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ABG Parish, Strandside South, Abbeyside, Dungarvan, Waterford (2026)

07/06/2026

𝗖𝗼𝗿𝗽𝘂𝘀 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶 𝗔 𝗔𝗯𝗯𝗲𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝟲,𝟳𝗝𝘂𝗻𝗲𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲 𝗝𝗻𝟲:𝟱𝟭-𝟱𝟴

Gone to Dublin with friends to see Les Misérables, she left homemade meals for the family. An early riser, she bakes fresh bread for breakfast and then tackles her high-powered day job. ‘I love feeding my family. The kitchen table and hob are the most important places in the home. Everything is worked out at the table: problems shared and sorted, stories told and memories made. Horrified to hear a student say, “we sold the table. It was never used.” My friend’s father died, and her mother is now terminal. I didn’t know what to say or do. I had rhubarb in the garden and made her a crumble. I enjoy that my husband and adult children love and appreciate what I prepare. They’ll cook for me too, if I’m late getting home. It’s deeply relaxing, you must measure and weigh and take your time. I’m in my comfort zone when baking and cooking. It’s my way to show my love, to give myself.’

Invited to a fundraising cookery demonstration in a neighbour’s house, I was mesmerised by the eclectic gathering, slow to recognise people out of context. Unsure if the elderberry juice offered was alcoholic, I hesitated until the host got animated and pointed to a tree beyond the garden, ‘made with berries from over there.’ Bamboozled by unheard of herbs, curry pastes and fish sauce and feeling a dunce in the class, the finished mostly one-pot dishes, though unfamiliar, deeply satisfied.

Silhouetted against the sky, the black suckler cow on the hill never stopped grazing while she arched her back to urinate, as if unaware she was overseen by a grey crow pausing mid-flight. Her calf, sturdy now and never far away, nibbled grass beside her, before nuzzling in for a cuddle and sip of warm milk.

Mothers nurture offspring, first with milk, and all the good that comes from within, in word and deed to affirm and guide; and vice versa children also inspire and empower parents. There’s an ease, an intimacy which nourishes both. How rare to see this deeply personal mutual impact intersect with the formal, public State Examination whereby in the Junior Cert English paper a boy this week was asked to respond to his mother’s poem which he, when an eight-year-old, had inspired. Plus, he had unknowingly uplifted his mother at wits end.ᶦ

Jesus knew how powerful the gift of food, an extension of self, can be to bond and nourish, saying, ‘I am the living bread …. Anyone who eats this bread will live forever; And the bread that I shall give is my flesh for the life of the world …. Whoever eats me will draw life from me.’ Not only a provider of food, as in feeding the multitudes, Jesus also loved to accept hospitality and asked that we do the same, ‘eat what is set before you.’ The mother gone to Les Mis, cookery demonstrator, cow and poet each instinctively, and with love, play their part in making real a Corpus Christi (Body of Christ) not confined to churches, but share a living bread above and beyond, and foster a truly world-wide ‘holy communion.’ But like the proverbial horse brought to water, we can’t be force-fed. Our openness to enter into communion, to join in, to eat and enjoy, to accept others’ love is key. Together, we can all more fully be the Body of Christ, Corpus Christi. Amen.

𝗙𝗿 𝗡𝗲𝗱

ᶦ 𝐸𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑦 𝐶𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑛, 𝐸𝑛𝑣𝑜𝑖 𝑖𝑛 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑘
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01/06/2026

𝗗𝗮𝗻𝗻𝘆 𝗕𝗮𝗿𝗿𝘆’𝘀 𝗙𝘂𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗕𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗿𝗼𝗮𝗱 𝟭𝗝𝘂𝗻𝗲𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲 𝗠𝗸𝟭𝟮:𝟭-𝟭𝟮

The belting rain deafened on Velux window and tiled roof as I typed these paltry words earlier. Overnight, Helwick and Ballinacourty had disappeared under heavy grey, blackish clouds which sat on the sea, matching the dark mood since Danny’s demise and shocking death, so close to where it all began. We’re all in shock, none more so than Danny’s nearest and dearest.

