For those who have gone before

Today being the feast of All Souls, or The Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed, as my missal has it, it's once again time to revisit my annual post where I remember those gone before me. This is a special day in the Church calendar dedicated to trying to help those we've loved -- and even those we've conspicuously failed to love, and so many who we've never known -- to make their way towards God and towards becoming who they were truly created to be.

The word 'Purgatory' may not appear in the Bible, but that doesn’t mean the doctrine isn’t there, readily drawn out from references to prayers that help the dead, to how nothing imperfect can enter heaven and a fire that purifies us after death, and to a prison where souls go till their debts are paid. Those are the lessons the early Christians drew from these lessons, and from their Jewish forebears. Just as it’s for the Blessed in Heaven to pray for us, so it is for us, then, to visit those souls in prison but guaranteed to share in the Blessed Vision, praying for those destined for heaven that they may more quickly reach the top of Dante’s mountain of hope. Having done the Camino de Santiago, and even the three-day pilgrimage at St Patrick's Purgatory at Lough Derg, I have a better sense these days than I once did of how we're all obliged to pull together to help each other to the finishing line. And with all the reading I've done over the past few years I've a much better sense now than I ever did of how the medieval Irish shaped how the Church thought about this reality: in many ways ours was a penitential and purgatorial church, looking from the first towards the Last Judgement.

With that in mind, then, I have a lot of people to pray for today, just as I hope lots of people, here or up above, are praying for me, since we all need each other's help at one time or another. Many of these, I'm sure, don't need any prayers at all, but it certainly can't hurt, and if anyone here needs any help at all, I do hope my prayers will give that, in whatever meagre way they can.

Like last year, I should say, this has been a tough one, with many losses for me and for those I care about.

Gabriel Doherty of UCC died in early November last year. I'd first encountered Gabriel in the aftermath of the special 1916 issue of the Irish Catholic I'd put together, when he'd written to the paper praising it and I'd contacted him to ask if we could use his comments to promote a revision of that issue as a book. In his response he said something that made my jaw drop: 'As a member of the advisory group on the decade of centenaries I have been paying minute attention to pretty much everything that has appeared (in books, newspapers, on tv, radio, internet, via talks, conferences etc.) on the Rising (and the associated events) for the last 4 years, and amongst all the thousands of articles and dozens of supplements that have so far appeared, I have no hesitation in saying that the supplement with the Irish Catholic was not alone the best, but the most important, because it helped to fill a huge gap in the knowledge within the church about what happened in those times, as much as about what it did.' Cue his writing an introduction for the subsequent book in which he said 'this volume represents a huge stride forward in the public understanding of the Rising, of the Church, and of modern Irish history more generally, and those involved deserve to be applauded for their initiative'. I finally got to meet him at the book launch in the Capuchin hall, and met him at several subsequent consequences, always being charmed by him, though I think I'd just scratched the surface of how kind, how thoughtful, how energetic, how supportive, and how interesting he was; I couldn't make it to Cork for the funeral, but joining it remotely online I really got a sense of how profoundly special a person he had been. I had hoped to talk to him about doing a book together, and though we'll not manage that, the idea is still with me. Maybe someday. It would be a tribute he'd like, I'm sure.

Teresa Coakley died a few weeks later. The mother of childhood friends, she'd been a wonderful host time and again through those primary years, and as the decades have passed she was always someone I was delighted to meet when visiting Palmerstown.

Michael Dwyer was someone I met far too rarely -- we first got to know each other online, then met in the Davenport Hotel after some event or other back in 2011 or so. He was a fun and unusual thinker, and a great host when he had me down to Gorey to give a talk at a summer school there some years ago. He was also the dearest friend of another friend of mine, and somebody I think I'd have enjoyed knowing rather better and disagreeing with as often as I'd have shared his views.

Gordon Fitchett, my friend Polly's birth-father, was the last death of that rough November; I never knew Gordon, and Polly got to know him late, but I'm glad for her sake that she got to know him when she did, and has written so eloquently of him elsewhere.

