by Nadia Ramoutar MMM Communications Coordinator Ireland 13.09.2025
What would you do if you were on a walk and you saw a small child drowning in a shallow pond?
This hypothetical question was asked in a powerful book I recently read called “The Life you can Save” by Peter Singer. Singer adds some more details to his thought experiment.
Imagine you are on the way to work when you see the child and you will be late. “Wading in is easy and safe, but you will ruin the new shoes you bought only a few days ago, and get your suit wet and muddy. By the time you hand the child over to someone responsible for her, and change your clothes, you’ll be late for work. What should you do?”
For most of us this is not a hard question. We would if able bodied, wade in and get the child or at least call for emergency services. Very few of us would say that we could just turn our head and walk by. Yet – and that is a very big YET, we know for a fact that people do turn away and let children die or suffer daily. Some of those people are relatives of the child.
Singer does give examples of video footage that shows how when a small infant was hurt next to road, 54 people passed by and looked the other way.
It’s a bit hard to swallow this.
Singer’s question has successfully converted many people to become more active in their volunteer and philanthropy efforts. In reading his book, I am recommitted to my efforts for children and women globally. I think the challenge though is how do we reach the 54 people who walked by and let that toddler hurt on the side of the road die in broad daylight.
How do we stop preaching to the choir? How do we get those who are not engaged to be active in caring?
Perhaps the tragedy of screens is that we are becoming more and not less desensitized to seeing children suffer. We have gotten to point where we might fix our social media so we don’t see bad news. We don’t like to read the newspaper or watch the TV news because it’s too depressing.
As more suffering emerges globally, this discomfort we want to avoid grows. But, while it is sincere to protect our mental health, can we ethically turn our heads because the children dying or suffering are not right physically next to us?
Is there a proximity to caring?
I hope not. I know that the MMMs continue to live and work in difficult, if not impossible circumstances because we cannot look away.
Thank you to those who continue to not only look but make actual strides to pray or care in some way.
Any effort or gift, no matter how small prevents us from being one of the 54 who let the infant die unaided.
by Sr. Margaret Anne Meyer MMM USA 10.09.2025
Another exciting time was when Dr. Marilyn Scudder came to do ophthalmic surgery and treat eye diseases. We always loved her visits. She was a particularly good community person and played the guitar. We spent the evenings singing and laughing. She could remove twenty cataracts a day and taught one of our nurses to do lid repair. There was a lot of trachoma in the area and the eye lashes wound invert to the eye and cause damage. I tried it once, but it took me two hours and Nurse Anna could do it in thirty minutes, so I referred them to her. She had skilful hands and patience. The patients were laid side by side in the isolation rooms. They never had pre-med or post up because they did not need it. Dr. Scudder gave a local anaesthetic needle below the eye and directed to the ophthalmic nerve. No one budged. It was amazing to watch them and their courage to accept pain and the unknown.
A patient of hers whom I remember was a grandmother who had two cataracts and caused her blindness for many years. Her 8-year-old grandson was taking care of her and when the bandages were removed, the look of recognition on both their faces was ecstatic. I will never forget their joy seeing each other.
Another was a young girl who had severe cataracts. She was blind for a long time. We tried to investigate the cause and concluded that it was a parathyroid tumour causing high calcium levels. She was grateful to be able to see again.
Another was a woman in her thirties, who had cancer in her eye. Dr. Scudder removed the entire eye and asked me to do a skin graft to insert into the eye socket. Thank God, it covered the socket perfectly. With a good pair of sunglasses, the woman looked fine and was grateful to be relieved of her pain. Dr. Scudder was always teaching and taught me how to deaden the nerve pain in the blind eye of a leprosy patient. This proved helpful in Nigeria, as well, because, although the person was blind, they had no pain and did not suffer the stigma of losing an eye. Dr. Marilyn Scudder was a great woman and revered friend of many of the Sisters.
She came by land rover and brought many fresh vegetables from Moshi with her. This was a rare treat because at that time we were lucky to purchase cabbage in the local market. Sundays, the day of Marilyn’s departure, I would cook pancakes for breakfast.
Speaking of the market in Singida, Sr. Christina told us of a funny incident which happened to her. She was very friendly with many of the Asian merchants and one day, one of them said to her, Sr. Christina, “Come on in and see my backside.” We all howled.
He had the choicest foods in his back store and wanted Sister to get first choice to buy them.
Within a few months of my arrival, Dr. Rachel Patton came and was an immense help in sharing the medical work. She was a friend of Sr. Doctor Marian Scena arrived in 1979. We were happy to see her.
