by Nadia Ramoutar Communications Coordinator Ireland 01.08.2022
It is summer here in our part of the world, though in Ireland that is a vague term. While it is certainly warmer, the sky today looks more like October. Someone recently asked me when I felt most free. I am reminded of being a little girl growing up in Dublin and my grandfather driving me to the beach to see my aunt. She lived directly across from the sea in a place called Skerries, not far from where my office is now.
The smell of seaweed always transports me to that time. I was young and carefree exploring the rocks at the beach and looking at crabs hiding in the sand. It was a glorious place away from the bustle of Dublin and the chaos of my large family.
As the Communication Coordinator for the MMMs, I have a lovely office in Drogheda on the second floor of the peaceful Convent known as Beechgrove. It brings me joy to work here – usually.
Today, in my office I am also reminded of this peaceful scene by the lively sound of the seagulls outside my window. The window is slightly open in my second-floor office because of the summer heat. The seagulls seem to be in a frenzy and are almost “shouting” over one another at the same time. It is like the seagull stock exchange with multiple voices getting louder and faster.
I know there were seagulls being lively when I was a child in Skerries and I thought they were funny and interesting. My older self at her desk with a long list of things to do and Zoom calls to attend is far from interested. I would probably say “annoyed” would be a more honest description and go as far as to say “irritated”.
I like to think of myself as an eco-leader who is very concerned with our climate crisis. I write and read about it often. My annoyance and the volume and voracity of the live wild birds outside my window belies this claim I make.
Are the seagulls not God’s beloveds too?
Somehow, I am reminded of my need to be more fun, playful, and patient as my younger self, full of wonder on the Irish seashore and make room in my day for any inconvenience that occurs – especially my lively friends the seagulls who are clearly as busy as I am and just as important to our Creator.
Editor: The following article was first published in an early MMM magazine. I enjoyed it so much I thought our blog readers would enjoy it too
by Medicus, an unnamed Volunteer Doctor 1957 30.07.2022
You never know what kind of a job you will be asked to do out here – outside of your regular work, I mean. It may be trying to get that bundle of capriciousness which goes by the name of “Hospital Transport” back into working order. In which case I’m usually the one supplying the sweat and the groans at the back, when the mechanical genius up the front can think of nothing else to do and blithely climbs into the car, lights a cigarette, and tosses out the careless words “All right now – try her with a bit of a push!” While he vainly clashes gears and pumps clutches with a warped and almost diabolical pleasure, you, with the shirt sticking to your back, think what you would really like to do with that push.
Or you might be asked to “do something” with an eccentric steriliser which persists in blowing steam out of the wrong holes. Here again I fulfil an important role. I fall into the part of apprentice who traffics back and forth, bringing the tools the plumber is traditionally supposed to forget. “Would you run up to the mission and bring down the big …. Spanner.” The stumbling block is in the …., but there is only one spanner, so I cunningly hide my ignorance. I get off to a flying start. “And, hey!” I return. “Bring a couple of steel washers.” I dash off again, to be recalled for a further briefing “a six-inch nail.” This time I take a few tentative steps and wait for the inevitable “and don’t forget the cigarettes!”
So I didn’t automatically reply “Are you mad?” when approached by the Sister-secretary and her cohorts with the request, “You’ll write an article for the magazine.” Perhaps a student of English would see something odd in the use of a statement as a request, but then I’m not so particular. Maybe you are thinking I’m a spineless sort of fellow, strictly under the thumb. Listen – years of first-hand observation of the single purposefulness which is the root of Medical Missionary achievement has taught me the truth of discretion being the better part of valour. So I gracefully acquiesced and agreed to write the article. After all, this was something I could do at my leisure; no sweat and grunts, no dashing off; no, but “and have it ready for the post on Wednesday.” Here we go again.
So here I am – plenty of assistance given in the line of ink and paper. All I need is a subject. As Dr. Sloan might say: “Aye, there’s the rub!” Lots of things jump into my head, an endless variety of interesting subjects all begging for the pen of a Cronin or – well, let’s not get involved too deeply – and none of them any good to me. Wednesday’s not too far off, so I’d better get a few sorted out and then pick the likeliest one.