I didn’t know Danny as long or as well as you all did, and his nephew John will speak in more detail later about Danny’s life. I can only give a hazy impression. Firstly, and it was both disconcerting and comforting that Danny seemed uncannily familiar when we first met. I would almost see double when looking at him: I’d revert back to my childhood visits to Ballydurn Creamery, where Danny’s look-alike uncle, Richie Connell, all business in his beige shop coat over navy boilersuit or bib and brace overalls, hauling out large bags of cattle feed or manure on a metal hand car, or unloading the Kilmeaden lorry. While neighbouring farmers were slagging or passing on local news, Richie kept quiet and stayed in the background. His trademark Honda 50 and Danny’s maternal family cottage home on the intersection of the old road and the new line from Kilmac to Carrick. Known as good hurlers, Richie played for Clonea while his brother Patie hurled for Erin’s Hopes (a team founded around Kilcanavee to cater for a glut of good hurlers). Danny, described as an extremely skilful player who could lose an opponent by dropping a shoulder and going the other way, went one better and hurled with the county, later transferring his touch to golf. Danny loved to talk about his Ballydurn relations, my neighbours, some of whom I went to school with. He loaned me the History of Kilmeaden Creamery, where they featured.

Danny seemed to embody the Connell attributes: gentle, quiet, kind, courteous, shrewd, friendly, and most of all, honest. I don’t mean, for a moment, to disparage Danny’s Barry inheritance or genes …. I simply did not know the Barry family gone before. In practice, while the arrival of the swallows promised summer, tasting the first Ballinacourty spuds of the season was the real thing. We all remember the old spuds full of big black lumps, thick heavy skins, shrinking while sprouts shot up. And the unbridled joy of the new season’s crop. But most of us not from here, were backward, and our spuds were at least a month behind. It was like Christmas coming early, when my mother would come from Kilmac with the Ballinacourty balls of flour, thin transparent skin peeling back, dinner more like desert.

Danny, his siblings and so many of you in Ballinacourty, were born providers of simple early summer pleasure. Danny played his part both as grower and greengrocer. Always adaptable, he made the most of Quigley Magnesite and changed tack from tilling the land to cultivating tourist accommodation. His life, in large part, revolved around Ballinacourty; though domiciled in Abbeyside since marrying Sheila, his Meadowlands kitchen and living room windows allowed him to survey Dungarvan Bay and feast his eyes on his beloved Ballinacourty.

Danny was a regular here at Ballinroad Mass, one of the first to arrive and park across the road and take his seat under the window at the back. You’d hardly notice him, he slipped quietly in and out. He’d be familiar with the biblical texts, and would know that I don’t pick and choose but generally use the gospel of the day. Today’s offering is tough. Jesus is spinning a yarn to teach about the cruel twists of life that he, and in various ways each of us, must cope with. We trust that Danny, crushed by some suffering, is encountering healing and renewal, rebirth and regeneration, embraced by his extended family and neighbours gone before, transformed by the rejected but risen Jesus.

Danny, may you start again and golf from scratch
As the elder son, from above keep watch
‘Til the dark clouds part and we meet someday
Of and for you we’ll hanker, think and pray.

𝗙𝗿 𝗡𝗲𝗱

31/05/2026

𝗧𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗔 𝗔𝗯𝗯𝗲𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝟯𝟭𝗠𝗮𝘆𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲 𝗝𝗻𝟯:𝟭𝟲-𝟭𝟴

Frankie, nine years old (‘nearly ten!’ he said) and ‘the head off his father’, stole the hearts of all present. Voice quivering and tears falling on to his shirt, he studied her medal of Mary, glancing back at mother and grandaunts for reassurance, before leaning in for one last kiss, in the coffin; Philomena, his beautiful great-grandmother laid out in her living room. Every day, bag on back, he trotted up to her, and husband Jim, after school. Frankie’s unfettered and freely expressed emotions of intimacy, loss and hope of meeting again was touching. Not everyone is privileged to know, let alone cherish, their great-grandparents.

Inspired by how Scoil Mhuire staff and students coalesced like clockwork to produce a singing, dancing spectacle of human magic in Follow The Yellow Brick Road, I later met Tin Man walking home, his mother worried the metallic make-up wouldn’t wash off, a Munchkin coming down from cloud nine, Scarecrow shedding straw, and Cowardly Lion. The overall show entranced me, but one little character who never lost audience eye-contact or missed a beat stole the show. With arms and legs, twists and turns, her eyes alight and face aglow, she sure sang out and spoke to us.

