by Sr. Una Ni Riain MMM (1931-2022) Ireland 13.08.2024
The road was bad, full of potholes, so the traffic was moving slowly. She was lying on the other side of the road, in the way of the on-coming traffic, and all the cars weaved their way delicately around her so as not to hit her, just as they had avoided the potholes.
Was she dead? An accident? No, as the people stop when there is an accident and bring the injured person to the hospital. Mad? A beggar? Yes, that was probably it. In the tropics the grass grows long and wet to the edges of the road. It is full of ants and insects and snakes, no one could sleep in it. And so, the destitute often sleep on the road. After all, the road is warm from the sun. We continued our journey, but with a certain uneasiness.
Three hours later, on our return journey she was still there, lying just as she had been. Cars and motorcycles were still passing her by, pedestrians scarcely glanced at her, but this time we stopped to investigate. It was now midday, and the tropical sun was beating down with full intensity on the tarmacadam road.
We lifted the unconscious figure of a woman off the road and put her lying in the back of the car. We did not feel like good Samaritans. We were very much ashamed. Her dress was wet as we lifted her. Perhaps she was an epileptic? I noticed a group of young men standing at the other side of the road, laughing as they watched us. Fools for Christ? We took her to the hospital where the nurses received us with kindness and attended to her.
I was pleased to find she was admitted to the ward where I myself was on duty. I looked at her chart:
Name: ?
Address: unknown
Nearest Relative: Sr. Una! I was strangely delighted to be named the nearest relative to this destitute person.
She had a fracture of her thigh bone, blistered legs from the heat of the sun, pressure sores and an abscess on her buttock. I soon learnt that she had been lying on the road for four days!
Slowly she regained consciousness, and she told me her story. Julia was a leper and had been treated in the Leprosy Settlement twenty miles away, but was no longer infectious. She was old, and she wanted to die at home. She set off for home. But they would not receive her, and she took to begging. One evening she took courage, and instead of sleeping on the road, she went back to her compound. Perhaps they would let her sleep there at least.
But they were afraid. Afraid that she would bring the sickness to themselves or to their children. And they beat her and drover her away. It was during this beating that her leg was broken. She dragged herself along the streets, still begging, until she finally collapsed two days later. She told me all this without anger, bitterness or blame. Well, a ‘nearest relative’ has obligations, and so I brought her some simple requirements, soap, a sponge, towels and a spoon to eat her food. Her gratitude filled me with confusion and shame. So much gratitude for so very little, and no blame for anyone.
Within a few days I had to go on a journey. Who would care for her? We arranged for her to return to the Leprosy Settlement, where everyone was equal. Those who care for the patients are not afraid of the dread disease. On my return a week later, a letter awaited me. The nurse in the Settlement wrote telling me Julia had died two days after her arrival.
The Qua-lboe (Presbyterian) Leprosy Settlement where Julia is buried had welcomed her back. They prayed with her, and she died with dignity and comfort. I was grateful to be involved with another Church in the care of the most abandoned of human beings.
Julia, I am grateful you will be there when mu own hour comes. Don’t forget a word for the ‘not-so-good’ Samaritans who delayed their help until the return journey.
First Published by MMM in 1983 when Sr. Una was in Nigeria.
by Nadia Ramoutar MMM Communications Coordinator Ireland 11.08.2024
There is a darkness going on in the world which benefits from us ignoring it. Some things going on far from us that when revealed, disgrace our humanity. There was an article recently about a coalition of Sisters working to correct human trafficking in Sri Lanka. The Global Sisters Report does a wonderful job of giving updates on what is going on in the world that might not make the main media. Within the article the statistic was revealed that about 27 Million people are being human trafficked in our world at the moment. When we pause and think about this, that is more people than the population of most countries. What would we call that nation?
For those of us living in the comfort of a loving home or community, such a number is hard to fathom. How can it be that our world which claims to have rid itself of slavery has just rebranded it? Of those trafficked, 70% are female, often very young girls who will end up working in the sex trade for life. Our MMM Sisters are involved in efforts to end this trend but there is so much more to do. I saw the efforts in Tanzania and met children prey to this atrocity.