We had an incredibly happy community life. On special feast days, Sr. Catherine Fallon would do liturgical dance for us. The Pallotine Fathers celebrated Eucharist in our chapel.
At the end of August 1978, I was asked to leave Makiungu and help Sr. Dr. Maureen Mc Dermott in Dareda Hospital because the lay Doctor’s contract had ended and he was returning to England. This is another story.
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 06.09.2025
Drogheda, the town where I live, has many churches, both old and new. That means that during the day I hear a lot of bells! There is the chiming of the hours, the half hours, and yes, one of the bells, I think in the town centre, even chimes every 15 minutes. Then there are the chimes to remind people to go to Mass – rung about ten minutes before each ceremony, the bells of the Angelus at 12 noon and 6pm, and finally, the bells tolling slowly to tell people that there has just been a funeral, and that the hearse is on its way to the cemetery. I often listen to BBC Radio Four, and they even have a programme called “Bells on Sunday”!
I will admit that there are times when all these bells just get too much, especially if I am trying to concentrate on something. But mostly I manage to ignore them. When I am in a particularly good mood, I welcome the bells as an invitation to continually be in the present moment. I am called to respond to God right here and now and not drift off into some idealised plan for future action. The bells are insistent. They are a constant reminder – life is happening now.
I think this is the reason so many religions use the chiming of a bell in their ceremonies and why so many religious houses still use bells as a call to prayer. Yes, of course, there is more modern technology. We could all receive Whatsapp messages, for example, or buzzers on our cell phones. But bells have never lost their appeal. When I was in upstate New York for a sabbatical programme with Dominican Sisters, there was a windchime on the front porch. I loved it. The gentle tinkling was calming and relaxing. So today I want to be in a good space and welcome the bells.
Oops, 12 noon Angelus bells – time to say a quick prayer and go to lunch!
by Sr. Renee Duignan MMM 1943 – 2023 Ireland 03.09.2025
I remember how my father used to take off his hat while working in the fields to say the Angelus when the bell would ring out over the countryside. I remember the smell of freshly baked bread my mother made every other day. I am grateful to all my family for supporting me in my decision to leave home when not quite 18 years old. I felt trusted and would try to live up to that trust throughout my life.
In 1961 I arrived in New York and worked in a bank for three years. It was for me an exciting time, learning about other cultures and other ways of being. During that time, I met the St. Patrick Fathers and did some volunteer work helping to raise funds for the missions. Though I loved to dance at the weekends, I felt a restlessness in me that could be named, the beginning of a call to something different. A deep awareness of all I had received in my own life motivated me to respond to God’s call to share with those most in need. I was deeply impressed with Martin Luther King whom I had listened to at a rally in New York City and Pope John XXIII who spoke of the great needs of the church in Latin America. Both men influenced my decision to enter the Medical Missionaries of Mary in Boston in 1964.
I was to learn there the joys and demands of our MMM missionary vocation which resonated deep within me. After my first profession, I returned to Ireland and continued my formation doing nursing and midwifery. MMM in Drogheda in those days was full of life and many were in preparation for life on the missions. We all awaited eagerly for the day we would hear about our assignment and mine was to Malawi in Africa where I spent ten wonderful years. We lived in a dictatorship which was particularly difficult for the local people.
My first assignment was to Nkata Bay, to a health clinic, a maternity unit and dispensary with no doctor. It was challenging and many times we had to use all our skills (some we never knew we had) and pray our way through some of the cases. I later worked in our hospital in Mzuzu together with a great community of MMMs, the local people and many volunteers from different countries. It was a rich experience of hospitality, especially being with, and learning from, the Malawian people. In 1985, I was called to be a member of our Leadership Team based in Ireland. I served in that role for twelve years. It was a privilege which brought me in contact with all our Sisters at home and abroad seeing first hand our healing charism unfolding in different countries and cultures despite wars and difficult situations. It was interesting too to experience the changes that came about with the introduction of Primary Health Care and how we as MMM’s responded so enthusiastically thus making health care more widely available.
The next step on my journey brought me to Mexico spending six months learning the Spanish language and beginning to learn something of the Latin American culture. There were four of us on this journey, three MMMs and a laywomen. It was a special time of discernment when we were called again to take another step on this journey and go to Honduras in 1998 in the wake of Hurricane Mitch. Marcala in the Southwest of the country was our mission of choice. We worked with the social wing of the Catholic Church which afforded us an entry into the communities of indigenous Lenca people living mostly in the mountainous area of the region. I ministered there for five years; our work was mostly in health education and, at the request of the local people, learning to make natural medicines using the plants of the area. Together we found ways to improve the lifestyle of these people. As they learned from us, I learned much from them and came to appreciate this new culture. Our manner of being with them brought us close to understanding their joys and struggles.