‘Is that Michael Flynn?’ I asked the stranger who had just walked in. Stumped after forty years, ‘it is,’ as he looked, looked away and looked again, before naming me. ‘You took the cloth. I must now ask, are you still in the cloth? I’ve great respect for the institution, though I don’t attend.’ We had sat together as first years in 1981, not setting eyes on each other since Leaving Cert. Bright and a rock of sense, I always held Michael in high regard and was hugely surprised, but thrilled, that he had noticed, admired and remembered tiny things I’d said and done but had long forgotten. Shared school memories tumbled out, teachers and classmates talked about. We reminisced, relived and reminded each other of brilliant fellow students, April Fool jokes gone wrong, corporal punishment dished out and dedicated teachers who inspired.

‘Don’t go on, go in,’ Claire Keegan said. At a Poetry Day workshop, Lani O’Hanlon had us stop to breathe and, with our feet, to feel the floor and ground ourselves. She led us to notice how differently, and more deeply, we respond to life and push the pen when centred. Lani mentioned the importance of writing from a place of feeling, warning that there are a lot of cold observational pieces which don’t stir the reader.

Church has shied away from religious experience, retreating into dogma or teaching, for example today’s feast of God as Trinity, which leaves most unmoved. People first experienced God in nature and in Judaism, then through Jesus, in word and deed. Later, the Church encountered God as Christ in the Spirit. It took several centuries to hammer out the teaching of Trinity. It can’t be only an abstract, intellectual approach. The teaching is a formal reflection on experience. Lived experience of love, loss, belonging, healing, overcoming, reunion, and creativity are fertile ground for faith in a trinitarian, not one-dimensional, God.

Young grief-stricken Frankie unselfconsciously drew all gathered into Calvary, the Emmaus-bound disciples, and Spirit-filled upper room. Child actors with adult producers and backstage crew transformed the terrifying challenges of the human journey by their fulsome portrayal of Follow the Yellow Brick Road, which we can see as the Christian search. A chance meeting with an old classmate spurred us to recall and reinterpret our formative years of intense schoolwork, moving towards manhood and learning lasting lessons. Lani leaned towards life, not formal structure: waiting, sensing, listening out for a deeper word, a lighter note, a truer, fuller feel for what is; surely tapping into trinitarian traces. Let’s not get lost in too much talk of Trinity but immerse ourselves in the limitless love of Father, Son and Spirit.

𝗙𝗿 𝗡𝗲𝗱

25/05/2026

𝗣𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗰𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗔𝗯𝗯𝗲𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝟮𝟯,𝟮𝟰𝗠𝗮𝘆𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲 𝗔𝗰𝘁𝘀𝟮:𝟭-𝟭𝟭 𝟭𝗖𝗼𝗿𝟭𝟮:𝟯-𝟳 𝗝𝗻𝟮𝟬:𝟭𝟵-𝟮𝟯

100-year-old Fr Donal O’Connor was reading a handwritten card, an old master’s painting of the Resurrection on the front, when I walked in. ‘That’s a beautiful card,’ he said with a smile. ‘Read it. He fits a lot of information into a small space.’ Embarrassed at first, to be asked to read a private note, I enjoyed and marvelled at the evident intimacy between my two colleagues. The card and its contents brought great joy to the recipient, who obviously read and reread it.

Engaging with the excellently prepared Garranbane N.S. First Communion children yesterday, I was trying to elicit that Jesus is especially present at Mass and in Holy Communion. So I asked about their experience of food and the difference (if any) between a meal served by their parents and that coming out of a machine? They looked horrified, and a girl shot out, ‘one is prepared with love.’
Biddy Carroll, a Garranbane stalwart widowed for over forty years and buried last Wednesday, was a spirited character. For her, prayer, Mass and a can-do attitude were central. To rear her family, she became the first female bus driver in Ireland with CIE; with her husband Mick, she ferried children to school, and for adults, was the first Local-Link! She set up a very welcome makeshift shop and sold sweets and lemonade wherever crowds gathered: from Clonea beach on summer days to GAA matches at Walsh Park and Fraher Field.

Today is the Feast of the Spirit. Scripture depicts disciples developing and leaders emerging, inspired by the Spirit and speaking a common language of the heart, pointing people towards God’s presence and vision for the world. Luke, Paul and John (and the others) wrote to us about their deepest spiritual insights and knowledge about God, Jesus and the Spirit, drawing us into their experiences. I felt honoured to be given a peep into the correspondence of my colleagues and see their deep friendship – openness, joy and love – clearly the fruit of the Spirit. I was stunned into silence by the brilliant first communicant instantly naming the wholesome nature of a family meal at home as prepared with love: the absolute essence of Eucharist and the Christian message. Biddy Carroll’s admirable ingenuity and long-term courage to make an independent living is a sure sign of the Spirit hard at work.