Faced with overwhelming human failings, I think about ways to make it better. I also turn to other writers who transcend the horrors of the world in an attempt to reset our behaviours. Thomas Berry is often of great comfort to me. Berry many of you will already know, was a profound humanitarian and Christian. He questioned the role of the human community in the world, inspiring us to do better in order to respond to the ecological and social challenges we face. He lived through two World Wars and I think he saw that the future of human creation was not looking stellar. But, he also held onto a cosmic vision of a better world.
Thomas eloquently lifted humans up to a higher standard imploring us to have a more harmonious relationship with our earth and with one another. He was concerned with our consciousness and implored us to be too. Is this where we are going wrong? Are we planting the wrong seeds?
What would it take for humanity to become more conscious to where buying a girl for sex is deplorable to all of us? Could the sex trade die from no customers? The tourism sex trade and the millions of mostly men who keep it alive, I know are among us. Can we somehow create a more loving Christian consciousness where there is no market that is willing to trade in the souls of children for a few minutes of what? I don’t even know what to call what someone gets from this. Let’s carry on the legacy Berry created and rewrite this disgrace to let human trafficking be replaced by something much more beautiful.
by Mary Essiet Nigeria 09.08.2024
I like to think that traveling light is one of the steps in journeying through life smoothly. By this, I mean just living in the moment and taking it a step at a time. It costs little or nothing when compared to overthinking, which robs one of real-time happiness.
I would say that when trials and temptations arise, one should trust in God and his provision. However, having been there, I realized that it just does not work like that. There are things that overthinking does to a person. It overwhelms you with fear of trying new things, worry about past actions and ultimately keeps you fixated at that point. It steals away the joy of basking in the moment. It cripples you while robbing you of peace. It is a stressor!
Not once or twice have I found myself overthinking, and in response I tried to deceive myself by praying. Maybe it was not a deceit after all, but I know that I could not even communicate effectively with God. Somehow, I felt he was too far away from me, but then I remembered my community of friends. They are the ones whose back I could always ride on until that phase elapses and I can find my feet once again. So, I grabbed the opportunity.
In my experience, community(friends) plays various roles in one’s journey of faith, and our relationship with others has a way of deepening our understanding of God’s abundant love and presence.
Every day, I remind myself that life itself is full of ups and downs, and I must consciously free myself from the chains of overthinking. I cannot be present or enjoy the peace I have at hand if all I think about is “WHAT IF?”. So, I make sure to repack my travel bags from time to time, ensuring that there are no traces of this joy killer but only essential needs. It’s been fruitful, and I hope people can do that too.
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 07.08.2024
Nowadays we hear about the big wars in Europe and the Middle East, as if these were the only places where conflict exists in our world. Here is a story typical of many situations MMM face in their daily lives. It was on March 5th a few years back, around 7am, gunshots were heard. The people started running towards the church in Nakwamoro, Kenya. The sound of shooting, which came from three directions, continued for four and a half hours unabated. Nobody moved.
The battle took place at the Turkwell River. MMM had been in the area for over 30 years when they were welcomed during a severe famine. Tribal conflict between the Turkana people and the neighbouring Pokot people was common. The relationship between these two warring tribes had always been aggravated by constant raiding of each other’s herds.
For a couple of years previously, relative peace prevailed and both tribes brought their animals for grazing and watering to the Turkwell River.
Suddenly the Pokots disappeared. This raised an air of suspicion.
At 11.0am the first wounded man walked into the Health Centre. The local priest drove down to the river. Fourteen Pokots had been killed. Many were wounded. Six severely wounded men were carried in for treatment. It took three and a half hours for the staff at the Health Centre to treat their horrific gunshot wounds.
The Army arrived at 5pm. They had been detained in another part of the district where this raid at started at 4am. In the other area they had found thirty women and children who had been killed in their homes.
The following morning the wounded on stretchers were carried across the Turkwell river – for onward transportation to the District Hospital in Lodwar, a three-hour journey.
Ater the raid, people were too nervous to sleep in their own homes. They spent the night close to the church and Health Centre. They were even afraid to attend to their small vegetable plots in the daytime. Anyone who could move away from the area left.