In 2004 we founded a second community in Choloma in the North of Honduras. Choloma is a totally different reality, most of the people are migrants who have come to find work in the factories. It is one of the most violent areas of the world, many people living in extreme poverty, lacking employment and caught up in the drug scene, many young people losing their lives in the process. The breakdown in family life is a contributing factor to much domestic violence. We constructed a centre for integrated health care, Casa Visitación and from this centre our priority is health and human rights education, as well as some curative and complimentary therapies.
I have heard it said that mission is friendship, and I can now truly say that is the reality of my life now, it nourishes my spirit to experience the depth of faith among those around me who radiate joy in spite of the many struggles that is their daily reality. As I celebrate 50 years of religious life in MMM with the wonderful memories of this adventure, I give thanks to God, to my family, to my MMM Sisters, friends, our benefactors and many companions along the way who have accompanied me on this journey.
First published in Summer 2017.
by Sr. Keresifon Ekanem MMM Nigeria 30.08.2025
It was very early in the morning; I boarded the aircraft back to my community from the Heritage Experience in Ireland. On board, we were served snacks and drinks for breakfast. Later, in the afternoon, we were served lunch. I gladly enjoyed my meal even though there were some of the contents I did not know what they were, but as a missionary, I ate and enjoyed the meal. About an hour later, I had some funny feelings in my stomach. I had pain and cramps. I was still trying to figure out what was wrong when I suddenly felt very warm and panting for air in-spite of the air-conditioning. Was it a reaction to the food? Was it motion sickness? I never had any experience like that before on board and I just did not know what to think. I removed my jacket but that did not ameliorate the situation. The pain and panting for air were very severe. I was restless and helpless and the worst part of it was that I could not open my mouth to say anything. All I could say in my heart was, “God please, come to my aid.”
One of my Sisters I travelled with tried to help but could not do much. I felt if I went to the loo, I would feel better and so I did, but that did not help. Back in my seat, I had very strong nausea. What do I do Lord? I thought to myself what the best thing was to do at that moment and suddenly, I remembered the Capacitar Acupressure point for nausea, taught by one of our Sisters, Sr. Geneviève van Waesberghe, MMM. So, I put my right fingers on the middle of my left wrist and the nausea was taken care of. The pain and the panting for air? They persisted. I checked the time again and again and it showed we still had many hours to fly, and minutes seemed like ages.
It was as though the breath in me was being snapped away and so I unfastened my seat belt and bent over my knees just for some sort of relief but there was none, and I thought I was dying. However, I remembered the testimony of St. Terese of Calcutta about praying the Memorare eleven times – ten times for her intention and once in thanksgiving. I started praying the Memorare for eleven times. At the end, I started this Mantra: “Mother Mary Martin, pray for me.” I did not know when I slept off with this Mantra on my lips. When I woke up, I felt better! The pain had gone and my breathing returned to normal, it was as if nothing had happened to me before. I sat back upright, fastened my seat belt and enjoyed the rest of the flight! God saved me through the intercession of Our Blessed Virgin Mary and Mother Mary Martin!
by Sr. Sheila Devane MMM Ireland 27.08.2025
In Ireland we do funerals well. We have definite rituals, bury our dead a few days after death and generally following a wake either in a funeral parlour or in the person’s home. In the towns and cities nowadays, the wake is more likely to be in a funeral home; in more rural areas the families still hold wakes in the house of the deceased. Today I want to talk about a ‘wake’ for the living, or an American wake. I also want to think about immigration.
American wakes have died out altogether now with the decline in emigration, but I attended several as a very small girl in a part of rural Ireland called Fanad in northeast Donegal in the 1950’s when there was still mass emigration from there. Roisin was 17 years old; she was from a large family who had too much (poor) land to allow her to qualify for whatever few scholarships, or bursaries, were available then to allow her a free secondary school education. She worked as a domestic servant in hotels in Portstewart since leaving primary school aged 14 and was now accepting a one-way ticket from relatives in Boston and leaving for America.
The night before her departure from Shannon airport everyone in the wide and sprawling locality gathered at her home where there was food for all, great music and dancing, locally brewed beer, pipe smoking, storytelling and good wishes galore. The parish priest gave a special kind of blessing in Irish – a language she would leave behind her. Being just seven or eight myself, Roisin seemed like an adult to me, but she was still only a child; she was there trying to cope with the plethora of advice and the addresses and phone numbers she was being given. They said everyone in America had a phone, so she needed to have all these different numbers. It sounded like such a wonderful country with phones everywhere. No one in Fanad had electricity then so things would be so different and great in America.