These are some of the people and places where I encountered the Pentecost Spirit these past days. What about you: where have you sensed God’s Spirit?

𝗙𝗿 𝗡𝗲𝗱

20/05/2026

𝗩𝗼𝗹𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗿𝘀’ 𝗠𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗔𝗯𝗯𝗲𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝟮𝟬𝗠𝗮𝘆𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲 𝟭𝗖𝗼𝗿𝟯:𝟲-𝟭𝟬, 𝟭𝗖𝗼𝗿𝟭𝟮:𝟰-𝟭𝟭, 𝗠𝘁𝟱:𝟭𝟯-𝟭𝟲

I get disheartened when there are divisions and disagreements, power struggles and the challenge to reach consensus, particularly in parish and in church. It’s consoling to know, that even in the early church, there were issues and potential splits (people chanting I am for Apollos, I am for Paul) which Paul managed to advert by referring to the bigger picture: ‘I did the planting, Apollos did the watering, but God made things grow.’ Only God matters, not the one who plants or waters. Any local or parish politics (which always exist everywhere) are not the end, but rather God’s vision for the world which he brings about through imperfect people like you and I. I was very conscious this morning at Biddy Carroll’s funeral (Biddy, an ever-present pillar of strength, and Eucharistic minister until her final illness and whose medal is here this evening), that Fr James is different to me in terms of style, but that he was hugely effective and highly praised by Biddy’s family for how he presided. Historically, very often in parishes with multiple priests, people would play priests off against each other, praising one and criticising another. It is always God, not us, who gives the growth. I’m very pleased that Fr James is living and working here with us, and we complement each other.

Similarly, for each of you. This is not the purpose of this evening, or of your ministry, but without each and every one of you, I would go out of my mind. To give a few examples: there’s a meeting tomorrow afternoon to consider how to stabilise and conserve the Cloghas. Without the Parish Office and Finance Council, I couldn’t access the grant or oversee works. The recent cleaning, painting and repairs to Ballinroad Church happened without any hands-on input from me. The Ballinroad graveyard extension is being reseeded and levelled, stones picked by a volunteer. Soon some repairs will be carried out on Garranbane Church. At the recent play produced by Deirdre Collender, Ballinroad Hall was greatly admired by visiting patrons. Occasional or visiting Mass goers appreciate the sense of community and warmth they experience in our parish.

Throwing an eye over the staggering list of volunteers (and I’m really sorry for anyone omitted) gives a hint at the vibrancy of our parish. Everyone has a role. Each of us is called by Jesus to play our part and make the parish a better place. This evening is a tiny effort to express appreciation. To notice everyone’s contribution. And to enjoy each other’s company.

I received this text today: ‘Good morning, Father. I won’t be with you tonight, but it is an altogether beautiful idea. I didn’t think I was reading that long. And to be honest, it’s a great honour to receive the recognition and I’m sorry to miss the occasion. A thousand thanks.’ Our second reading puts it well, ‘there is a variety of gifts, but always the same Spirit.’ Your gifts make this parish what it is. Alone, a priest is powerless. Nothing would happen in this parish if it weren’t for your generous gift of your time and talents. I feel so privileged to cooperate with you, or to use a musical (which I’m not!) analogy: I try to conduct the orchestra; and we all march to the beat of the Master’s drum.

You are the salt of the earth and the light of the world. Without you, this would be an insipid and dark place. Thank you for witnessing in myriad ways to God’s presence in Abbeyside, Ballinroad and Garranbane. You are the leaders, the doers. Go maire sibh go deo.

𝗙𝗿 𝗡𝗲𝗱

01/05/2026

𝗨𝗿𝘀𝘂𝗹𝗮 𝗕𝗲𝗮𝘁𝘁𝘆 𝗙𝘂𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗔𝗯𝗯𝗲𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝟭𝘀𝘁 𝗠𝗮𝘆 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲 𝗝𝗻𝟭𝟰:𝟭-𝟲

From Ursula’s first words five weeks ago in Ardkeen when I visited, she was direct and true: ‘You don’t know me, but 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢.Thanks for coming….’ Apart from a brief hello while shopping with John, I’d never met Ursula, and seeing John every day at Mass (his second family, she said), I had often thought about Ursula. Thanks to the camera, she tuned in every day and hung on every word. But she struggled to hear people from the ambo, and switched to Bagnelstown! I didn’t know she had panicked in church and couldn’t cope with closed spaces, and so stopped coming to Mass. But she didn’t stop believing, or praying morning and night.