“The Drama and Difficulties of the Night Emergency in a Mission Hospital.” The effort of shaking oneself awake and the half-formed prayer for the grace to make the right decision, for a steady hand, an alert mind; the groaning patient and his anxious relatives who have carried him in a hammock for miles across the bush; the easing of tension with the appearance of Sister and, less briskly, of oneself; and again an unspoken prayer that their hopes will not be unfounded; the setting into motion of the willing team of nurses who even at this unearthly hour insist on observing the proprieties with their “Good morning, Sister, Good morning, Doctor”; the operation under the flickering kerosene lamps; and then back to bed for a few hours before the rush of another day. Too bad it has been done before and better than I could do it, so let’s try something else.
How about the problem of rearing orphan twins and motherless babies? No, I’d probably get a sack full of letters about this. And if there is anything I hate it is people telling me where I am wrong – especially when they are right – so that’s out.
Building? We’re doing quite a bit of building around here on and off for the past few years, and more to come, please God. Our hospital may not be as imposing as some of the ones at home, but we think it is pretty good. I could write about “Modern Architectural Trends in Tropical Hospitals” and throw in a few terms I’ve heard the experts use. That’s rather a good title anyway. Awful to get a letter from some Dublin architect with an opening sentence such as “Your new ward has fallen, hasn’t it?” I’d better stick to something I know.
But what? Things are getting pretty desperate. About the only thing I can think of at present is “the Flora and Fauna of Africa.” Unfortunately, all I know about the Flora and Fauna of Africa would hardly fool even the inhabitants of the far north.
So here I am, with the best intentions of the world, as well as plenty of paper and ink, and nothing will come out. How I envy those people who can sit down at a typewriter and only stop pounding when they run out of paper. And me – I haven’t even a soft pencil I can chew.
And tomorrow is Wednesday.
Any doctor interested in an assistant with several years’ experience in tropical medicine?
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 28.07.2022
Sometimes God comes to tickle you with joy. At least that is the way I thought about it after I had seen this scene. The other morning, I walked into our chapel for morning prayer and there it was. The sunlight was streaming through the French windows, through the folds of the net curtains, creating a pattern on the carpet. “Barcodes”, I thought, almost immediately. That is when I was tickled pink. Isn’t it great that even God has a barcode!
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 28.07.2022
Sometimes God comes to tickle you with joy. At least that is the way I thought about it after I had seen this scene. The other morning, I walked into our chapel for morning prayer and there it was. The sunlight was streaming through the French windows, through the folds of the net curtains, creating a pattern on the carpet. “Barcodes”, I thought, almost immediately. That is when I was tickled pink. Isn’t it great that even God has a barcode!
What is a barcode? It is a set of symbols that can be scanned electronically using laser or image-based technology, used to encode information. The ones we commonly recognise are linear barcodes.
Perfect, I thought. God uses the sunlight and shadows to send me a pattern. I, with my eyes, can scan this pattern and see the unique imprint of God in our world. Isn’t it wonderful that modern technology can help deepen our understanding and delight in the God of all things?
But it not just things. Each person has their individual barcode in God’s eyes. Each one is precious, and God has all information stored in the Big Computer. I love that bit of Isaiah 43: “you are precious in my eyes and I love you.” I can never fully understand the person next to me, even the person closest to me. Each one has an inner mystery, known only to God. I think this calls us to a deep respect for others. I don’t usually dislike other people, but I can ignore them, caught up in my own ideas and plans. That is not respecting people. Yes, I fail miserably at times, but then God gives me a nudge, like the other day, with the barcodes through the window.
Thank you, God for the nudge – keep them coming!
by Mary Coffey AMMM Ireland 26.07.2022
Below is the text of an email that I sent to Colette Morris, head of Migration in the Irish Red Cross, in 2019, less than a month after our Community Sponsorship Group, called ‘New Beginnings Kells’ welcomed a Syrian family who had been living as refugees in Lebanon. Colette has been my mentor and my friend on this journey.
Colette, as we move out of the pilot phase of Community Sponsorship I just want to share with you a story about stones. A few weeks before the family arrived a woman stopped me on the street and asked me for the individual names of the family. She wanted to go to Bettystown beach with her nephew Michael to collect nice roundy stones on which to paint their names, and to place them in the garden.
