Thank you yet again to John Richardson in Australia for some funnies which have proved to be quite topical for me this week: I've realised just how reliant I've become on having a healthy Internet connection over the past few months! I've taken it as much for granted as I have my own health really. Over the past couple of weeks, my upload and download speeds have continually dropped well below one megabyte; for anyone even less techno-savvy than I, trust me that this is bad. I work quite haphazard hours, sometimes over seven days, and have grown accustomed to catching up on favourite telly programmes, friends' videos and blogs on my trusty laptop while the world beyond my noisy little corner of Brighton sleeps. In recent days, I haven't even been able to update my own blog. (Who applauded? Sarcasm lurks in the devil's smirk!) My Internet provider seems to have finally worked a little magic on the speeds but has hinted at something dark around my entire 'phone and Internet connection; for me, this feels almost like being diagnosed with an allergy to chocolate. Due to the hours I work, it's been a struggle to actually speak to a helpline technician who was both helpful and technical. A previous,very frazzled late-night call concluded when I was asked if I had unplugged the "computer thingies" and if I knew where the Reset button on the modem was. I admit that I used rather un-Catholic language before heading for the Nutella jar with a dessert spoon. It did get me thinking about our dependence upon technology in general. I fully appreciate how the postal service works, resulting in many unwelcome bills and the occasional lovely package being delivered by my bouncy postman, right to my front door. I have only a vague idea of how WiFi actually winds up in my front room and then (hopefully) casually wafts around most areas of my home and garden. When this invisible presence is notably absent and my usual information, entertainment and communication systems fail, I'm devastated. Most of us accept and indeed expect the omnipotent nature of the Internet without demanding or needing an explanation of how it all works, although many find the concepts of an essential creator of all things and a redeeming spirit moving through them outdated, incongruous and absurd. I think we have our own Reset buttons, marked "Faith".
"There Must Be An Angel" The Eurythmics (and one of the kitschiest videos ever made)
There is very little that I could reasonably add to the (necessarily) chillingly matter of fact promotionals for this October's "Stand Up To Cancer" campaign. The most current international research confirms that one in three of all of us will be affected by some form of cancer during our lives, regardless of sex, age or location. Picture yourself at church, in a shopping centre, at the cinema or on a train; anywhere you might be gathered with a hundred people or more and reconsider this statistic. Cancer decimated both my mother's and father's families and continues to sink it's disrespectful fingers into the lives of me and mine. I can't think of a more worthwhile post to add to this blog right now. Please click the link further down this page for information about the campaign, to visit the SU2C online shop and for ways to donate.
Thanks x
ABOUT STAND UP TO CANCER
Channel 4 and Cancer Research UK have joined forces to launch Stand Up To Cancer in the UK. We’re calling on the nation to join the brightest stars in entertainment, to work together to raise money to accelerate cancer research. So we can bring forward the day when all cancers are cured. It’s a critical time. We have the knowhow to make rapid advances in thetreatment and prevention of cancer. We just need more money. That’s where Stand Up To Cancer comes in, by raising funds to turn breakthroughs in the lab into breakthroughs in our hospitals. Thanks to everyone who helped make last night's Stand Up To Cancer event such a success. The total amount we've raised so far is £6,483,995! Thank you to everyone who's got involved and donated. But remember, if you haven't already it's not too late... You can continue to Stand Up To Cancer by donating, fundraising, buying our merchandise, shouting your support from the highest mountain, or your nearest social network..
(Last night's fundraising event on Channel 4 may not have been been entirely my idea of entertainment, but it was incredibly moving and heartwarming. It was also lovely to see Leona Lewis perform Snow Patrol's anthem "Run" with The Big C Choir.
The choir have been together for only three months and many members had never previously sung in public. It's singers range from ten to eighty years of age; all thirty two members are currently, or have recently been, in treatment for cancer. Some had just been diagnosed when they joined the choir, some are now terminally ill, some are in remission. The Big C Choir is the fifth choir to have been put together by the Welsh based charity "Tenovus". Originally started in 1943 by an initiative of ten Cardiff businessmen, Tenovus grew as a local charity responding to a variety of social needs and concerns. It was the charity's funding which enabled the development of Tamoxifen and Zoladex, now used worldwide to treat breast and prostate cancers respectively. Now a major cancer charity, Tenovus also runs a Freephone Cancer Support Line - 0808 808 1010. The Big C Choir was created especially for the Channel 4 programme "Sing For Your Life", one of the most inspiring pieces of TV I've watched in a long time. Pioneering research carried out by Tenovus has shown that singing is beneficial to the patients' state of mind, also appearing to reduce pain. Recent research on The Big C Choir indicates that the group's lung strength improved along with increased social function and mental health: singing on prescription please!)