What I’m about to say can’t be true for family and close friends, obviously. But for the rest of us, despite knowing Ursula was dying, she gave us a great lift. And Ursula was as surprised by the peace she felt as we were. She marvelled at her sister’s similar attitude when dying eighteen months ago, but never expected to experience that peace and acceptance herself, and was hugely grateful.

Apart from her lifeline of heated oxygen, she was agile in the bed. Born in Dungarvan, but in true Abbeyside style, ‘I wouldn’t want people to know that!’ Moving to Murphy Place at five. In Abbeyside ever since, almost. After meeting John at a Ballinacourty dance in the old Coast Guard, they married and moved in with John’s widowed father in Kilmac. ‘I couldn’t stick it. It was a one-horse town, and it was dead!’ She rang her mother from the now-long-gone phone kiosk at the end of the hill to complain. ‘You’ve made your bed!’ she was told.

‘John has been great. He worked very hard and gave us a good life, so I did everything at home. He’ll be lost. He’s very lonely. I’ve asked people to mind him. He’ll get used to it. Sure, we’re together so long. We weren’t perfect, we had our rows, but nothing too serious. I had three great boys, and I’m blessed with three lovely daughters-in-law. And the grandchildren. John was great, he calmed me.’

‘I don’t believe in pearly gates. I think there’ll be different levels – we’ll have to work ourselves up. I don’t believe in hell, some people have hell on earth. As the boys say, “we’re lucky to have this time to say goodbye.” The consultant said he may be able to get me home for a few days. I’m not sure I’d want to – it would be too hard. I’m a very fearful person, but I’ve no fear. I’m at peace. The little white tablets help! The staff are great.’

To visit the Oak Ward is an experience. As well as excellent nurses and carers, she had the services of a poet, physiotherapist, healing dog, Indian chaplain (as opposed to the Canadian she dreamt of!) and much more to help her face her earthly end.

‘When I wake up in the middle of the night, I’m lonely. I keep strong for John and the family. When I’m strong, they’re strong. I think I’m feeling more breathless.’

‘See you tomorrow,’ her family said as she was falling asleep the other night. ‘I hope I don’t,’ her weary reply. Our wish now is that she opens wide her new born eyes and looks us up and down; that she waltzes from room to room in our Father’s house, inhaling oxygen so pure and fresh that her brittle chest goes soft and supple, no more panic or pipes of pumped up air but a grand reunion and a promised prayer to bring back the Liam McCarthy Cup.’

I’d like to think God would greet Ursula, as she welcomed me:

‘You don’t know me, but I know you, and love you. You are great. Sit down. Thanks for everything.’

𝐅𝐫 𝐍𝐞𝐝

27/04/2026

𝗝𝗶𝗺 𝗕𝘆𝗿𝗻𝗲 𝗙𝘂𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗔𝗯𝗯𝗲𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝟮𝟳𝗔𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗹 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲 𝗝𝗻𝟭𝟬:𝟭𝟭-𝟭𝟴

Though in his final forty-eight hours, Jim enjoyed reminding me with a big smile and clear chuckle of when we first met, ‘Fr Ned, you mislaid my cheque and called for me to re date it!’ My recollection was not so simple, feeling utterly sheepish. I had squandered Jim’s donation, not by rash spending but by putting it down somewhere or not opening the envelope ….. until it was too late. The six months were up when I saw it, and it couldn’t be lodged to parish funds. So, taking my pride in my hands, I headed for Coolagh. Though familiar from monthly First Friday visits to next door neighbour Mrs O’Brien, Jim’s driveway was different. Darked and house hidden by high trees on either side, I had no notion where I was going. A huge square front window angled at forty-five degrees, and perched on a point, my first glimpse. Feeling a fraud, and begging a second time for the same gift, I rang the bell. There was no budge from the door, but a lady I soon discovered was wife Ruth, appeared from an unseen door at the end of a covered walkway, supported by square pillars, again swivelled forty-five degrees. The proverb, oft repeated by my father, ‘a gentleman’s door is slippery ground’ echoed in my mind. Ashamed, I told my tale of woe and waste, and Jim appeared.

