By Monica Shaw U.S.A. 11.08.2022
Lily Murphy was my great aunt. In 1950, Lily went with the Medical Missionaries of Mary to Ogoja, Nigeria to teach the leper children. At the time, she was 57 years young, and stayed in Ogoja for over 20 years establishing schools in each village.
My book, The Rainwater Secret is historical fiction based on her true story. I was reading another book based in England, and it reminded me of Lily. I think there was a lot of divine intervention, because I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I decided I would do a little research about the MMM’s and their work in Africa. After researching online, and I’m sure bothering Sister Catherine who at the time was in charge of the MMM archives in Drogheda, Ireland, I planned a trip to Ireland to do some more research.
I had a lovely visit with all of the Sisters in Drogheda! Originally, I had planned to spend an afternoon there, but ended up staying until late in the evening and then went back the next day as well. Lily lived to the ripe old age of 107 so there were only a few Sisters in Drogheda who worked with Lily that were still alive, but we managed to visit with a few of them and enjoyed hearing stories of their time in Ogoja.
I can’t express how much fun I had visiting with the Sisters and hearing stories not just about Africa, but all of their mission trips. I am in awe of them just jetting, or in this case boating off to an unknown land with the hope of helping others. I still shake my head thinking of how courageous they must have been to make the long trip.
I read everything I could get my hands on. Bishop McGettrick wrote a book as did Mother Mary Martin. Lily wrote articles about the leprosy patients for the MMM newsletters. Even the gentlemen who went to Africa to film The Visitation wrote a book. There was another book “Diary of an MMM” that was very helpful as well. I remember thinking on the flight home, “I’ve got to figure out how to write a book!”
Lily had been a head mistress at a school in Bootle. I’m not sure how she heard of the MMM’s going to Africa, but I have the first letter she wrote to Mother Mary Martin requesting to be the teacher that they took with them to Ojoja.
If I had to describe Lily, I would say she was full of life. Always up for a prank, a cuppa or a nip of cognac. She was funny and lit up the room with her stories.
I grew up Catholic and never heard of the MMM’s until I started researching this book. I was young when Lily was still alive, and even though I went to visit her in England after she left Ogoja, I never thought to ask her about her time in Africa. Thank goodness there were so many books available to read! Although the story is about Lily’s time in Ogoja, she would never have wanted to be the “star of the show.” All glory goes to God, and the wonderful Sisters of the MMM.
I’m so blessed that Lily tapped me on the shoulder from heaven and helped me write The Rainwater Secret. It has been such an honor to share her story. A portion of the proceeds from the book go to the Medical Missionaries of Mary, and I pray that Lily would be very pleased to continue her mission with the MMM’s from above.
by Sr. Cecily Bourdillion MMM Ireland 09.08.2022
My last mission was in rural Malawi, ministering at Kasina Health Centre. Though the people of Kasina are subsistence farmers and live from hand to mouth it was wonderful and amazing to witness patients using a cell phone to contact family to report their admission or to give other information. In the villages solar panels charging the phones was a common sight. Near the Health Centre was a pylon to ensure availability of telecommunication.
It was there that someone predicted that one day we would be able to see the person speaking to us over the seas. I expressed my certitude that this was an absolute impossibility!
My first experience of a telephone was living on a farm in Rhodesia – now Zimbabwe. There was great excitement when the telephone was installed. It was a “party line” which meant that our neighbours used the same line. We each had a special ring – ours was three short rings. We knew when our neighbours were receiving calls. We could have listened in but would not dream of doing so! The phone was activated by turning a handle. We had to go through the “exchange”- a person at the end of the line- to get through to a number.
I again met the “party line” many years later when in rural Nigeria. On one occasion I was speaking with a friend telling of a journey I would be making when we were interrupted by the lady on the exchange reminding me that she had an appointment with me on that day!!!
Many years later I was visiting in England. By this time, I had become used to using the “land line” with easy dialling and communication. The phone rang and I answered. The caller asked for my brother, and I asked the caller to please hold the line. I put the telephone down and ran upstairs to tell my brother. He asked me for the phone so that he could answer the call. I was now in the world of “mobile phones ” and did not realise it!
What a wonderful means of communication is the telephone – to be able to speak to and see our loved ones far across continents – and to write our letters and read the news, listen to concerts and engage in Zoom meetings and attend Mass and prayer services.
Mother Mary Martin was aware of the power of communication and the technology that promoted it. Thus, came about The Visitation – the film about the early days of MMM.
Communication is an essential aspect of human life and activity – communication with God, with our fellow human beings, with the animal world and creation. Communication is necessary for the building of relationships and good relations are the essence of harmonious living.
My prayer is that the wonderful advances made in communication technology may always be used by us human beings to surmount barriers- especially those of gender, colour, culture, class, creed – and to enable us be ever more caring, loving and compassionate as we endeavour to re-build a world of peace and justice.
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!
