yours!

The poem May Magnificat by the mystic and poet Gerald Manly Hopkins puts it so beautifully;

The May Magnificat

 

MAY is Mary’s month, and I 

Muse at that and wonder why: 

    Her feasts follow reason, 

    Dated due to season— 

 

Candlemas, Lady Day;         

But the Lady Month, May, 

    Why fasten that upon her, 

    With a feasting in her honour? 

 

Is it only its being brighter 

Than the most are must delight her?         

    Is it opportunest 

    And flowers finds soonest? 

 

Ask of her, the mighty mother: 

Her reply puts this other 

    Question: What is Spring?—         

    Growth in every thing— 

 

Flesh and fleece, fur and feather, 

Grass and greenworld all together; 

    Star-eyed strawberry-breasted 

    Throstle above her nested         

 

Cluster of bugle blue eggs thin 

Forms and warms the life within; 

    And bird and blossom swell 

    In sod or sheath or shell. 

 

All things rising, all things sizing         

Mary sees, sympathising 

    With that world of good, 

    Nature’s motherhood. 

 

Their magnifying of each its kind 

With delight calls to mind         

    How she did in her stored 

    Magnify the Lord. 

 

Well but there was more than this: 

Spring’s universal bliss 

    Much, had much to say         

    To offering Mary May. 

 

When drop-of-blood-and-foam-dapple 

Bloom lights the orchard-apple 

    And thicket and thorp are merry 

    With silver-surfèd cherry         

 

And azuring-over greybell makes 

Wood banks and brakes wash wet like lakes 

    And magic cuckoocall 

    Caps, clears, and clinches all— 

 

This ecstasy all through mothering earth        

Tells Mary her mirth till Christ’s birth 

    To remember and exultation 

    In God who was her salvation.

Gerald Manley Hopkins sj

Queen of the May

 For the First of May, Our Lady’s Month and 

Lá fheile Bealtaine

Queen of the May

O Lady of the White May Crown,

who brings the greening glory,

the sun sparkle upon the waters,

and the great sap surge of ancient trees,

enfold us in your blue mantle sewn of sky,

of Swift and Swallow jewelled,

embroidered with the Blackbird song 

of bright beckoning, 

that we might sing the song of Summer with you.

O Lady of the purple dawn and evening,

whose brow is crowned with starlight

and rainbows of sudden storms arising,

shine upon us now your thrice reflected light,

lowly, and lunar, and loved by the lost,

who find in you their path, their peace, their way home again.

O Lady of the Summer Lands,

whose passing step

now warms and wakes the seed,

the bloom, the berry upon the bough,

and brings to beast and bird

the burgeoning days of nest and den,

and sweet deep secret places

of nascent newness playing,

where eternity touches time

in the ancient song of making,

for of you life itself chose its bearing place.

Bless us too with birth, with life, with long sunlit days of joy, 

that in their serried passing draw us forward 'neath 

the Sun you bore within and then, 

onward into His wondrous light,

that past and childed summers shine with still within our memories, soul sprung from innocence that only you have kept,

then keep for us as greeting kiss bestowed 

upon our final homing into holiday.

The Scent of Dawn

 The Scent of Dawn

As when upon a sudden breeze,

unexpected and unsought, 

the faintest fragrance 

stirs the stony soul,

breaks free the bonded heart,

and wakes the old wild

longing for the shores of home;

so did the first flowered breathing

of that Easter garden’s

long promised dawn arise in you,

O Lady of the morning light,

and thrill awake the wounded 

world-soul by your very being,

bringing at last

the hope of Eden’s healing,

you, the fore-echo of an alleluia Spring, 

borne from the blossom 

of your blessed birth,

the scent of new dawn divine

that stirs afresh 

the branched tree of being,

whispering long forgotten songs 

of home and healing,

to charm our winter’s end at last

and bring the coming of the green, 

the rising of the golden sap, 

the flowering of the honeyed bloom 

that Son drenched, scent sings us, 

saves us, and draws us home again.

The Meeting on the Way: A meditation poem for the last Saturday before Holy Week

 An older one for the last Saturday before Holy Week:

The Meeting on the Way.