Yesterday morning, my bouncy and efficient postman asked me why I wasn't smiling "so big" as usual, as he handed me not one but two letters from the bank, as the rain battered my porch. In fact, it probably hurt somewhat to smile due to my suddenly broken molar: not yet registered with a dentist here, the search for someone to sort me an emergency filing on the NHS is not proving fruitful, Later yesterday, my friend Lin told me that the wee blog had reached 12,000 page views and I smiled so wide that it felt like my jaw had dislocated. 12,000 page visits may not seem like much in the scheme of blogs, but I didn't really know that anyone other than a couple of friends might ever read this; some of my friends have found the blog "too Catholic" or even "too personal", which has made me bristle that this is my blog after all. An anonymous social commentator said blogging is the unedited version of oneself; and I'm frequently told by some who care about me that I'm often too open and too "unedited". I always counter that it seems important to me that folk are presented with the real deal, warts (and molars) and all, without any pretence: where some might see obligatory boundaries, I see unnecessary barriers. I've always had a big mouth and often feel I have to "say something" in situations where it would be more comfortable for me and everyone else if I kept quiet; my Mum and Dad both suffered from an excess of opinion and a banging sense of injustice. But blogs frequently and naturally become a catalogue of the minutiae of the blogger's life, and I know this has happened with "The Water is Wide". I admit that having to re-invent myself professionally and redefine myself personally after the loss of people, places and familiar things inspired me to witter and write this blog; I also found I had an exhausting amount of time on my hands, on my own in a new home. A few months on, I have far less downtime, but I feel I may still carry on with the wee blog. Maybe blogging is yet another form of vanity; and I can't deny that I've found a great deal of support in recapturing lost opportunities to show how much I appreciate my parents and things dear to me. Much as I'm aware that some people may find that mawkish, particularly some who've stumbled here looking for Brighton tea-shops or folk music discographies, I hope that someone somewhere will take a look at this blog and rekindle or re-cherish their own memories and stories. All we can ever truly be are our own stories, continually updated and re-worked. This blog is my story: I would encourage anyone to tell theirs. There are many lovely versions of the folk song that lends it's name to this blog and I want to share as many as possible of them. Included here is a rousing version by long-standing Celtic folk and rock band Runrig. Also included is one of my favourite poems by W.B. Yeats, "A Crazed Girl", which feels very apt for me and my blog, particularly when accompanied by my poorly molar.
Today is the feast day of St Teresa of Avila, the Spanish-born mystic, reformer of the Carmelite Order and Doctor of the Catholic Church (see earlier post: "The Friendship of God", April 2012).
Although she produced some of the most remarkable mystical writings, she retained a down to earth manner of communion with both her peers and God. She told her Sisters: "If you do something wrong, don't punish yourself - change!" A lady after my own heart, her reply to criticism that she preferred to eat well was that there is a time for partridge and a time for penance. Although obviously I would prefer a bean burger and a bar of chocolate. One of her most quoted offerings, "Nada te Turbe (Let Nothing Disturb You)", is still popular in Spain and beyond, as a meditative chant, a ballad or even as a Flamenco guitar solo. The patron saint of those in need of grace as well as those ridiculed for their piety, she is also patron of headache and migraine sufferers! My migraine today is probably due as much to my own intolerance of my neighbours' high-spirits yesterday as it is to any particular clamour they were making. St Teresa's "Prayer for Virtue" is as stoical as it is inspiring: where is it written that saints can't have a sense of humour? I would have thought it was a pre-requisite.
(This little post is especially for Catriona McGlynn and her lovely mum; but also for all those with headaches today...)
St Teresa's "Prayer for Virtue"
"Lord,
Thou knowest better than I myself
that I am growing older and will someday be old.
Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking
I must say something on every subject and on every occasion.
Release me from craving to
straighten out everybody’s affairs.
Make me thoughtful but not moody;
helpful but not bossy.
With my vast store of wisdom,
it seems a pity not to use it all;
but Thou knowest, Lord,
that I want a few friends at the end.
Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details:
give me wings to get to the point.
Seal my lips on my aches and pains;
they are increasing, and love of rehearsing them
is becoming sweeter as the years go by.
I dare not ask for improved memory,
but for a growing humility and a lessening cock-sureness
when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others.
Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.