Carine O’Grady, secretary of UCD's Classics Department from my first and longest stint there, died this January. She was a wonderful, kind, sharp, elegant lady, peerlessly efficient and host of the most marvellous garden parties. Back in the day, during a particularly acrimonious society election, Carine was the only member of staff to vote -- others felt they should exclude themselves, but Carine took the view that never in her life had she shirked an opportunity to vote and this would be no exception. I think she voted for me. If she did, hers might have been the single vote that carried me over the line.

My uncle Noel's sister Dorothy Sheridan died the day after Carine. I never met her, but that whole Spaine family has always seemed wonderful in all its expressions, and my dad speaks of having spent much of his happy teenage years in that home.

Having finally worked out how I could take time off and visit her at long last in Aberystwyth, I texted Eleanor Morris in late January only to learn she had died four days earlier, little more than a year after her beloved William. Eleanor was so good to me in my Wilmslow days, the late Kate Gregg and her I think finding me a bit lost and battered and in need of some kind of maternal support; I must have had coffee with her after Mass hundreds of times, and been round to the house for dinner at least a dozen times too. I'm so sorry I didn't manage to visit her in Wales after she and William moved, but am at least glad I travelled over for the funeral and helped too with the organising of the readings, as she'd asked me to do that when in touch early last year. I learned a huge amount about her and laughed very hard during and after the funeral, but really: it's so hard to think of her gone.

David McArdle, another neighbour from my childhood, died in early February. David was the middle one of three brothers who lived across the road from me, and in truth the one I knew least well, but he's always been part of my mental landscape and I'm sure is dearly missed by his mum and brothers.

My friend Neasa's dad Willie Woods died at the end of the month; I'd got to know them both through working at the pub, Neasa as a co-worker and Willie as a customer. He always seemed a gentle, funny, low-key Dub of a classic type I've always liked, and I'm deeply sorry for the loss to Neasa.

My friend Kevin's godmother Maria Rynn died in early March; I never knew her, but Kevin's a special person and anybody who's helped him on his path must have been a truly special person.

Mary Wright, the mother of a childhood friend, died later that month. It had been a long time since I'd seen her, but she'd been a really lovely lady.

Pat McLoughlin, another neighbour from my childhood, died in April. He'd always been a friendly face in the neighborhood and somebody who'd made a massive contribution locally as one of the founders of our credit union. I'm afraid too often I talk of him in connection with his stuntman brother, but Pat was a genuinely important figure where I grew up.

May, then, saw my friend Alan's dad Colum McGaughey dying. Alan, with whom I'd travelled around Europe almost thirty years ago and in the last couple of years visited New York and Madrid, is one of my oldest friends, and so I'd known Colum since I was at least in my early teens. He's been ill a while, but still, he was no age really.

Vic Connerty, about whom I've written at length here, died while I was away on holiday in Italy. He'd have approved of at least my being there when I got the news. He was one of the most extraordinary people I've ever known, and the world is so much better for having him in it. I'm glad I was able to get to the funeral, the day after I got back from holidays, and to be there in the church with Vic's family and friends and so many former students, bursting with laughter at times, unable to hold back tears as mementoes of him were brought up, including that briefcase we'd all seen so many times, and heading over to the pub and eventually a friends' house afterwards to keep him in our minds. Such was the funeral we gave Vic, teacher of multitudes.

Bro Kevin Crowley, one of the greatest Irishmen of my lifetime, died in early July. There's nothing I can say of him that surely hasn't been said a million times, but he was always a joy to meet and interview and I still laugh to think of his reaction when I told him of how a certain Irish politician had said the Church should be 'put in the dustbin'. 'I'd put her in the dustbin!'

My friend Zelie's mum Philomena McGrath died a few days later. I'd never met her, though for years -- not least through Covid -- I'd paid careful attention to all Zelie's updates on her and the dedication she gave her. Facebook may be terrible nowadays, but sometimes it's worthwhile and watching that constant testimony of love and care has been truly edifying.