Conflicts like these used to be carried out with clubs, bows and arrows, and spears, but the availability of guns has now resulted in more deaths and more serious injuries.
The MMM Sisters had no time to think of what was happening until it was all over. They were just grateful it happened in daylight, not at night. They were glad to be there to provide assistance and support. But the future? Just constant warring? …
by Sr. Phyllis Heaney MMM (1937 – 2019) Ireland 05.08.2024
Killybegs, a small town in Co. Donegal, has a special place in the heart of many senior MMM Sisters as being their holiday home for many years. Sr. Phyllis tells of her time there as one of the permanent staff.
Just after my First Profession in May 1963, I was missioned to Killybegs to help Sr. Perpetua Kelly in caring for the retired and elderly Bishop B. McGinley and running “Bruach na Mara” which was our holiday house. At that time Killybegs was a beautiful little fishing village nestled in the hills of Donegal. It was made up of the old harbour (near the sanatorium) and the new harbour, which was a hum of activity with Donegal and Kerry fishermen. There were also boat builders and little shops spread around the cosy village with the church on the hill overlooking it all. The doctor there was Dr. Clarke, a brother of our own Sr. Monica Clarke. This was to be my village for almost six very happy years.
On arrival, I received a great welcome from Sr. Perpetua and His Lordship, the Bishop. The Bishop had been the first Bishop of Manila in the Philippines, and later Bishop of Monteroy-Fresno in California, which was to become his last resting place. The house in Killybegs was built for him by his family and it became his residence when he retired there for health reasons in the early 1960s. As well as being in poor health, the Bishop was blind. He gave the house to MMM in return for our undertaking to take care of him. It was a beautiful, spacious building and a haven of tranquillity. It was situated off the main road, overlooking the harbour, and was an ideal place for an MMM holiday house.
Sr. Perpetua was the Bishop’s “eyes” as well as his carer. She was one of the Sisters who was such an inspiration to me; her sense of God’s call for her, her dedication to her mission, her prayer life, her devotion to the Blessed Sacrament, her love of the Mass, her care for the people, especially the poor. Then she got me as her helper. I had good experience in cooking and from my own home I had learned to be a good housekeeper, all of which helped in the smooth running of the house. We worked well together and lived happily. I thank God for her part in the early part of my MMM life.
Sr. Perpetua and I shared many a laugh about amusing moments. She was very well kniwn in the village, she prayed for all the intentions and kept an eye out for the poor. She provided an easy entry for me into the lives of so many people. I used to bring the letters to the Post Office every afternoon at 3.30pm, so it was an opportunity to be in the village and to meet the local people. It was there I had one of my first meetings with a person with a handicap as a result of polio. I also met families with various problems, so this increased my sensitivity to those around me and stirred me to be a presence of His loving care. We had many friends among the fishermen and were supplied with fresh fish almost every day, free of charge.
During my time there, Killybegs grew and grew as the harbour was developed. We joined in the excitement when the first radar fishing boat came into the harbour. We shared in the joy of the people as boat builders got busy with more and more work, and when the new shop and even a supermarket appeared. There was also the pain of loss when there was an accident at sea and local men drowned.
“Bruach na Mara” which means “The Edge of the Ocean”. Killybegs, was opened as an MMM Holliday house in 1952 and was closed in 1972.Because of it, Killybegs will always be special to me.
First Published by MMM in 1953
by Sr. Patricia Kelly MMM (1925 – 2016) Ireland/Nigeria 03.08.2024
Countless inquiries regarding our health and diet reach us regularly from loved ones at home. They never tire of asking, “What is the food like? Do you ever see a rasher? And “Can the cooks make potato-cakes?” So, I have decided to expound on the glories of palm oil chop. For us, missionaries in Calabar Province, it takes the place of the Sunday roast, and after the week’s rations of corned beef from tins, palm oil chop has the savour of better days about it.