Keep me reasonably sweet, for a sour old person
is one of the crowning works of the devil.
Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places
and talents in unexpected people;
and give, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.
Amen."
"Nada te Turbe" as sung for meditation on retreat at Taize, France (2009)
The late, lovely poet John O'Donohue wrote "Beannacht", which is Gaelic for "Blessing", for his own mother Josie during her lifetime. When I was putting together a wake for my Mum, Josie Kelly, I had a friend read the poem out in it's entirety; although the words reproduced above have always touched me most deeply. My Mum and Dad are now the invisible cloak that minds my life. This Wednesday marked the second anniversary of my mother's death: she died on the morning of 10.10.2010. Although time appears to have flown by, I still seem to be slow at navigating the yawning void that has opened up in the very middle of my life. Until I moved to Brighton, I saw Mum everyday; once I had moved, I spoke to her everyday. I realise that losing my job around the same time that I lost my mother could only ever isolate me further: living on my own, I also find myself yearning for the camaraderie of my old colleagues. But more than anything, I can't deny that I miss my mum. Mum was one of a family of six children: the eldest was a step-sister who would quickly emigrate to Australia, the youngest was her only brother William; Josie was the youngest of the four sisters in between. With varying shades of strawberry blonde hair and Irish blue eyes, they were feisty and pretty and were known as The Kelly Girls around Antrim and Derry. My Auntie Barbara told me that when they were growing up Mum was generally stubborn and often cantankerous but always cute. Her enchantment of my father is recounted elsewhere in this blog; for her part, Mum appeared to have countless suitors but maintained she had only loved once. Living in my father's native Belgium and then Switzerland and France during the first fifteen years of their marriage, she loved the French culture and language, but she learned to speak French her way, with an unshakable Northern Irish accent. Mum was eternally Irish. She would cheerfully say she was born in "the Black North", but being born just before the partitioning of the Irish counties, she refused to recognise the divide, with an indignity I uphold. Her Irishness seems to have been as infectious for my Dad: he surely had a greater knowledge of Irish political history and a more prolific collection of Irish folk and rebel songs than your average, conservatively raised Walloon. And so the Sundays of my childhood resonated with Gregorian chant, Edith Piaf, The Dubliners and various versions of "Kevin Barry" and "The Fields of Athenry". Mum was always a bit of a conundrum. Just as she was a resolute vegetarian who didn't care for many vegetables, she was also a confirmed Catholic who believed in fairies, omens and ghosts. Superstition and ritual featured large in her Catholic upbringing. Her own beloved Scottish mother, who I never knew, was a devout woman who could apparently"see" the fate of others; the local parish priest often asked for advice and assured my granny that she was thus "gifted" because she was close to God. Mum would often mutter prayers in front of the red-lit picture of The Scared Heart (above the fridge), asking The Virgin Mary, St Rita or St Anthony to fix or find things, to keep people safe or show them the error of their ways. When my Dad died suddenly and my big sister left to travel across the world with the man she would marry, I feel I formed an enviable bond with Mum. At times, certainly in later years, I admit that I could feel smothered and stuck. The memory of that resentment is painful for me now: sometimes contrarily argumentative and startlingly devoid of tact, Mum loved my sister and I unconditionally and fiercely. She could be generous to a fault: some folk could pop in for a cuppa and still be there through lunch and dinner, and maybe even a drop of whiskey to set them back en route. At other times, she might resolutely refuse to open the door to neighbours or friends if she was having a bad hair or even a "bad house" day. She could be endlessly kind but brutally honest, frequently advising other people's daughters in shop changing rooms that a skirt or dress made them look fat, thin, peaky or just plain dreadful! She could appear judgemental, largely due to the narrowness of her geography and religion. Yet I remember her instinctive reaction when she came to visit a man I had been helping to care for, in his last, painful stages of AIDS. His condition and homosexuality had blinded his own Portuguese Catholic family; when Mum asked him where his mother was, he started to cry. Always phobic about hospitals and terrified by the media's HIV and AIDS fever, my own Mum held Paolo's hand and told him she would be his mother that afternoon. I've never forgotten that; it helps me remember how I came to be me. She had an unspoken fearlessness about her, which must have been attractive to my just and outspoken father. Once settled in south London, she rarely felt the need to travel across the Thames; yet she traveled to Australia and the Far East with my sister when she was well into her seventies and dependent on a walking stick. When I was younger, she would sometimes come along to reggae and punk gigs; she could often be heard offering young men with towering Mohican hairdos cough sweets and tissues. She became a big fan of singer and gay rights activist Tom Robinson, who referred to her as "Mum" on more than one occasion. When I was arranging Mum's wake, I wrote the poem "Josie Kelly", which tumbled out in a rush of recognition of all that's Mum that I now see in me. I wanted to share it here, along with some of the (very many) things she would often tell me. She shared some of my taste in music, if not the full diversity which I inherited from Dad. She never tired of traditional Celtic music, including the pipes and the marching bands of the Orangemen, but I managed to introduce her to the likes of Springsteen, Van Morrison, Kings of Leon, Eddi Reader, Brian Kennedy, Damien Rice... I literally introduced her to Norn Ireland's own Snow Patrol, which is a whole other story. She grew to be especially fond of the band; her favourite Snow Patrol song, which reminded her of The Troubles, is included here. Mum felt that frontman Gary Lightbody would have made a fine Catholic priest, which would certainly be news to his lovely Protestant family back in Bangor. Mum frequently asserted that various people would've made fine Catholic priests. Apart from Blessed Pope John Paul: she thought he was wonderful of course, but felt he would've made a great rock star. And people wonder where I get it from.