My second visit, last Wednesday, again waiting at the wrong door, was precipitated by Jim calling to the Parish Office with his Easter Envelope and telling Fr James that his time was nearly up. ‘You Irish are tough,’ Fr James said, ‘nobody in Nigeria would talk about dying like that.’ Aware he was progressively diminishing, facing the unknown, Jim prayed with his left hand, ‘Lord, take me tonight,’ and with his right, ‘God, give me one more day.’

These were my two main encounters with Jim. Each one has their own experience, whether family and friends or farmers and all animal lovers. For sacristan Eileen walking across the Causeway after breaking her shoulder, Jim stopped the car, got out and told her to tighten the sling, ‘it would heal better.’ He knew from treating horses!

Today’s gospel portrays Jesus as the Good Shepherd. Sooner or later, we’ll each have to face the divine shepherd, sheepish about our failures and human shortcomings but knowing we tried our best. Jim didn’t chastise me for my carelessness but freely gave his gift a new lease of life. We trust, pray, hope and wish that, as when our day comes, God, the all-seeing, all loving, all forgiving shepherd, will pick Jim up and carry him home; write a blank cheque that will neither bounce or go stale, an unlimited guarantee of love and life without end.
Amen.

𝗙𝗿 𝗡𝗲𝗱

12/04/2026

𝟮𝗘𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗔 𝗔𝗯𝗯𝗲𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝟭𝟮𝘁𝗵 𝗔𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗹 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲 𝗝𝗻𝟮𝟬: 𝟭𝟵-𝟯𝟭

If my mother could see me now. She’d always said, ‘you can do what you like with the house when I’m gone!’ Oil tank empty, the stove is lit for the first time all winter, and I’m beside it, with the table pulled in towards the heat. I’d never sat on the fire and faced straight out the window before, seeing Dunphy’s milking parlour, softened by furze bushes and blackthorns in bloom. All my life, the unchecked leylandii trees dominated the view, and blocked light: knocked now, the lawn connects with hilly field; sunshine, sky and clouds clearly visible.

All week, I’ve sifted through wardrobes and drawers, boxes and bags. I’ve sorted shoes and coats, clothes and papers, accounts and receipts. Generations of correspondence, damaged by a leak. The attic a treasure trove: white trimmed navy metal pram with stainless steel mudguards, old fire fronts and grates, deep fat fryer and milk pasteuriser. Beds, sagging with age and damaged by damp, duvets and pillows. All out the front door, into the cow box, and off to the Civic Amenity Centre.

Except what was gifted or handed down like the antique clock, armchairs and oil lamp, she carefully chose every item. Happy to wait, she saved for and bought the best. Bar drive the tractor, there was nothing she wouldn’t do. As babies, she’d tuck us up in the pram or carrycot left where the sun would warm, while she and my father milked cows and fed calves.

Having nursed her father after a bad stroke while we were young, she later said, ‘if I had known what was ahead, I’d never have been able.’ It’s taken me over three years to finally face the music, and part with the clutter. I’m keenly conscious of Declan Sexton’s family, a mere month since he drew his last breath, and can only imagine the sharpness of their emotional pain. We tend to turn in, like the shattered disciples huddled together in a room with closed doors, their hero Jesus executed.

All we have are memories now, with strong feelings. And ingrained patterns of how to be and do. Lessons learned and skills imparted: to love as we are loved. We’re moulded by those we grieve.

A man of the road, we never heard Jesus left possessions behind. But he left an indelible impression by his teaching, healing and hopeful egalitarian vision. Much more significantly, his heartbroken friends, including the most dubious sceptic imaginable, experienced Jesus’ presence at their darkest moments. Realising Jesus was risen from the dead, filled the disciples with renewed confidence and they set about spreading this Good News. They trawled through their memories of significant encounters, actions and teachings of Jesus and passed them on by word of mouth.

The prime benefit of possessions left behind is the valued memory of a lost loved one deeply missed. They live on in our thoughts and feelings. But that is not all: Jesus risen gives us hope that our deceased loved ones rise too. We trust that Jesus’ dying and rising is intertwined with ours. Jesus grieves with us, and raises us with him.

Jesus,
Place your hand in our wounds as Thomas touched yours,
And enable sceptics to prod and poke at the religious quest.
Guide us through grief, sorting stuff and loving on.
Raise us all, risen One, and make us meet again. Amen.