The stones were handed over to me in a box about a week after the family arrived. They were craggy, and I doubt if they had ever been on Bettystown beach or experienced the pounding of the waves but I still expect that Michael, Elaine’s beloved nephew with special needs, had a hand in painting them.
There was one for Tasnim, one for Kays, one for Maysa, one with the names of all three children, one for Fedaa and Ahmed and a big multicoloured rock of a thing with all five names on it.
I arrived at No 17 with the box. Elaine declined my invitation to come along. She is a very kind lady who never seeks recognition for the good that she does. There was great excitement in the back yard as the contents of the box were examined and deeply appreciated.
I was down in the house this week and Fedaa and I were sitting at the kitchen table chatting. She understands a lot more English than she speaks.
When we get lazy, or the concepts too complex, we resort to Google Translate. Feeling drawn to talk about the stones I went out to the back yard just to see where they were. I looked around and couldn’t see them. Then I spotted them up on a windowsill, saved from being pelted around the yard by Kays!
We talked about the stones and about the fact that people cannot connect with millions of refugees or with thousands or with hundreds, because it’s all too abstract. But we can connect with real people, real lives and real names. Tears glistened in Fedaa’s eyes and in mine also.
Elaine had been on holiday, and I phoned her last night to tell her how well received the stones were and to relate my conversation with Fedaa. We spoke about identity. I spoke about the need to use more often the term ‘a person seeking refuge’ rather than ‘a refugee’ and it does strike a different note. Elaine now welcomes being invited to come to No 17 and being introduced to Fedaa, Ahmed, Maysa, Kays and Tasnim.
There is something else that Elaine would like to do, when the time is right, knowing that it might be too painful just yet. She would like to find more stones and to encourage them to paint the names of their loved ones left behind, so that they can nestle together in the garden and, knowing Elaine, she will find a way to create some kind of a garden out of a corner in the backyard.
As I write this, I am sitting up in bed sobbing. I think of all the work we put into making the house beautiful, getting the colours and the final touches right, and really nothing compares to the value of those craggy stones. Some quotes from Isaiah come to mind. ” I have carved you on the palm of my hand” and ” I have called you by your name you are mine.”
by Sr. Cecily Bourdillon MMM Ireland 24.07.2022
A few days ago, I received a message from a member of staff of Kasina Health Centre in Malawi telling me of the death of our mutual friend, Yohane. May he rest in peace. The message added that his mother thanked God for answereing her prayer. Yohane’s mother had asked God to take Yohane before calling herself. She knew that she was the only person who could or would care for him.
Yohane suffered from epilepsy. Lack of appropriate treatment and care over many years resulted in numerous seizures causing brain damage and subsequent mental impairment. He often suffered injuries and his mother was continuously dressing his wounds.
One day, the Palliative Care team of Kasina Health Centre was called to the Yohane’s home. We found him unconscious, cold, and hardly breathing. He had recently been to the epilepsy clinic in the nearest hospital and his medications had been changed. It appeared that he had unknowingly taken an overdose. We helped his mother to bathe him and make him comfortable – and thank God he recovered from this incident.
It was around this time that Kasina Health Centre opened two monthly clinics for those suffering from epilepsy – on the first Friday – and hypertension on the second Friday – of each month. This was our response to the experience that, at the Sunday Mass, invariably there was an interruption when one member of the congregation collapsed, or had a seizure, and had to be lifted out of the church and carried to the Health Centre nearby for treatment. The families of patients with epilepsy or hypertension could not afford the cost of transport for regular visits to the hospital, nor the fees asked for the medications. So, they remained untreated and their condition uncontrolled.
All in the area with epilepsy or high blood pressure were invited to attend the monthly clinics and receive regular treatment free, thanks to the generosity of kind donors. The one condition was regular attendance! People responded, attendances increased and patients with epilepsy and hypertension were being regularly monitored and received continuous treatment. The interruptions at Mass ceased!