I do not think it happened as the pictures show;

the woman swooning into the arms of John,

or held back and cowed by soldiers' spears.

No. 

That is not the way a mother 

is present to a dying child. 

I have stood at the deathbed 

of too many not to know.

No one could hold back a mother

who saw death in the eyes of her son.

Believe me when I tell you

whether in the dusty streets 

or the sterile hospital room

this is how it happens, by and large.

The men?  

They weep and rage there and then as is their way.

But the mothers are a steely silent presence, a rock immovable, 

their gaze granite as they bear their born into the next life.

The swooning and the wailing happen only after 

the final stillness comes.

So it must have been then too.

In that moment of their meeting 

I see a sphere of silence envelope them there,

the sanctuary of their communion 

so present, so profound

that all the chaotic pain of mobbing noise 

seems just for a moment to cease around them both, 

as for the last time upon his bloodied way, He rests.

She had seen Him safely into the world 

and now she will see him safely out of it,

even though nature rebels in the hearts of all parents

who see death in the face of their child.

Even though the ever present sword 

buries itself deeper, 

always deeper into her heart

with every breath. 

She knows its pain well. 

It had begun the moment the angel left.

Even in Nazareth days it was present, 

a shadow overhanging, 

present in every childish cut and bruise and tear 

soothed upon her knee,

and held at bay by love.

Did she remember in that moment the day 

he told her the time had come?

Her life was always yes to all that liberates life, 

as every woman’s is,

whether through the womb, or the heart, or the mind,

but surely, no, was near her mother’s lips that day.

Now all she can do is be,

here,

now.

Present to Him who is 

in this moment more than ever 

simply a son in need of His mother

She will bear him now again into new life.

The pangs of this birth will 

touch death itself and conquer it,

as all birth does, and though 

this time the gate will be the heart,

the hidden womb, that sealed tabernacle, 

will weep also in pain. 

For now they simply gaze, a moment, an eternity 

before which even angels hide their faces in shame. 

It is enough. 

He knows now she is with him.

He will see her at the end.

So He stumbles on

as on the breeze he is surrounded

by the scent of Nazareth:

wood dust, frankincense, fresh bread, 

and even in the street of pain He is

for a moment,

home.

(Picture of Our Lady extrapolated from the Holy Shroud by Julian Lasbleiz. What a wonderful talent!)

Annunciation Thoughts

 Annunciation thoughts...

Feast of the Annunciation today or as it was known at one time Ladymas day, (Our Lady’s Mass day):

This is our true Spring day, when the Winter dark and cold of selfishness and sin yields to the green shoot of Mary's total yes to God. The whole cosmos pauses and stills to listen for the answer to the Angel as God makes Himself dependent on a young girl's faith. All graces come to us through Mary's consent including the author of grace who today allows the loving attentive stillness of a woman to change our destiny forever.

A girl becomes the Theotokos: the Mother of God, and in and through Mary we become His brothers and sisters.

Just as the Father willed we would receive the Son through the Mother at the time of the Incarnation in history, so we receive the Son in every moment through the Mother now. Nowhere is this more visibly seen than in His Presence in the Blessed Sacrament. For the One who said, this is my Body, this is my Blood willed to receive both the Body and the Blood we adore and receive from His Mother. So it follows that if we receive Christ into our life in prayer, thought, or Holy Communion, then knowingly or unknowingly, we receive Him through Mary, whose womb was the first tabernacle of the Most High and the Ark of the New Covenant. 

As the old verse put it so beautifully:

Maid that wed Divinity.

Clay that shaped Infinity.

Lady of the Trinity

Keep me in your heart.

Saturday: Our Lady’s day

Saturday is always Our Lady’s day so for a little peaceful pause this beautiful reading from Saint Sophronius as given in the Office of Readings today is a wonderful meditation...

Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you. What joy could surpass this, O Virgin Mother? What grace can excel that which God has granted to you alone? What could be imagined more dazzling or more delightful? Before the miracle we witness in you, all else pales; all else is inferior when compared with the grace you have been given. All else, even what is most desirable, must take second place and enjoy a lesser importance.