Things My Mother Told Me
Never let the sun set on an argument.
Never take your health for granted.
What's meant for you will surely not go past you.
That her marriage to my Dad was made in Heaven; or at the very least, the wedding license was filed there.
That I would never have much money, but that needn't mean I would ever be poor.
Money puts a price on happiness but still can't buy it.
Always accept an apology. It makes it easier to offer one.
God does indeed move in mysterious ways: why wouldn't He; He's God?
Irish people know how to laugh at themselves, which has encouraged the English to make Irish jokes because they haven't yet learned to laugh at themselves.
If you believe you're right, stand up and fight for your opinion, until you're knocked down; then, sit down and carry on shouting.
Men who mock women for being virgins, or chaste or celibate, are not fit for love-making.
You should marry for love and work for money, not the other way round.
That her lack of culinary skills hadn't affected her raising a family: she simply married a man who loved cooking and had one daughter who loved the preparing and eating of food and another who liked to eat out.
You can wear tartan with floral, polka dots with stripes; as long as none of it is wearing you.
You can paint your face but not a smile on it.
Real class has nothing to do with where you are on any social scale.
That talking to my plants would help me as much as them.
Irish people are born to laugh and cry; sometimes, both at the same time.
That I should've married Bruce Springsteen.
Always keep a clean house: you don't want burglars thinking you're slovenly.
Always wear good underwear, in case you get knocked down or have to climb up something.
That I had her mother's gift of "knowing" things for others but would always be shortsighted about my own life.
Anyone with a semblance of decency surely has an Irish or Scottish grandmother tucked away somewhere.
Don't worry if people talk about you: at least you've been noticed.
That all the Christian denominations quite like the idea of being Catholic.
That I would grow more like her and my Dad as I grow older; that it would become my greatest comfort.
That she would die on a Sunday morning.
That I would miss her every day of my life.
"Josie Kelly"
Where have you gone Mum?
Not at the end of the 'phone,
nor waiting in my sister's car
or scowling in the hated chair.
My mirror reflects a pale ache of you,
but you are there at the corners of my mouth,
stretching my shy smile to a farm-girl grin.
You are in the cussedness of my fringe,
in my eagerness to laugh and in the easiness of my tears.
You are in the rising of my temper and the dropping
of all wrongs before bedtime.
You are in the tapping of my feet,
from Springsteen to Sean South of Garryowen.
You are in my green fingers,
my need to nurture seeds and pips, twigs and stones.
You are the way of grace in me,
and in my knack for falling off kerbs while standing still
and eyeing up a mountain.
You are in my constant boiling of the kettle, my cake kept for strangers,
my sweeping of the stairs for critical burglars.
You are in my lust for red shoes and handbags,
in the miraculous medals in my purse;
in my calling on the saints
for lost rings, people and battles.
You are in my recollections of an Ireland I never knew;
you are in my love for my father and his faith,
and for your own mother's telling of the unknown.
You are the gossamer that binds me and my sister
beyond all differences of time, place or opinion.
You and my father are in my veins like whiskey and syrup:
more than any DNA,
you are at the core of me.
You are the skip in the heartbeat of all those who may come to love me;
"Give me a person of prayer, and such a one will be capable of accomplishing anything."