Yohane was registered and he, with his mother, attended the Epilepsy clinic faithfully. Having continuous appropriate treatment for his epilepsy controlled the seizures, but did not alter Yohane’s behaviour. He was a wanderer and would walk many miles begging for food. He was always hungry. After the clinic he would call to our office looking for money. We would bring him for a shower, dress him in clean clothes and put something in his hands for food. Smiling, he would go on his way.
Yohane, in his thirties, was a moderately tall, strong man. His mother was half his size, worn down by the burden of life and caring for her son. He received from her the constant care of a loving mother.
Dear Yohane, you were a blessing. Now may you rest in peace and hunger no more.
We thank God for Yohane and his mother who gave him constant loving care. May God comfort her now as she mourns for her son.
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 22.07.2022
Last week someone came into the kitchenette in our office area and took a tea towel. I say ‘took’ although I am tempted to say ‘stole’. I was mad, furious, and beside myself at the injustice of it. How could they! I had bought these with my own money, labelled thm with a permanent marker, and was beginning to feel pride in looking after our common area. I was strongly tempted to march into another kitchenette and steal one of their tea towels. Before I go any further, I am pleased to say I resisted the temptation.
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 22.07.2022
Last week someone came into the kitchenette in our office area and took a tea towel. I say ‘took’ although I am tempted to say ‘stole’. I was mad, furious, and beside myself at the injustice of it. How could they! I had bought these with my own money, labelled thm with a permanent marker, and was beginning to feel pride in looking after our common area. I was strongly tempted to march into another kitchenette and steal one of their tea towels. Before I go any further, I am pleased to say I resisted the temptation.
Why am I telling you this story? Because these kinds of incidents happen to us everyday and often our emotions are stirred up, but we go on with our lives without really reflecting on what these emotions are doing to our ‘inside’. Not that there is anything wrong with emotions. They are neither good nor evil, just something to be acknowledged and accepted. I find if I don’t recognise that I am all stirred up, God help the next person who crosses my path! I will take it out on them although they have nothing to do with the affair! I can get despondent, discouraged and at worst, fall into depression, because I have not looked at the underlying anger.
The same thing happens with larger social problems. I can get irate with the injustice of war, with global hunger, with the climate crisis. The problem is not the fact that I feel strongly, but what action am I going to do, rather than just react?
So today I sit with my missing tea towel. What am I going to do about it? First, get a sense of proportion. A missing tea towel is not the end of the world. I can go and buy another. I can use an old one. Or, I could make a scene and make myself and everyone else miserable. We all have choices. Today I pray for a sense of balance – and a sense of humour – to see things in their proper perspective.
by Sr. Margaret Anne Meyer MMM U.S.A. 20.07.2022
Poetry has, until recently, been a mysterious garden where words blossomed like wildflowers. They looked lovely but what was their meaning? How come the ending words did not rhyme but carried me to a different world?
It all began three years ago when I met Damien in the hall of the residence of the Little Sisters of the Poor. He was seeing the place where his mother, Alice Sullivan, was going to reside. “You should meet her,” quipped Mother Maureen, as she met me walking past Damien. Alice had gone to Nigeria in the 1970’s to 1990’s to study Anthropology in the University of Lagos. It was an excellent opportunity to make friends and welcome Alice into the residence. Mother Maureen, a Little Sister of the Poor, knew we would have a lot in common through our love for Nigeria and the people.
We really enjoyed each other’s company and, lo and behold, Alice soon took me under her wing to encourage me to join the poetry class led by Andrea Read. Alice, who was then ninety-three, had won several poetry contests and was very keen on learning more. I reluctantly gave in, and I am so glad because it has brought me to a greater understanding of what poetry is all about.
Fast forward to last week, when Alice would receive first prize at age 96 in the Senior division of a poetry contest organized by the West Roxbury Library. Our activities director, Gina Bozzi, had obtained a cord which when attached to my computer and the smart TV could fit the zoom call on the large TV Screen. This enabled other members of the poetry group to watch the prize winners in various categories recite their poems.