The Lord is with you. Who would dare challenge you? You are God’s mother; who would not immediately defer to you and be glad to accord you a greater primacy and honour? For this reason, when I look upon the privilege you have above all creatures, I extol you with the highest praise: Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you. On your account joy has not only graced humanity, but is also granted to the powers of heaven.

Truly, you are blessed among women. For you have changed Eve’s curse into a blessing; and Adam, who hitherto lay under a curse, has been blessed because of you.

Truly, you are blessed among women. Through you the Father’s blessing has shone forth on humankind, setting them free of their ancient curse.

Truly, you are blessed among women, because through you your forebears have found salvation. For you were to give birth to the Saviour who was to win them salvation.

Truly, you are blessed among women, for without seed you have borne, as your fruit, him who bestows blessings on the whole world and redeems it from that curse that made it sprout thorns. 

Truly, you are blessed among women, because, though a woman by nature, you will become, in reality, God’s mother. If he whom you are to bear is truly God made flesh, then rightly do we call you God’s mother. For you have truly given birth to God.

Enclosed within your womb is God himself. He makes his abode in you and comes forth from you like a bridegroom, winning joy for all and bestowing God’s light on all.

You, O Virgin, are like a clear and shining sky, in which God has set his tent. From you he comes forth like a bridegroom leaving his chamber. Like a giant running his course, he will run the course of his life which will bring salvation for all who will ever live, and extending from the highest heavens to the end of them, it will fill all things with divine warmth and with life-giving brightness.

My Gran and the Christmas Invitation

My Gran and the Christmas Invitation:

Today, St. Stephen’s day is a very sacred one in our family… not just because of the first Martyr’s witness and passing to the Lord, but because it is also my Gran’s anniversary.

My Mother’s mother, she was, (and is), one of the greatest influences in my life growing up.

I have always regarded Gran as one of my first and best teachers, not only in the ways of faith but even on the contemplative path within it. 

Many, many hours were spent with her, listening to her stories and imbibing her teaching (though she would never have called it that… she simply taught by her very being, as all good elders do). Faith for her was as natural as breathing, and indeed, if you listened as closely as I often did to her whistled breathing as she went about her day, a short prayer to the Sacred Heart or to Our Lady was often just beneath the surface of her breath.

Like her own Mother and Grandmother before her she was a “sharp woman”, as they used to say in Dublin, meaning a wise person and one with a direct line to the Spiritual world. 
Her mother was sought out amongst the Dublin flats as she had “the way” of helping difficult births and deaths and was often asked for advice about a “match” between couples as she had a “good eye” for these things.

Gran was no different and there were many times I would go over to her house to find her sitting beside the phone waiting for the call that would tell her so and so had died. She, of course, already knew as she had “the dream” the previous night… the phone call always came to confirm it and I soon learned to be used to it. 
On other occasions I would arrive to hear her chatting aloud with someone only to discover her alone by the fire when I entered the room.

I never asked.

She never said.

We didn’t need to.

She taught me those ways too. 
“Look into the fire and tell me what you see” she would say, and then smile when, to my surprise, I saw. 

She taught me to look at people’s eyes when they spoke and at the way they stood and moved. 
She had tremendous devotion to the Blessed Virgin who had “been through it all” and her prayers to her were not so much novenas or devotions as a constant conversation born of a life long trust. She had great respect for the friars and religious orders much preferring their churches in town where she could attend anonymously, not liking the front seat parish people as she called them. 
She reminded me often never to judge anyone and taught me to give to the poor, especially beggars in the street. 
“There’s always a story there,” she would say, 
“No one is on the street because they want to be.” 
Women were on the street or poor because, 
“Men put them there.” 
Men were on the street or poor because, 
“Most men are fools for the bottle or for a story.” 
No matter the reason they were to be listened to and helped.

She had been sharp in other ways too. A hard life and losing her husband early on had made her hard in her mid-life and it was only as a Gran that she softened again. In her later years she would often tell me that she was glad she got to be a Gran after everything she had been through.

She often worried about her death. She was not afraid to die. 
"No one dies alone", she would say. 
She had seen enough deaths to know that, 
“They come to collect you.” 