(St Vincent De Paul)
A couple of days ago, 27th September, was the feast day of St Vincent De Paul, also the anniversary of his death. Vincent was the son of French peasant farmers who became the priest of the disadvantaged and displaced and ultimately the inspiration for the Society of St Vincent De Paul. I'm a longstanding fan of the work of the SVP; an admiration that has been passed along to me from my parents (see earlier post: "Here's to those who turn Concern into Action"March 2012). The SVP offered a great deal of support to my Mum and Dad when they fetched up in south London all those years ago with my sister and some suitcases. When I first moved to Brighton, I discovered an SVP shop a stone's throw from my new home; my Mum said it was a sure sign of a "decent" area; for "ordinary people". Along the Lewes Road in Brighton, as in so many parts of the UK now, the ordinary people are frequently very poor, surviving with help and decency from other ordinary people; the essence of charities such as the SVP.
"Prayer for an End to Poverty" Creator God, You loved the world into life; forgive us when our dreams of the future are shaped by anything other than glimpses of a kingdom of justice, peace and an end to poverty. (Christian Aid prayer, 2012)
"La Route est Dure" Georgia Brown
"The road is hard but I am strong:
my soul is safe, the fear is gone.
I know what I must do with this life,
as the whole of the earth shall be delivered."
(From "La Route est Dure" - original author unknown. Apologies for my rough translation!)
*With great admiration and respect for Tom Turnbull and the Lymington Conference of the SVP*
"Who so beset him round with dismal stories Do but themselves confound; His strength the more is." (John Bunyan)
The late John F. Kennedy famously said: "Freedom is indivisible, and when one man is enslaved, all are not free." Sadly, bigotry and war are also indivisible. Vengeful conflict and determined aggression are rarely easily contained. This was one of the points I was striving to make in my post on 9/11.
My post prompted a couple of colourful but depressing messages to me from someone calling himself "Jerry B. Good". I would hazard this is not his real name. Jerry found my sentiments anti-American. This initially upset me a lot: I have friends in the United States and hope to visit the land one day; I'm fascinated by the diversity and optimism of the culture. His accusation was unsettling, but some US friends have since reassured me. The intention of my post was not to be anti any group or ideology, rather to be pro-world and pro-peace. Jerry informed me that he's passing my details to the United States Federal Bureau of Investigations. I told him I was a big fan of Eliot Ness and keen to liaise with the FBI, particularly if Sean Connery could be involved. Unfortunately, humour and sarcasm don't seem to register with Jerry, or indeed feature in bigotry in general. His return was an unfriendly-fire of abusive name calling: none have any place in a friendly blog and some seem to have confounded Spell Checker. His suggestion that I would look better in a full burkha as a "Muslim-lover" was intended to be hurtful to me as a female, but he does have a point. I do love Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Presbyterians, Pagans... I believe this is what striving to be a good Christian is all about. Although incensed by my "cowardly allegiances", he hasn't had the blogging-balls to post his comments using the forum provided on here. Jerry should be aware that I do not scare easily: I grew up in a far from cloistered area and now live in another that appears to have been brought to it's knees more by social deprivation and systemic substance abuse than by the call to God. If my response to Jerry seems less than placid, I am always deeply offended by racial and religious bigotry and bullying. I'm also mindful of a story retold by an astute parish priest, about a snake who promised God he wouldn't bite local villagers. Once the village folk became aware of the snake's reluctance to defend itself naturally, they took every opportunity to beat and abuse it. When the wretched creature presented it's sorry self to God, He said: "I told you not to bite, I did not tell you not to hiss!" I am, however, deeply sensitive to the sensibilities of others, possibly heightened by news of further atrocities and possible recriminations in the Middle East; I was hurt to think that this little blog might have alienated or upset anybody. I've now barred Jerry from my personal email, although all constructive criticism is heartily welcomed here. I wish him happiness and good humour and hope that he may enjoy listening to Daniel Versteegh's serene interpretation of John Bunyan's vividly evergreen words. Peace.
"If you and I are having a single thought of violence or hatred against anyone in the world at this moment, we are contributing to the wounding of the world."
(Deepak Chopra)
"For me and my family personally, September 11 was a reminder that life is fleeting, impermanent, and uncertain. Therefore, we must make use of every moment and nurture it with affection, tenderness, beauty, creativity, laughter." (Deepak Chopra)
"9/11" or simply 11th September; whatever your linguistic preferences or indeed whichever side of the dateline you reside, most people who noted the fall of The World Trade Centre's towers and the related attacks will remember where they were when they saw or heard the news. Eleven years ago today, I was working for a well-known international company, based in the heart of the City of London. I would later learn that one of the company's brightest young American executives had been killed at The World Trade Centre. That Tuesday in 2001, I was on a day's annual leave and had been shopping for my mother. When I returned home, I found her standing in front of the TV, watching the reportage of the attack on the first of the Twin Towers.