Having spent much of the aftermath of Vic's funeral with my friend Louise in the pub with Bronwyn, and then over dinner with her family at home it was a shock just a few weeks later in late June to learn that her dad Alan Aitchison had died. Alan and his wife Patricia had taken me in and put me up for a while when I had ended up effectively homeless at one point a decade or so ago, and so they have long been people who've meant the world to me. A crisp, wry, funny, practical, loving person, he was clearly a fabulous father and a devoted husband. That he was a spectacular grandfather was all too clear too, and his being a remarkable chef was something I was honoured to discover for myself! He wasn't even seventy and had seemed as healthy as could be. Sometimes it feels as though people are robbed out of our lives.

My dad's friend Frank Coffey died this August. Dad had been to see him in hospital one day, and the following day, uneasy about a message from Frank, had wrapped up our lunch efficiently to make his way out to see him again; it's as well he did, as Frank died the next day. My dad's lost too many people he cares about these past few years.

September, then, saw my wife's uncle Mark Winker die back home in Escanaba, Michigan. My mother-in-law's brother, I'd met Mark maybe half a dozen times and always liked him immensely. He had an infectious laugh, a deep love for his grandchildren, an improbable fondness for lego, and a joy in cars that I didn't understand but liked basking in. And how could you not like somebody who within hours of meeting you would bring you over to his trailer so he could produce his various guns and set you up shooting a target in his mother's back yard. "Tell them we're shooting!" he hollered to his brother-in-law Dale who was sauntering by, drink in hand. "They'll know," said Dale. Mark's family are all such warm and gentle people, and I really feel for them this autumn. Again, people go too soon.

Finally, then, another of the most impressive Irishmen of my lifetime passed in late September; there's nothing I can add to the obituaries and such for Martin Mansergh, save to say that I always enjoyed dealing with him in connection with the paper, chatting with him about Brexit and the role of the EU in bringing peace to the North was fascinating, and I'm glad he was able to write a piece for our 1916 issue and my book. I really do wish we'd all been graced with an account of the Peace Process and the Good Friday Agreement from his perspective. That would have been one more gift to the country.

And so, to turn to those who would have been in mind this day last year too...

I pray for my mum, Veronica Daly, who we lost at Christmas 2020 and laid to rest in Dublin and Liverpool over the next two years, her ashes divided between the city where her family raised her and the city where she raised her family. I pray too today for Nana and Grandad, all the Dodds, Auntie Maureen, Valerie McKenna, my cousins Philip and Lyn, David, Susan, and Lily, and my dad's cousin Cecil Doyle; for Auntie Brenda and Uncle Tommy, Auntie Kathleen, Auntie Eileen, Great Auntie Mary, my cousins Janet and Michael, and my cousins Richard and Ian; for my uncle John; for Mam's parents, for aunt Doreen and for Monica. I pray too for Joan's husband Gerry Kavanagh, and for Edwin Bergquist and Terry Winker, both of whom I've lost from the wonderful family into which I've been blessed to marry. 

I pray for Mary and Paddy Hoare, for Mr Harwood, for Mr and Mrs McCourt, for Mrs Carrigan and for Michael Carrigan, for Mr Gahan, for Mr and Mrs Reeves, for John Ryan, Mick Doyle, Mr Lyons, Jim Freeman, Mrs Gibson, Mr and Mrs and Bernie Flanagan, Mrs Mannelly, Mr Doyle, Elizabeth Kenny, Matt and Clare O’Reilly, and Charlie and Breda Gunning.

I pray for Therese Delaney, and her aunt and uncle Sr Margaret Murtagh and Vincent Murtagh; for Johnny McGrath, Delores Spittal, Dick Molumby, Frank Beggan, Dessie Breen, Sean Forde, and Mollie O'Callaghan, and all those I know from Palmerstown Credit Union; for Gerry Hendricken, Frank Coakley, Damien Brunton, and Paddy and Margaret Trodden; for Joe and Nora Hanrahan, Matt Garrigan, Dave Leavy, Frank and Mrs Towey, Jack Farrelly, Shay Lord, Jim Skerritt, David Fitzgerald, Billy Callaghan, Jimmy Owens, Gary Kennedy, Liam Coffey, Gerry Murray, Paul's uncle Francis Kennedy and Neasa's aunt Marie Doyle, all known to me from the Silver Granite; for Mary Ward; for Tom Corr, Sean Mitchell, Eamon Woulfe, Liam Glynn, Eddie Martin, Padraic Naughton, and Bro. John Hyland from Moyle Park.