The narrator, Mary Pinard, is a published poet who explained how the judging of the poetry was based on the imagery, texture, sound, figurative language, similes, metaphors, and meter of the chosen words. I could not believe the high-quality level reached by fifth graders and all the way up to high school level. I am still deeply touched by the masterpiece of the high-school student, Bruno Kim, who wrote “I am a banana.” The banana referred to his yellow Asian skin which people saw and shunned because of his representing bringing Covid to the United States. He begged for a chance to let him peel off the layers to show his true American self and his plea to be regarded as such. The words were beautifully intertwined to weave a delicate insight into the suffering of being someone different. My heart went out to him to try and assuage his pain.
Alice had her hair coiffed beautifully and looked elegant for all her 96 years. Her poem was called” Symmetry” and spoke gracefully about the different faces of love and compassion she encountered during the pandemic from those caring for and living with her. She dedicated her poem to an extremely resolute staff member who died recently and had meant a great deal to all of us. As we listened to the recitation of the poem, vivid recollections of what we experienced, and the unremittent care and concern given came alive. It enkindled our thankfulness “Surely God is in this place, and we did not know it.” cf. Jacob wrestling with God. Genesis 28:16.
Now I would like to ask you to read these two poems so you, too can unfold their petals.
I am a Banana
by Bruno Kim
Please do not misunderstand. I do not mean the tropical fruit. It is a commonly used colloquialism, defining the cultural schism in people like me. A bright yellow skin, my Asian exterior, but peel back the layers and you’ll find a pale white inside, how I feel most of the time.
I am not what people see. I’m American as blueberry pie on the fourth of July. I watch football more than I watch soccer, but I feel like a tight-rope walker, balancing on a fraying beam, between, knowing I can’t fall.
Sometimes I just feel, disenfranchised, and alienated by each side. I am the fruit my American side used to gentrify, to justify the big lie. When I answer Asian on the census, I find that I ‘m still the consensus to blame for the “China virus.” I try and talk to my Korean relatives, but I find I’m not desirous, they keep saying, I’m too far gone. I am not one.
People who don’t know me, people who can’t see me, just a yellow sheen that I keep saying isn’t me. I don’t want to walk the line, I don’t want to be between, an unseen minority, stuck in limbo, waiting by the window. Until a time I can be more than one side. Until then, I have to toe the line. Until then I am a banana.
Symmetry
by Alice Sullivan
Dedicated to Carolyn Gillis- employee. Died January18,2022
A curl of the lip, a smile-
Without a face to read you lose
Essential clues, human intimacy-
Would we be lesser than before?
On a certain day-ah, that day
We became faceless. A new world-
A vortex-locked up, not by choice,
As death stalked in the nursing home.
Brave workers arrived every day
Masked, wearing face shields, gowns,
Glasses gloves, with closed doors,
Banned socialization- solitary confinement.
Ethiopian Aster, her face framed by tattoos,
Stately, her beautiful aura gave us assurance.
Linda, a local with 45 years of service, at 70 years
An inspiration survived Covid and a stroke.
Marie and Christina from Haiti,
Each worked several jobs at a time, for years,
To bring their families here
Their gentleness soothed our torn world.
Among our residents were missionary nuns
Who had delivered babies, saved lives
In many parts of the world, retired now,
Grateful for food and shelter
A month into the lockdown, Andrea
Sent a packet of writing materials
A volunteer poetry teacher, she saw a severed connection
And healed it by virtual monthly workshops.
A nursing home permeated by death,
Yet held together by the kindness
Of scattered faces of the world
That turned the utter darkness to light
Somerville, MA
by Sr. Margaret Anne Meyer MMM U.S.A. 20.07.2022
Poetry has, until recently, been a mysterious garden where words blossomed like wildflowers. They looked lovely but what was their meaning? How come the ending words did not rhyme but carried me to a different world?
It all began three years ago when I met Damien in the hall of the residence of the Little Sisters of the Poor. He was seeing the place where his mother, Alice Sullivan, was going to reside. “You should meet her,” quipped Mother Maureen, as she met me walking past Damien. Alice had gone to Nigeria in the 1970’s to 1990’s to study Anthropology in the University of Lagos. It was an excellent opportunity to make friends and welcome Alice into the residence. Mother Maureen, a Little Sister of the Poor, knew we would have a lot in common through our love for Nigeria and the people.
