Hear Our Silence

The Indy finally published my Obituary of John O’Donohue today. I had written the piece three weeks ago and had begun to wonder when if ever…

A great man, a remarkable man. You can muse like this when not on stage. Certainly his voice echoed and reverberated to many millions, through his books as well as his softly spoken words. In my piece I compared his message to that of Julian of Norwich who also spoke of God’s unspeakable Love, intimacy and omnipresence.

John had a way with words. (I won’t mention the Blarney Stone, that was far from his reach: he uttered who he was.) He first trod the hard and narrow: aged twelve a boarder at St Mary’s, Galway. Then straight from school into Maynooth, that great womb of Irish priests - that was, now a vibrant State University -  set in the flat dull heart of Ireland, far from the sea. They once had the world record collection of rosaries: good on ‘em. But John seems not to have been too unsettled by his priestly education. Indeed, he singles out a number of his professors who clearly wooed his mind and heart.

A decade or more as parish priest: ‘I was trying to refine their fingers…so that they could undo so much of the false netting crippling their own spirits.’ What wonderful words. I am back on the lakeside at Galilee: ‘lads, have you caught anything?’ No, they grumbled, we have had a hard night of it and not a single talapa. ‘Fling your net that side…and see what happens.’

So John came away from his claustrophobic dog collar and wore a microphone instead. His bishop had insisted that he stay in the confessional, at the altar. I can only imagine that stand off. John retreated to gain the heights. Discover the inner beauty of every human heart awaiting spring.

Much as Hopkins had denied his tongue then let loose, John’s voice was heard.

Some say, he broke loose and uttered nonsense. I say, all stories are true. Words matter only when they are heard and heartened to.

My 82 year old sister, Maureen Parkinson, has been rightly feted in her local rag, the Portsmouth News.

They report that she has just knitted her 3000th coloured woollen jersey for poor children in Africa. A compulsive and creative knitter, Maureen watches television while she works. She reckons on turning out one jersey a week with any odd wool donated by her church community. They are picked up periodically by the local representative of Feed Africa and shipped out to needy children in Malawi, Zimbabwe, Ethiopia and Uganda.

Some Nan to be proud of, a sister to praise.

Stella, Judith’s mother, is 92 and well loved in Hill House, the Abbeyfield Care Home overlooking Honiton.

Today was their Family and Friends open day, when they offer an amazing Sunday food spread to kindle love and hope. At best a brave day. We crowd in. Are offered sherry. Too little space. And they are all sitting where they always do. In their own chairs. So we draw beside or stand over and try to talk. They look good. Ties tied. Best yellow two piece hanging sadly off the shoulder.

But the lights are out, in spite of best care. The staff are loving. We too come to visit. But who is at home. And who wishes to stay for very much longer.

Ray does his best to signal to me. Mimicks ‘are you still writing…?’ I nod, yes, sort of. He confesses he fell asleep watching England v. France last night. Then, panic, he has a convulsion. We rush to him. The staff bring a wheel chair to preclude him from our feast…

Two minutes ago he stood upon his zimmer and proclaimed to his daughter: you are to holiday in Tunisia. I had a radio station outside there - in 1943. Ray served in the Royal Navy, winning that war.

I know he will win his final fight.

And Stella will go with him.

Watching the news this evening: came the weather man, South West. Nice guy, did his stuff promise of more sun tomorrow and then got excited about the European Space Blob about to circle our heads. ‘Don’t switch off your tv, that wd be bad…watch it here!’

I stumbled out into our wonderful dark garden buried dark deep in Somerset to find - sure enough West to East - this little yellow Buzbomb trolling across the sky.

Apparently it tells us all we need to know: words pour down upon our heads. Rugby matches, news and all. Or have I got it wrong. Perhaps Big Bro up there in the SKY is watching me. Even as I write this…

But my little, rather charming, yellow blob was over and done by within three minutes. Behind: the great familiar backdrop of eternity. The still bright stars that have always been written in our sky. Gazed at by zillions of humankind.

Word mirror passes by overhead.

And I thought of Rowan and his words. Thoughtful, well meant, prayed about. Then watched by millions as they passed above their heads. Never read. Never pondered. Pounced upon by excited weathermen.

All over in three minutes, their pathetic attention span.

And underneath - the Everlasting Arms, as above the Galaxy Expands.

Archibald Edward Hopkinson, our third grandchild and first boy, made his appearance at 5 pm last Friday: Mum and Dad doing well…

The first arrival makes the family; before there was but a loving couple. So Archie can be proud of his achievement thus far. But what a long way to go.

For now, he is cradled in safe hands, feeding off a human wealth he is hungry to explore.

Welcome Archibald Edward.