Roisin’s flight was leaving from Shannon Airport at 8am so at about 2am there was talk of leaving as the roads were windy and really bad and people started to get into the cars that were travelling to the airport with her; my uncle Manus was going as he had a big van and was taking a whole load of people so that there would be a grand, big, farewell at the airport. Most people there never expected to see Roisin again, this was the end, she would make a life in Boston, be called Rose or Rosie as Roisin was hard to pronounce in the American language, get married, have children called “The Yanks”, and probably never come back to Fanad again. My mother explained that this was why it was called ‘a wake’ – it meant the end. I thought it was so sad, and I even saw some people crying.
In 2025, thinking back on Roisin’s emigration story now, whilst sad, it seems somehow less poignant. She chose to go, had people to leave her safely to the airport and relatives in Boston to meet her and show her what to do when she got there. No one would call her bad words nor tell her she shouldn’t be there. She would not have had to learn about immigration policies, about being deported nor any of those awful things. There was already a strong Irish community especially in South Boston, catholic priests in the parishes for Sunday mass and other familiar activities, and many opportunities for work, and even a chance to go to what the Americans called “night school” to further her education. In due course Roisin, made a good life, returned some years later with her family to live in Scotland and finally retired to her beloved Fanad as a widow.
The story of the millions of Irish emigrants is challenging, at times hard to listen to, and one can only be filled with deep admiration for each and all of them. How much more difficult is the story of the immigrants coming to our own shores without proper papers, or families, with no immediate prospects and with immense hurdles to pass through before they can even walk safely around our streets?
Food for thought. Much to consider. A living death. A lot to change.
by Eilín Teeling, AMMM Ireland 23.08.2025
Last March, I stood in awe at the sight of the large field, perfectly ploughed and tilled. The earth was like a smooth, brown blanket. I wondered how many hours it had taken to plough to remove unwanted weeds, briars, large stones and what crop would be planted soon by the farmer in the rich, fertile soil. The seeds will need rain, sun, and light to grow into a great crop. The farmer needs commitment, time, patience, and faith that the crop will be bountiful.
I was staying with the monastic Cistercian Sisters in Glencairn as a guest. My spiritual self was enhanced by the daily Liturgy of the Hours sung by the Sisters, quiet days and the surrounding fields.
I’m reminded of the Parable of the Sower (Lk 8: 4-15) where a sower sowed seed: some fell on a path, some on a rock, some on thorns, some fell onto good soil where it produced a hundredfold. The key to the parable is that the seed is the Word of God. Those “who hear hold it fast in an honest and good heart and bear fruit with patient endurance”. I’ve heard this parable called “the parable of the soils”. The seed is the same but it lands on different soils.
The changes of growth of the crop in the field happen too slowly for us to see. Perhaps, this is the same for our heart and soul, over time, growing closer to God.
A bell rings a few minutes before the Sisters sing the Liturgy of the Hours seven times a day, offering praise to God and making intercessions. I fall in to their routine so easily, yet at home I have a poor prayer routine as there are so many distractions. How can I prepare my heart and mind to be the right kind of soil to receive the Word of God to full benefit, allowing the Holy Spirit to “water” the seed, to water me? Are distractions like the rock or thorns that the seed land on and which don’t bear fruit? What distractions are more important than spending some minutes with God each day? Perhaps I need to think more like a farmer, turn up, tend the field and be patient that the crop will be bountiful.
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 20.08.2025
The other evening I met one of our Sisters who is suffering from dementia. She was sitting down looking a little bit lost. Just to greet her I said, “How was your day today?” She answered, “I keep to myself so that the others will not be afraid of me”.
Now, how do you give an answer to that? My instinct was to reach down, give her a hug and kiss the top of her head. Later I was thinking about my instinctive response. It was one of giving comfort. I think this instinct is innate in all of us. Think of a mother comforting a newborn baby who is crying with colic, or a father comforting his son when the other team wins the football match!
Of course, we are only mirroring the way God comforts us when we comfort others. St Paul reminds us:
“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” (2Cor 1:3-4).
This kind of comfort has nothing to do with wealth or position. It is an assurance that despite all difficulties we face in life we are secure in God’s presence. God is ever present, ever loving – especially during the times we are totally unaware of it or unaccepting of it.