At first, I thought she'd stumbled on a high-budget US disaster movie, until I saw the looped news stream on the screen. I remember putting the frozen food and the vegetables on the floor and standing with her. Even back then, her health had not been brilliant and she already used a walking stick due to a hip operation and sever arthritis. But we continued to stand in front of the screen, barely ten feet away from the sofa. We watched the second plane crash, at which point I realised I was in tears, my hand over my mouth. Each crash, each explosion, each collapse was accompanied by commentators and onlookers alike screaming: "Oh God! Oh my God!" When Mum finally managed to say something, she pointed at the screen and said: "This is real isn't it? This is the News?"
There are so many poignant and iconic images from that day and the aftermath. I know countless other people will have felt as broken as I did watching people frantically waving and then throwing themselves out of the windows of the burning towerblocks. Some two hundred people are believed to have jumped, most on their own, some in pairs or groups. Some used curtains or tablecloths or even shirts in a vain attempt to parachute against the pace and scale of the fall. The writer Tom Junod later described these poor souls in such horrific free-fall as looking like people trying to swim up a mountain. Their final dilemma haunts me, as a Catholic who believes you should never resort to taking your own life: I am very claustrophobic and my sense of self-preservation is also very strong; I believe I too would have been hoping for the wings of angels.
After 9/11, America's risk and threat landscapes changed. When "The War on Terror" was announced, the implications of that phrase struck fear in my heart again. Obviously, the very name is a contradiction in terms: war is itself both terrible and terrifying. And when the enemy is unspecified or even transient, any conflict can be extensive, indefinite and, like a heat-seeking missile, launched in any direction. We frequently hear that the world's perceptions of terrorism and war changed after 9/11, the day when ordinary civilians in America were targeted in what they might well have called someone else's war, someone else's terror. In the decade following 9/11, some 25,000 people worldwide have died in known terrorist attacks. During this same period, it's estimated that as many as 100,000 Iraqi civilians have died in war torn Iraq. As journalist and political activist Gloria Steinem points out: "From pacifist to terrorist, each person condemns violence, then adds one cherished case in which it may be justified." I'm increasingly aware of the many conspiracy theories surrounding 9/11; I feel these and any personal views I may have on the subject should never detract from the fact that 60,000 people were injured and nearly 3,000 lost their lives in those few hours on that day in 2001. Throughout today's anniversary in the United States, there were scheduled Moments of Silence to focus on the catalogue of dreadful events, starting at 8.46 a.m. when the North Tower of the WTC was hit, through to 10.28 a.m. when that tower fell, half an hour after the South Tower. Since 1987, interfaith media organisation "Odyssey Networks" ( odysseynetworks.org )has been providing America's religious denominations with a platform to share their stories with the public and each other. Last year, to mark the 10th anniversary of 9/11, Odyssey commissioned network member and Franciscan friar Daniel Horan to write a commemorative prayer. I've reproduced part of it here. His emphasis is on reconciliation with our own pasts as well as with others, rather than future retribution. On this day a couple of years ago, I mentioned to a Social Services colleague that I could remember exactly where and how I first saw the breaking news of the carnage. He sneeringly asked me where God had been on that day: God was right there, waiting to be seen.
"God of Our Memories: A prayer"
At times Your blessing of memory seems like a curse.
The remembrances we carry weigh us down like burdens
rather than lift our hearts to You.
The tragedies, the violence and the sin of our world threaten our ability
to see Your presence among us,
to experience the breath of life You give us,
to recognise the working of Your spirit in our lives.
We know that what it means to be created in your image and likeness
is to be peacemakers and lovers in our world.
May we indeed be instruments of Your peace,
offering love, pardon. faith, hope, light and joy to the world.
May Your spirit move over the chaos of our memories
and renew the face of our hearts as You continue to renew the face of the Earth.
May our memories, the gift You have given us,
recall ones once called enemies as friends
and call to mind those we have loved and lost
until we share with them the joy of Your presence in the world to come.
Amen.
(Brother Daniel Horan, OFM)
"The Tear of Grief" 9/11 Memorial, Bayonne Harbour in New Jersey
"It is my contention that most people are not mugged every day, that most people in this world do not encounter violence every day. I think we prepare people for violence, and I think just as importantly we should prepare people for the definition of being gentle."