Let’s begin at the name, as it needs some explanation. In Nigeria “to chop” is the verb “to eat”. No local cook says, “It is breakfast time or dinner time,” he just says, “It is chop time.” Palm oil is obtained from the kernels of the palm fruit, which are as plentiful here as apples are at home. This oil is one of the country’s main sources of income and traditionally it is the woman’s duty to crush the kernels and extract the oil. So much for preliminaries, now we get down to our Sunday chop.
Sunday out here is a day of rest observed with almost Jewish strictness. “No School” and “No Dispensary” – except for the urgent cases, and the babies who have a habit of arriving at unwanted hours in every country and in every climate. We plan an early siesta and hope in Providence that things will go according to schedule.
At 1.00pm the dinner table looks like the window in a confectioner’s shop. Any number, up to sixteen, small bowls or saucers, each holding a special ingredient, adorn the table. There is sliced bananas in one, pineapple in another, orange in another, ground nuts, red pepper, hard boiled eggs, coconut one dry yam, each in separate bowls, and last, but not least, the palm oil with the chicken which has been cooked in it. The novice in the country is warned by a kind neighbour to go easy with the red pepper, and each one’s soup plate – used for this menu – presents a riot of colour.
The palm oil bowl is passed last. No need to carve up the chicken as the chicken is literally mincemeat, and as one dips the ladle he hopes, like the fisherman, to bring up catch. No use to say as of old,” I want the breast, and I don’t like the drumstick.” Everyone has to be satisfied with his takings. The golden coloured palm oil and the piece of chicken is now added to one’s plate and all the ingredients are mixed. It sounds terrible, but after the first taste, one is converted to palm oil chop forever.
Let enthusiasts abroad wish to taste our Sunday dinner I shall give this warning. Without palm oil, it is a meal fit for my mother’s pet rooster, but with palm oil, it is a feast.
by Nadia Ramoutar MMM Communications Coordinator Ireland 01.08.2024
As a young girl growing up in Ireland, I somehow got the idea that being an adult was an arrival point, like a destination lounge in an airport. You became an adult and then you had the freedom to create whatever life you wanted. Along with this fallacy, I also believed that good things happened to good people. The idea of suffering was not one that I thought would be part of my older years. Little did I know how much of a role suffering plays in the adult – and often child world plays. As we look around our world today, we can see so much suffering that we can question our faith. But, perhaps the reverse should be true.
Part of what I also did not understand was that suffering too, has it’s purpose. Suffering is a valuable teacher and it is a way for us to grow and to become stronger. I have found now that where there is suffering in our world or in our own lives there is an opening for things to be better than they are now. Even suffering brings gifts to the faithful. We just have be patient when things don’t go our way. Hold on.
Rather than seeking a life that is easy and comfortable all the time, we can look at places in the world when things are going poorly and reverse the question. What can we do to bring mercy and grace to those who suffer, including to ourselves? Some people suggest that it is in Romans that we can see how faith and practice come together in ways to live as Christians.
“…We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope” (Romans 5:3-4, NIV).
Perseverance is such a loaded word in so many ways because it implies patience over time. It gives us a sense that it is a grasping at patience and not letting go of it. Often time our work in global health and justice can seem overly layered in suffering. It feels as if we won’t be able to overcome the magnitude of the problems and challenges faced. But with perseverance, hope again emerges and our character is positively impacted by its presence.
Faith is really tested when things become challenging. It is easy to be faithful when life goes our way, but when it does not then we cannot just shrug and give up. We have to then find out what our true character really is. We can see that it is in suffering we learn who we are and we have a choice then to persevere or perish. At times like this, we can also be role models to other people as they see us growing faced with challenges rather than falling apart. Keeping other people calm and being clear and focused can serve us better than any worrying when times are hard.
by Sr. Margaret Anne Meyer USA 30.07.2024
Soon three months had flown by, and I felt very much at home conducting my assignments in my medical internship. I loved listening to the patients and trying to figure out what was wrong with them. The more you talked to them the more they would tell you of the underlying stress at home which often had a factor to play in their ailments.