Today I set myself one small task. Share God’s comfort with one other person. It may be with a word, a gesture, or just a smile. Thank you, God, for comforting me. May I pass it along!
by Sr. Margaret Anne Meyer MMM USA 16.08.2025
Life was vastly different in Makiungu. The saying goes that life begins at forty and here I was, having a new outlook and learning so much about medicine and surgery from the Flying Doctors. Instead of being four miles from the nearest surgeon, I was twenty miles away. But we had our own airstrip where the Flying Doctor planes from Nairobi could land. We always had to give a day’s warning to the local farmers who liked to pasture their cattle on the air strip. The farmers expected the plane to stop short if a cow got in the way!
Mr. Woods was a plastic surgeon and founded this service some years ago. One of the cases I remember was of a young boy around eight who was stung by many bees. In fact, his whole scalp had sloughed off because of the stings. I do not know how he survived.
Mr. Woods took a skin graft from the boy’s thigh and sutured it on his scalp. The whole graft healed well. Everyone was happy.
Another surgery also ended well, but the whole six months it took to heal was very traumatic. Ramadani, a young boy of seventeen, came to the hospital complaining of severe abdominal pain. He was suffering from typhoid and his bowel had perforated. I opened his abdomen to drain the pus and his wound broke down. The Flying Doctors were coming in a few days, and I thought they might be able to do something for him. An American plastic surgeon came and took pictures and said he was an interesting case. In my distress I did not hear him say he would either die or get better. There was nothing more to be done.
When they left, I took Ramadani to the theatre and put in steel sutures to hold his abdomen together. This helped a little and by this time he was passing stool. We thought that was a good sign and everyone, his parents, nurses, and me, brought him food. One day he sent for me to come, because he was going to die. He also requested that I come with some soup and bread. Ramadani poured out his heart to Allah and I poured out my heart to Jesus and, after taking the bread and soup, Ramadani progressed from that day onwards. He then looked like he was a skeleton but within six months, his wound healed, and he gained weight. Sr. Patricia O’Connor, who was Matron at the time saw to it that he was well cared for and well fed. He received several blood transfusions, antibiotics, and healthy food. He never stopped praying.
Eight years later, a well-developed young man of twenty-five came to the clinic and asked me, “Do you remember me?” Before I could answer, he opened his shirt, and I saw a very scarred abdomen. I said “Ramadani” and we hugged. I thanked God for his recovery and good success in life. He was working in the prisons in Dar es Salaam.
This event healed me of my sorrow of leaving Uganda. I did not know one could grieve when leaving a country. I found grieving helpful before change happened again, going to Nigeria, and coming home to USA. It helps to really accept that life is always changing and new adventures in faith can begin when one lets go.
by Sr. Mairead O’Quigley MMM (1917 – 2003) Ireland/Tanzania 13.08.2025
First published by MMM in 1956
“Women and their hair styles!” But what about the men?
The story goes that in the life of St. Hugh of Lincoln there was a young sacristan named Martin. He wore his beautiful hair floating on his shoulders, as was the fashion. It was the rule in those days for sacristans to wear their hair short like the clerics, but Martin could not make up his mid to part with his curls. Twice the bishop told him to cut his hair, but he still neglected to do so. Then one day the bishop said, “Since you cannot get a barber, I will cut your hair myself!”. As the bishop was cutting his hair, Martin told him that it was the only thing keeping him back from giving himself to God.
Among the tribes of East Africa today the men as well as the women specialise in hair styles. Each tribe has its own distinguishing head-dress, whether it be made from pieces of cowskin, the horns of a rhino, or the coat of a zebra or leopard. But of all the tribes of Tanganyika (Tanzania) perhaps the warrior tribe of the Maasai attracts most attention by its hair style.
A lot of time and thought goes into the coiffure ad many an odd thing too. Custom prescribes the following ingredients: a piece of straight stick, about twelve inches long for each pigtail, a strip of the inner skin of a sheep, one inch wide, several feet of fine string made from ox-gut, cord made from the roots of a tree, and sheep fat, red ochre, and ornaments.
The hair at the back of the head is twisted into braided strands which are then grouped around the end of the stick and lashed on with the gut string. The stick and the hair ends are then bound neatly with the sheepskin strip so as to taper into a point. The hair in front is divided into three equal parts and braided, the ends of each part being bound together with gut string. The two side pieces which fall to the front of the ears, are then tied together with a chord under the chin and so held fast against the face. The centre forelock is finished off with a metal clasp. The whole coiffure is then liberally coated with fat and tinted with red ochre.
The Maaai women? They wear their hair cut close to the head, no style at all, thus emphasising that to have one’s locks formally braided is an initiation to manhood.