She was, however, afraid that she would die in the house and that I or another grandchild would find her. So for the last few years of her life she prayed everyday the “Thirty day’s prayer” to Our Lady for a happy death and listed the way she wanted to go:

She wanted to die in her sleep so she could “wake up in Heaven”.

She wanted to die alone but having said her goodbyes and surrounded by love.

She wanted to be ready to go.

She talked about it often, not in a morbid way, but in the way you recite your shopping list.

Going and coming were natural in their very essence and death she had long taught and lived was nothing to be afraid of for a Christian soul.

That Christmas she had been very unwell.

Pneumonia had followed a chest and kidney infection and a stay in hospital was called for. She did not want to go but acquiesced at my Mum’s request. Feeling a little better after a few days of antibiotics she was to be released for Christmas by the Docs even though Mum was not happy that she was ready. She came home to us. She was weak and a slim figure of her former self though I still wondered at the muscled arms of her small frame, a result of countless years of housework when that still meant a physical ordeal. She spent most of the next couple of day’s in bed sleeping. She smiled a lot and we got to visit with her and hold her hand and chat. 
Christmas Eve came and her children and grandchildren all visited with presents and smiles and the occasional worried whispered conversation with my Mum and Dad as to how she was doing. Christmas Day she was very quiet and slept a lot. As the house was beginning to settle down she called my Mum into the room and very deliberately and unusually for a woman of her time thanked her for all she had done and told her she loved her. My Mum was somewhat taken aback but at that moment Gran asked her who it was that was standing behind her. 
There was no one there that Mum could see. 
Gran’s eyes focused on the spot behind her and she relaxed.

“It’s alright,” Gran said, “I know them.”

Mum said her smile was a beautiful thing at that moment.

She told Mum, “You can go down to the family now, I’m fine”.

Mum did, though to the end of her own days she often wondered why she did. 

As she went downstairs she could hear Gran talking quietly in the room.

Later Mum checked in on her to find her sleeping deeply and gently.

That night a Blackbird sang outside the house all night.

I remember looking out to try and see it.

I could not.

I should have known.

Gran had often taught me to watch out for Blackbirds.

“They are special to our family,” she would say, 
“Your Grandfather loved them and they come to warn us of things.”

“Whenever you see one, say a prayer to your Grandad.”

I still do.

The following morning, very early, Mum woke suddenly and went straight to check on her.

Gran had passed away.

She was still warm and she was smiling gently.

Mum called for the Priest and the Doctor and then carefully woke us all. I still remember that there were no tears in the house that morning. It all felt very peaceful and quiet. The Priest administered the Last Rites as he felt that she had only just gone before Mum found her. 
A little later myself and Mum stood in the room with Gran looking out the window. 

On the lawn a hen Blackbird was hopping around.

We smiled at that.

“Well”, I said, “She certainly got the death she had wanted!”

Mum told me then about the things that had happened the previous night and about Gran seeing someone in her room.

Someone who had made her smile.

“Do you think it was Grandad?” I asked.

At that moment, right in front of us, a Cock Blackbird, all shiny and bright yellow beaked flew down beside the Hen on the lawn outside. They greeted each other and flew off  together.

After that there was nothing else to say.

Gran had gotten the death she had asked for and we had received the little signs of her going.

In Ireland there has always been the custom of the “Cuireadh na Nollaig” the so called “Christmas Invitation” the feeling that a death at this time of the year is especially blessed and that the signs around it are powerful. Today, almost thirty years later I write this so that this story of my Gran’s passing may be remembered and may bring peace and hope to all who read it…

And perhaps the next time you see a Blackbird you might say a prayer for all your loved ones gone before you…

(Photo unattributed found on google)