I pray for so many of my peers, taken far too soon, and for those with whom I have worked and walked: Gavan Nugent, Padraic Ryan, Anthony Desmond, Sean Kenny and his sister Emma, Paul Brown, Claire Edmonds, Conn Murphy, Marie Plisnier, Agueda Pons, Michelle Cosgrave and her father Ollie, Ultan Sinclair, Susan Dunne and her parents Paschal and Angela, Renate Kurzmann, Nina-Jayne Birley, Paul Mullally, and Seb Carney; for Kathleen Griffin and Niamh Moloney from Catholic Voices; for Maria Lezama from Cork L'Arche; for Julie Yipp and Kevin Hunneybell from my Camino, for Francis McKenzie from my visit to Peru; for Declan Moroney and Paul MacKay from the Irish Catholic, and Mark Howard from Veritas.

I pray for Val Grant, Alex Walker, Theresa MacDonagh, Gerard McCarthy, Sheila Griffith, Brian Pullan whose death I missed when it happened in 2022, and Alan Gilbert from the University of Manchester; and for John, Kathleen Bibby, Mary McFaul, John and Agnes Ainsworth, Kate Gregg, William Morris, and Fr Anthony Cogliolo, all from Wilmslow.

I pray for Sr Mary David Totah; for Fr Con Curley, Fr Gerard Byrne, and Fr Flo Lynch; for Fr David Lumsden and Fr Martin Ryan; for Fr Tom Heneghan; for Fr Simon Roche OP, Fr Martin McCarthy OP, Fr Dermot Brennan OP, Fr Bob Talty OP, and Fr Denis Keating OP; for Sr Margarita Schwind OP; and for Bishop Noel Treanor.

I pray for Jenny Daly, and Sr Agnes, and Helen, and all the other ladies from Mam's nursing home.

I pray for Bill Kinsella from Boora; for Marion Doyle from Kilcormac; for Fritz Schult from Pollatomish; for Steve's wife Ruth Southall; for Sarah's grandad Alan Martindale; for Laura's grandad Tony Adams; for Jason's mum Marlene Crowley and Sophie's dad Johnny von Pfluegl; for Christopher's mum Mary Dawson; for Michael's mother Ann Kelly; for Colum's dad Joe Keating, for Eamon's parents Packie and Ella McGarty, for John's dad Gerry Duffy, for Aidan's father Colin Higgins, for the fathers of Daron Higgins, Lucy Corcoran, Dara Gantley, Bláithín Ni Giolla Rua, Martin Brady, and Bridget Martin, and the parents of Claire O'Brien; for Ned's mum Maura Hughes; for Jean's dad Kevin Callaghan; for Breda Polly and Tom Crotty; for Rory's mum Anne Fitzgerald; for Dan's wife Naima Jackson; for Mike's sister Katie Lewis; for Bob's dad Brian McCabe; for Dawn Foster, Liam Cahill, and Greg Hillis who I knew just through their writing and their warmth and wisdom over the internet; for Polly and Dan’s friends Will Scott and Dominic Crisp; for George Kiely, who stood with me when I needed true support; and for John Brierley, who helped guide me on Spanish and other paths.

I pray for the souls of all those dear to those I love, for the souls of all those dear to me, and for the souls of all those whose names and faces I have forgotten. 

I pray too for the families of all those I remember, and of those who, like Francis Benedict Pyles, Margaret Mary Hill, and Meadbh Versuri Gorman, are not themselves in need of any prayers and went to God assured of their rest in his blessed vision.

May the Lord God almighty have mercy on their souls, and may his perpetual light shine upon them; may they rest in peace.

Amen.