Around this time a medical Registrar, Dr. Buckley, was assigned to work under Dr. Costello. He was a nice man and I felt relieved that I no longer had so much responsibility when a new medical emergency arrived. Sure enough, it happened. A woman with hypertensive encephalopathy came in and, in my excitement, I forgot to call Dr. Buckley and Miss Seery and I managed the patient in the initial stages. Then I remembered to call Dr. Buckley. Somehow, he understood what had happened and was delighted that the patient was doing so well. It never happened again that he was not called in a comparable situation.
Word came that Mother Mary would like to see me and assess me for Final Profession. I remember waiting to see her outside her office. Mother Mary asked me how I was feeling. I told her I felt very tired because I had been up with a patient all night who was hemorrhaging and trying to keep him alive with blood transfusions. Mother said, “this is your life, dear, do you want it?” I said,” Yes, Mother. “ This is all I remember of the interview and later, a message came that Sister Martha Collins and I were accepted for Final Profession which was to take place in a few weeks. We were to receive a 3-day Tridium about religious life from Sister Brigid Mc Donagh. We were delighted. Dom Winoc OSB was to give us a conference and be at the ceremony which would take place in our Convent Chapel because we were only six Sisters for Final Vows.
My mother and father were coming from New York to be with me on that special day. They had taken a vacation to Europe and stayed with friends living in Paris and Germany. They took in the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace on their way to Dublin. I remember the excitement of seeing them as they walked into the front hall. Dom Winoc was coming down the stairs at that time and when he saw my parents he said, “You are coming to the wedding of a Queen.” I was overjoyed.
The ceremony went well and many guests besides our parents attended the following reception. Sr. Martha Collins and I had invited the Professor of Surgery, Paddy Fitzgerald, to attend our Final Profession. He did so with his surgical registrar and looked pleased to be there with us. He told me I had done well in my exams. We only got pass or fail results. Some received honors like Maura and Martha. It was a real honor for us to have him with us. Sister Margaret Bede, who was also Finally Professed with us, had invited Mr. Frank Duff, a renowned Genito-urinary specialist. She was now a grandmother but in her younger days had cared for him as a child and the friendship remained. Some of the students in our class also came to add to our joy but most of all, Martha and I were blessed to have our parents come all the way from the USA. That evening, after our parents had returned to the hotel in Drogheda, we all celebrated the feast day of Mother Jude Walsh, the superior of Beechgrove. The 28th of October had been the feast of Christ the King at the time of First Profession, and the day but not the Feast was retained.
I was walking on air with happiness until I brought my parents around the hospital the next day. I found one elderly man dead in the mortuary. He had suffered a complication of leukemia. The other was a maternity patient whom Dr. Costello was called in on consultation to try and discover her unexplained fever. These patients were happy and smiling when I left them. It was a shock, but doctors have a lot to deal with; we can only do our best and can miss the long shot. I did not realize the effect the mortuary had on my father. What impressed him was the simple way the deceased were laid out in a Franciscan habit and buried the next day. He said he wanted it that way for himself. He was of German descent and so many of the Irish ways seemed to calm him down.
I enjoyed a few days with my parents and soon it was time for them to return home and for me to return to the Medical Ward. To me it was a time of profound thanksgiving for my vocation and for the Lord to bring me this far to complete medical studies and make Final Profession of Vows. I have much more to say but that will be another story.
MMM Publications Tanzania 28.07.2024
In 1985, Sister Joan Grumbach, and Sister Ruth Percival, joined the community in Loolera, Tanzania, while Sister Geneviève van Waesberghe was needed back at Arusha. She was sad leaving Maasailand. Before they set out for the airstrip at Kijungu, she went to say a few last farewells. The people blessed her and offered her gifts of beads. Many of the Maasai warriors, womenfolk and children walked ahead to the airstrip to wave her off. Sisters Joan and Ruth drove the 6 km by Land Rover. In the six-seater plane there were three other passengers seated behind Geneviève, and the pilot, Pat. The passengers included Bishop Durning of Arusha and two priests, one of them nicknamed ‘Shorty’. The small plane taxied down the airstrip and turned. Then it revved up and took off in the familiar cloud of dust.