Portiuncula: For the Feast of St. Mary of the Angels

Portiuncula

All quiet he came, barefoot,
and brown as the leaves that
fell at his feet like blessings.
A wanderer in the woods;
this day, he had woken weary
and in his sitting stillness
felt the call to journey
further into wonder.
He had followed the bird songs
and slanted sun beams as signs,
listening with love to the lay
that seemed always to sing out
from every stone and leaf,
from every bird and beast,
calling him along the way,
until at last, and suddenly,
he stepped into that clearing
and saw so bright
in sudden Sun's appearing
the grey green mossy walls,
the tumbled stone,
the ruined chapel,
long forgotten by all
but Angels and Animals,
who often find in our withdrawal
a safer sanctuary
to keep their innocent vigil,
and psalm together in a harmony
our sin discordant voices can
no longer sing.
He stood there a moment,
as still as one who sees beyond
and knows himself a servant
of the flame that burns the bush
but consumes it not;
slowly understanding his draw to this place
within the deeper call, echoing resounding
once more in soul's song:
to rebuild the ruins,
firm the foundations,
and raise the roof of grace.
Kneeling now, he gently bows
and touches his forehead to the ground,
the holy cross is graven once again
upon his heart, and then he reaches
for a stone, long fallen from its place,
and kissing it with reverence for the gift
of the Mother it makes of itself,
he places it upon another,
and begins again to build the church of God.
That night, as lady Moon
crowned the new set stones with silver,
he lit the long dark lamps
before the face of one his heart
called Queen and Mother both,
and realised with joy
to whom this holy place belonged.
Standing he sings alone his nightly songs:
psalms, and hymns, and lovers lauds
to the Lady of his soul and then he sleeps,
this troubadour in his tumbledown temple.
Until in deepest dark he wakes with wonder
to find a new light all about him,
fairer than moonlight, gentler than stars,
emerging from these old sacred stones,
as all around the gathered sit
in serried rank, birds and beasts alike,
all watching for their
Lady's smile upon her lately sleeping servant.
Now roused he hears the heralds of heaven
sing their own music, alike to his
but deeper, greater, older, sweeter,
lifting his troubadour tunes
into the great song of heaven's hearing.
Lost in love and light he listens,
caught up in creation's hymn,
whose crowning Queen he knows
here now in her sanctuary by sight,
and sits where he,
her knight errant of the road,
had lately slept his labours off.
The music, never silenced, fades, a little,
and beckoning him to her side
she whispers words of such blessing
he cannot believe;
to his care this place is given,
his little portion it will be,
and to his brothers yet to come
also a reminder, an anchor
a place of refuge and renewal,
of beginning blessing,
and the promise of an ending
in the embrace of she who gathers
these poor scared sparrows
neath her mother's mantle
to gift them to her Son.
Then reaching forth,
the Lady touched his tired eyes,
and seeing now with heaven's gaze,
the ages fall about him
telling the tale of all the Friars who follow;
the Sisters too, will have here their birth beginning,
until an even greater forest grows
about this blessed place, planted in peace
and bearing joy as fruit,
born from the seed of Gospeled faith,
sheltering with blessed branch all beings
who seek the shade of pardon and long for peace.
He weeps then, this rebuilder of blessing,
long and loud is his lament,
his mourning for the early days misspent,
 declaring his deeds, he seeks
her departure from one so stained,
yet she, the Lady, smiles all the more,
lifts him up, calls him son,
as much her building
as the stony walls about them both.
Then with a swell of Angel song she leaves,
or at least is seen no more,
and the little brother
does the only thing he can,
as, with makeshift trowel in hand,
and weeping still,
he picks up another stone
from off the floor.

Today is the feast of Our Lady of the Angels of the Portiuncula, a foundational feast for all Franciscans throughout the world. It was at the little forest chapel, rebuilt with his own hands, that Francis founded the Order, dedicating it to Our Lady of the Angels, there he received the vows of the brothers and of St. Clare, spent much time in meditation and finally breathed out his soul to God... The little chapel remains the heart place of the Franciscan soul and is a place of blessing to this day.

The "pardon of Assisi" the plenary indulgence granted to St. Francis to honour this feast and title of Our Lady may be obtained by visiting any public church until midnight tonight, praying the Creed and the Our Father for the intentions of the Pope and receiving Sacramental Confession and Holy Communion within 7 days before or after the feast.