𝗙𝗿 𝗡𝗲𝗱

05/04/2026

𝗘𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗔𝗯𝗯𝗲𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝟰,𝟱𝗔𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗹𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟲 𝗠𝘁𝟮𝟴:𝟭-𝟭𝟬

It is frightening to turn on the news these days. How badly we need insight and example of how to heal trauma, to break the cycle of violence across the globe. Behind fighter jets and deadly drones are trumped up, overgrown adult children playing ‘god’ with the world, leaving a trail of terror and murderous mayhem in their wake. How can we see an end to war with present leadership? On the other hand, this past week, the US is creatively exploring the moon, astronauts sending back beautiful photographs of a harmonious-looking planet earth.

James Finley, in a Los Angeles talk twenty years ago on contemplative prayer, impressed me hugely; his practical spiritual wisdom, soothing voice and poetic turn of phrase never left me. His recent memoir, though, has some sobering surprises and, ultimately, uplifting outcomes. When three or four, his father picked him up and pelted him across the room, his face hitting the leg of a table: ‘This is how my life as I remember it began.’ᶦ Side by side with physical abuse at home, sexual abuse while a monk in a monastery, and later dis-functional first marriage, Finley, deeply traumatised, describes how he found solace in faith and prayer, as well as therapy (insisted upon by his soon-to-be second wife). Tellingly, he says our wounds are often entry points to healing and spiritual growth.

As Storm Dave was beginning to huff and puff, a lady carrying a tray of young plants to a grave said, ‘can you do anything about the wind?’ whereas hardy kite surfers were gearing up to harness and enjoy the blustery conditions!

Cycling back from the U20 match in Fraher Field to a Pastoral Council meeting on Spy Wednesday, my disappointment at losing to Tipperary was eased by the beautiful nearly full moon rising just above the roofs on Strandside. When Fr Kiely, living at the time in an Aglish cottage, told a neighbour that every night before bed he goes out to admire the moon and the stars, the young lad replied, ‘I never look up.’ A few days later he rang Fr Kiely to say how much he, by then, loved gazing at the night sky!

I’ve been so uplifted by Ursula Beatty, on heated oxygen and knowing she has very little time left here. Her face and body, in the palliative care bed, radiate life and love, gratitude and peace. ‘You’ve a tough job Fr Ned? The Canadian chaplain came in asking if anyone wanted Holy Communion. Nobody did. I felt sorry for him, and said, “I’ll take it, but you’ll have to hear my confession first.”’ She’s preparing. Trying to remember if she hurt or wronged anyone. So grateful to John, family, friends and neighbours. And to God. ‘It’s frightening how resigned I am. I don’t believe in hell. Some people have hell on earth.’

Jesus, exposed to various levels of violence culminating in the death penalty, neither retaliated or became fearfully passive but held on to his personal power and presence. He spoke up to Pilate when he chose, or later in a sign of strength, he remained silent; never renouncing his identity or mission in the face of force. He was alone during his agonising night on death row, colleagues and friends unable to keep vigil, either afraid or falling asleep. Ultimately, each of us is alone in our encounter with Jesus, as we invite him into our hidden hurts, and ask for healing.

Whether viewed scientifically and up close by astronauts, or from here at a distance, the moon is a cyclical ever changing presence which gives perspective amidst our relatively small, local concerns, and dates Easter. Finley says healing has a swirling pattern; it entails repenting, taking responsibility and showing mercy to ourselves and others. We can wish storms away or, like the kitesurfers, work with them. Death is the absolute storm, transformed by Easter into new life and fresh beginnings.

Full of Easter faith, Ursula, after Jesus, accepts her fate and is making the most of what time she has, trusting that God will guide her to all gone before, and that she’ll meet up again with those to be left behind.

Please, God,
Melt the hearts of war mongers,
Humble them to back off and down
tools.
Heal all who hurt and are in trauma.
Raise the dead, be with the bereaved.
Guide the dying, bless palliative carers.
Calm us when storms strike.
Help us to pray each day.
Lift us up, now and ever.
Amen

𝗙𝗿 𝗡𝗲𝗱

ᶦ𝐽𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝐹𝑖𝑛𝑙𝑒𝑦, 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑃𝑎𝑡ℎ: 𝐴 𝑀𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑖𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛 𝐼𝑛𝑣𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑂𝑟𝑏𝑖𝑠 𝐵𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠, 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑙𝑙, 𝑁𝑒𝑤 𝑌𝑜𝑟𝑘 10545, 2023. 𝑃 4

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