by Mary Coffey AMMM Ireland 07.08.2022
My Da used to call me Moll and, years later, my brother Paddy used it also as a term of endearment, connecting us both back to the well-spring of Da’s gentle love. My Auntie Mary sometimes called me Mollie. My brother–in–law, Damien, when he got to know me first, started to call me Maisie. Their children took it up and now that they are young adults they still use it occasionally. There is something very intimate in a pet name that is used just within the family.
When the Alsultan family from Syria were welcomed into our community in Kells the children were small. Maysa was six, Kays was three and Tasnim almost two. Tasnim couldn’t say ‘Mary’. She could only say Millie. I loved the sound of Millie in her little gentle voice, and I wished that she would never be able to say Mary. On her third birthday, to be precise, I heard ‘Mary’ pronounced loud and clear and she has never looked back. She no longer calls me Millie but because I want to keep Millie alive I sometimes playfully call her Millie!
This lovely photo was taken recently on Kays’ 6th birthday. Little boys are often less than thrilled to be hugged. Even if he was happy, a token protest was called for. Maysa, with the sense of responsibility associated with the eldest girl, is watching on in her gentle, reserved manner. Tasnim usually steals the limelight with the flashing brown eyes, the big smile and the utter confidence in her capacity to make connection and to hold it! That’s my Millie. A pet name used within the family. Kinship. There’s a new baby on the way. Who knows what name will be chosen?
I am now asking myself “By what name does God wish to call me when he invites me to spend time with Him in prayer and to be of service to his little ones?” I think that God might wish to call me Millie so that I can be lost in all the tenderness that that name evokes, a tenderness that sometimes overwhelms me. God’s
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 05.08.2022
Yesterday I was talking with one of our Sisters about racism. She was an Irish Sister, talking about the anti-English behaviour of her father during her formative years, but we all know the prejudices and stereotypes that can exist amongst us. When I hear my Dutch sister-in-law talk about Germans, it reminded me of the prejudices that Brazilian have against Argentinians, the English have against the French.
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 05.08.2022
Yesterday I was talking with one of our Sisters about racism. She was an Irish Sister, talking about the anti-English behaviour of her father during her formative years, but we all know the prejudices and stereotypes that can exist amongst us. When I hear my Dutch sister-in-law talk about Germans, it reminded me of the prejudices that Brazilian have against Argentinians, the English have against the French.
I began thinking about my own racism. Growing up white in a mostly white city, I came across few people who were different from me. I was an avid reader as a child, so Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and other literature from the American South would have been my first glimpse into a world that was different from my own. Even entering MMM did not change things much. In those days a few African Sisters came to Ireland, but they were mostly students and would soon be returning to their own countries. Even going to Brazil did not alter things for me. Yes, they were different, a whole mix of differences, descendants of European migrants, indigenous people, Afro-Brazilians and all the intermingling of those people together. But we got on well together, didn’t we? “I am not a racist”, I would comfortably say to myself.
I ‘woke up’ to my own racism when I was in my mid-thirties. I was in a workshop when the facilitator asked the group to split into two groups, black and white. “How silly”, I thought, “I am the only white person here.” To my surprise, one of the other participants stood up and joined me. My shock was that I had always, in my mind, called her ‘coloured’. And here she was calling herself white. I immediately understood the unworked racism within me. I knew I had work to do on myself and my attitudes. Unworked racism, I believe, is often what causes the problems in relationships. Am I better? Probably not, but I try. I try to grow in understanding, of putting myself in the other person’s shoes. I try to wait and think before blurting out something. I watch those hidden emotions rise up and ask myself “what is going on here?”
I am less arrogant now, more unsure, and I hope more open to the on-going work of dealing with my hidden prejudices.
by Vera Grant AMMM Ireland 03.08.2022
How many times have we heard or read these words? It is said that they appear 365 times in the bible – one for every day. I don’t know. I haven’t counted.
Our celebrated poet, Seamus Heaney, before he died he sent a text message, written in Latin telling his wife, not to be afraid.
What is it about dying that we fear and want to reassure our loved ones not to be afraid. Is it to mask our own fear?
My sister, Teresa, who was dying from cancer and had difficulty in speaking, struggled with the effort to whisper, ‘I don’t want to die’. She was afraid to go to sleep in case she didn’t wake up and pleaded with us to stay by her side. Her fear was very tangible and I tried to reassure her by quoting from Donagh O’Shea that death was just another journey. A journey into the unknown and like many journeys we make in our lifetime they too bring fear, anxiety and nervousness.
Teresa had given up her life in Belfast to go with her new husband to live in Canada. My mother was heartbroken to see her go so far away and wondered if she would ever see her again. She too was fearful in not knowing what life would be like for her daughter in a foreign country with no family close by.
I talked about how sad a parting it was for all of us, but Teresa, then was a new bride, had a husband who would look after her and he did. She called him her rock. And so too on her final journey I said that she won’t be alone. God will be her rock.
Why am I writing this now when my sister died 4 years ago?
There were two funerals this week in our parish and, whilst both were very different, they reflected the lives of the two men who had died. What connected them was the questioning…a desire for facts and information. In one instance it was the young boy, Rory who interrupted the story his grandmother was reading to him by continually asking, ‘but why, where and when?’ She gave up and gave him the book to read himself.
However, it was the words of the Priest who spoke at John’s funeral that made me think even more about death. John was a dear friend and we both belonged to the same Prayer Group. Frequently he would interrupt the reading of the passage of scripture to express his uncertainty. At times it seemed like one question after another. Often, they were the same questions I was pondering but wasn’t sure how to ask them.
Fr Albert, unlike the grandmother, seemed to welcome the interruptions, he would smile and hesitantly would offer his understanding in an attempt to explain. Often he would ask the group for their views and we would watch John nod in agreement but many times there was a shaking of the head, ‘I still don’t get this.’
At the funeral Mass for John the Parish Priest spoke about him and his life of faith. In his eulogy he shared with us all that in spite of his trust in God and in his beliefs ‘John had been afraid.’
It seemed such a contradiction to all the platitudes of ‘Be Not afraid’. I felt overwhelmed with sadness at the honesty and humility of John. He was still questioning even as he lay dying.
Jesus too had been afraid, “my soul is sorrowful and troubled, even to death,” he said and prayed that God might let the cup pass from him.
John had faith, great faith in God and in the teachings of the Church and yet he allowed himself to feel the fear, express it and accept it in preparing for his last journey home, back to God his Father.
What I was left with was – it’s ok to be afraid.
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.