Christmas Homily: Ards 2017: Year of the Family

Christmas Homily: Ards 2017: Year of the Family

Emmanuel that is the title He gives Himself…

God with us…

Down the dark and longing ages the prophet’s flame touched words are heard,

“A virgin will conceive and bear a Son and his name shall be Emmanuel”…

They were not understood but they were repeated, renewed in each generation’s heartfelt yearning…and so the sacred words come down to us…

They shine an inner light upon that yearning that arises from that deeply gnawing sense we all have of separation… of being alone… of isolation…

Separated from our God, sin sundered from each other, separated by death… we long for completeness, for perfection, for peace… for life eternal,

for God with us…

We look for its fulfilment… so often searching in the wrong places… We give ourselves over to short term solutions, thinking that our hungers are more important than asking why we are hungry at all and, if we are then what are we truly hungry for? We think our desires are more important than those of others, our needs more pressing than yours…and so finding in our overwhelming desires a fire that scorches and destroys when all the time we were really looking for a light that illumines and enlightens…

It is enough to make us despair…

Or it would be…

Were it not for the prophet’s Spirit whispered promise…

Emmanuel: Our God with us…

the fulfilment of all our hopes and dreams with us…

Can it really be possible?

We wonder…

Could the God of gods, the light from light truly want to be with us?

With us in our mess?

With us in our sin?

With us in our brokenness?

No! Impossible, we think,

At least not until I make myself perfect, or at least a little better,

God would not come to my home, to my heart, to my family… I mean look at us…

Look at me…

“If you really knew me…” we say

 and the fall silent before the mirror of our own soul and its sin soiled surface

No, we think… He could not want to be with me, and in our twisted pride we close our doors to him, just as surely as the innkeeper did on that night,

as the Pharisees would later,

as Pilate finally will with the washing of his hands…

But look at the name He is announced under…

God with us… Emmanuel

Not God with us if…

Not God with us… when

Not God with us…but

You see, where true love exists there are no ifs, buts, or whens;

no conditions no limits no ultimatums

There is only with…

The Lover with the Beloved

Each allowing the other to be who they are.

The One present to the other in open compassion and peace.

That is love

That alone

And to prove this He comes in the most simple and poor way possible.

He descends directly into the mess, into the heart of the mess,

Into a divided world

Into conquered nation

Into a persecuted people

Into a displaced tribe

Into a dung and straw filled stable

Into a topsy turvy family barely ready for a birth

Into the pure heart of a young girl

Love descends.

Love itself descends and becomes one with the mess

Becomes one with us.

Becomes one with me.

Becomes one with you.

And we touch pure, divine unconditional love

No waiting for us to be perfect here…

If God was to wait for us to be perfect there would never have been a Christmas!

No He comes to the mess and in coming to it begins to heal it there and then.

Right there in the midst of it all.

He comes.

The star hangs silent and almost unnoticed over a town overrun with chaos

The angels travel to the simplest and most unclean to deliver the message

of peace!

(no shepherds allowed in the temple! No farmers before the altar with their muddy sandals and earthy hands.)

Emmanuel: Our God with us…

He comes in stillness

He comes in peace

He comes in vulnerability

He comes in the middle of the night

He comes in the deep midwinter

He comes to be loved

He comes to love as only a baby loves

Without judgement and always in the perfect

present moment, forgetting what has just been before

and open to Love now.

Emmanuel: Our God with us…

One with us…

And in that shining moment of Bethlehem we are made part of His family again

The one great family of creation restored as sons and daughters of the Most High

There is no one without a family ever again

No one without a place here at the manger

No one for whom the babe would not have come

Or did not come…

He came for you

He came for me, broken, sinful me…

And He came so that in the Love that is God the broken would be made whole, the sin forgiven and the new beginning of blessing begun in my life and in yours too…

This is what we celebrate tonight…

Every Christmas light you see reminds us of the light of the stable and the star,

every tree in every window the evergreen welcome of Christ in His Love,

every gift exchanged a shadow of the greatest gift ever given…

this is why we gather here and in all the churches of the world tonight and it is why we are sent from here with this message, this commission to tell the whole world

Our God is Emmanuel

Our God is with us!

Hear it!

You have a commission… You cannot call yourself a Christian and absolve yourself from it! Wherever you are, wherever you go you have a message to proclaim, if not by your words then more importantly by your life!