Geneviève remembers and tells the story:
“I soon realized that we were in trouble. The plane was not gaining altitude. In fact, we were caught in a downdraught from the intense heat. We were about to hit a small peak when Pat changed course and turned off the engine. We felt a shock as first the tail broke off and then a wing. The little plane had landed on a dry thorn tree on the side of the mountain and crushed it to the ground.
For a moment we remained shocked, silent. “I can’t believe this”, said Pat, as he folded. “I whispered to him: ‘Pat, we are all alive’, she recalls. “After a few minutes, Pat and I forced the jammed door and got out of the plane. Shorty and the Bishop were clearly in pain. I quickly looked at them and advised them not to move. Pat tried in vain to make radio contact with AMREF in Nairobi. He then climbed a tree to see if we could see Kijungu and if the people who had waved us off could have seen us crash.”
Sure enough, back at the airstrip they had watched in horror, their apprehension growing as they witnessed the plane growing smaller in the distance but failing to gain altitude. Was that cloud which eventually emerged above the faraway hills a cloud of dust or a cloud of smoke? How could they get into those hills to find out and hopefully rescue the survivors when there was no road? Ruth tried to reach Nairobi by radio-tel, but the reception was very poor. Back at the crash site, Geneviève tried to teach Pat the Maasai emergency call – oooooeeúúú, oooooeeúúú – but by now Pat was too shocked to do anything. She tried herself but feared that her voice would not carry far and, besides, the Maasai would be unlikely to recognize the call coming from a woman. Telling the three injured men to remain in the plane, Pat and Geneviève began to climb down the mountain. They were afraid of wild animals. Soon they heard the Maasai warriors replying to the distress call. So, they returned to the plane and waited.
Sikorei was the first to arrive, followed by all the staff from Loolera. He was steaming with icy sweat. They had run all the way from Kijungu, armed with machetes to cut a path through the mountain, following their unerring instincts to the place where they had seen the cloud rising – not knowing that they would find anyone alive. Geneviève kept her head: “I tried first to calm down Sikorei, and then we proceeded to help the three remaining passengers out of the plane. The Bishop had a broken clavicle. Someone gave me a shirt and I splinted him. Shorty had a lot of chest pain due to broken ribs. “The warriors went ahead of us, carrying the wounded passengers down the mountain, where Sister Joan was waiting anxiously with the landrover and blankets. Her relief was unbounded.
For the next two days, streams of Maasai people came to sympathise. “You entered the lion’s mouth and got out”, they said. Many of the local government representatives also travelled to Loolera to sympathise and wish them well. The Sisters were touched by their concern. The Bishop appreciated the wonderful rapport that now existed between the people and the MMMs. He could see for himself that Primary Health Care brought us close to the people. Next day, AMREF sent a plane from Nairobi, and the travellers were safely airlifted back to Arusha.
by Sr. Sheila Campbell, MMM Ireland 26.07.2024
During the Covid-19 pandemic we all had a heightened awareness of the need for fresh air and ventilation. In our convent in Drogheda, it was no different. All our windows and, where possible, doors were kept open. I remember one day I sat staring at the open door of our chapel when I went in to pray in the early morning.
I love the symbol of the open door. It just offers up so much possibility. It is exciting. What is on the other side? I remember entering MMM so many years ago. The open door was a welcoming one. Come and see. Come and join our life. But the open door also has a touch of reality about it. It was kept open so that those who decided otherwise could also leave.
The open door is really just an invitation, a liminal space between two worlds. Within MMM I had the opportunity to learn more about myself, to grow in maturity and self-confidence. Yes, I was educated and given the opportunity to travel and experience other cultures. But I may have had that education and overseas experience outside of MMM. The real difference is the inner work. Here I am, more than fifty years later, still trying to learn more about the inner world and learning connections and deepening relationships – with God and everyone around me.
One of the good things that has happened since all the talk of climate change is a growing awareness of how everything and everybody is inter-connected. We may have had that in theory or in theology before now, but suddenly it is real. When China burns coal, the air we breathe is affected. Our plastic waste ends up in the oceans and destroys the ecosystem we need for food and basic survival. The open door reminds us that the outside affects the inside and the inside of us has to come forward and protect the outside.
So today I prayed that my “door” can stay open and receptive, and I invite you to do the same.