In your home

In your place of work

In your relationships

You must be Christmas!

You must be the reminder to all that God is with us!

You must become a Christmas tolling bell announcing the Word made Flesh,

the birth of the Saviour…

No one should meet you, friend or stranger and not meet the Good News of God in the mess, God with us…

No one should meet you, should meet me

without knowing they have met another call to the manger,

a call to come home to the family of God,

a call to the embrace of Love;

No one should meet you, should meet me

without knowing that in some way they have met the Christ who comes,

the babe of Bethlehem, the God who is with us…

the God who is love.

The God who sees in us only and always

His beloved sons and daughters

His family.

We have called Him Lord and Master and rightly, for so He is…

We have called Him Prince of Peace, and Wonderful Counsellor and Everlasting Father, and so He is…

But He has called Himself Emmanuel…

God with us…

And that is what we celebrate this Christmas night.

May the Lord give you His Peace this Christmas Night: The Father, the Son and + the Holy Spirit.

Amen/

The Wild Nativity

The Wild Nativity.

We have our prophecies too
you know,
we tell our own tales,
and so we knew
to gather there
that night,
ambassadors of our
varied kinds all.
Before old Joseph
came back
with supplies from the inn.
We were there,
hidden in the hay,
up amongst the old beams,
resting by the manger
or drawn there
by the new star
that rose that night
pure and shining
like a snowflake
in its light.
We were there.
We had felt the
old pull of Eden
in our furred and feathered hearts
and felt his long forgotten nearness
once again who walked with us
once in evening light.
Old rivalries forgotten,
or at least put aside tonight,
we sat peacefully
in storied rank
half hidden in the shadows,
lost in awe at her,
settled
so still
in the straw,
her eyes closed
as though present
to a mystery
within.
We were there
waiting for Him
with her.
Let us prepare
His place we said...
Wren moved first,
to pluck her own breast
scattering the softest down
amongst the rough straw
and sparrows followed
weaving moss and herbs
as mattress
as Owl, and old Crow
and Hawk directed.
"I will keep him warm",
said Robin,
reddening his breast
while fanning flame alight.
"We will sing to him
when at last He comes"
said the little ones,
four footed and furred
and long tailed too,
piping in their tiny voices
choiring high as mouse
and vole, rabbit
and hedgehog all
assembled there,
followed by fox's clear tenor
and Badger's earthy baritone
to sing their
benediction of
wild welcome.
And then he came.
How? As sun shines sudden through a cloud breaking blindingly!
How? As the first rays of dawn mark that moment when night becomes a new day.
How? As a scenting nose is suddenly aware of a change in the air.
He came.
More than that we will not say.
Ours alone was that privilege to see and we will guard it down the ages...
And Mary looked upon us with love
and thanked us all
and in her smile and words
we heard old Eve laugh
at last again.
And then there was noise,
and people,
so many people,
and we withdrew
as we always do
to the shadows
again.
But not before He smiled at us
a smile of long recognition
graced and grateful
both.
After the shepherds left,
and their piping drumming din
went off amongst the crowds.
After Bethlehem finally became still.
After old Joseph nodded off
to his Angeled dreams.
We were there
and came forth again
from the shadows
to dwell with them,
our new Adam and Eve,
and heard then
our Gospel
preached to us,
who are already
of His kingdom
and always were.
We made our covenant
with Him then,
to be the first apostles
of His love
and in
our being blessed
and shared with you
to remind you
of the innocence
you lost
and He renews
if you would but follow
our
wild way to
Eden's light
again.
We have been
forgotten now
as shepherds, kings
and crowds
followed,
but not by Him,
who from his mother's arms
smiled past them all at us
hiding in the shadows
there.
And we would later
meet Him
in the desert
and the garden,
there
we will be with Him
again,
for we have
our prophecies too
you know,
and tell our tales
too,
whispering
to each other
across the woods
and hills,
on this night
each year
as you toll your bells
and sing,
we look to the skies
and
remember;
we
were
there.

Christmas Blessings to you and yours this Holy Night +

(Pic is of The Christmas Star by Lynn Bywaters)