Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine. (‘People live in each other’s shadows.’)
That seanfhocal came to mind last week after I attended the funeral mass of a wonderful man born in March 1921, before Ireland’s partition. I was there because my parents had received a beautiful letter of hope in early 1983.
The deceased was 97-years old Gerard Wilson, a hugely respected and well-known figure in Belfast. And the letter writer from almost 35 years ago, was Gerard’s faithful brother, and an incredible friend and guide to many of us, Fr Des Wilson.
As my parents entered a deeply difficult decade in 1983, Fr Des sat down and wrote to them - a middle-aged couple facing financial and personal despair, with a young family of five children.
He generously extended compassion and kindness, telling my parents that his community home and the warmth of its love in Ballymurphy would always be open.
That simple gift of charity, which came as an unexpected beacon of guidance and support to my parents, was kindled by similarly difficult experiences of exclusion and unfairness that Fr Des had faced in his own life.
Fr Des opened a door of hope for my family that led to friendships which have now spanned three generations, and transcended the deaths – much too soon - of mummy and daddy.
He later blessed my own family, baptised my daughters and celebrated our parents’ contributions when they respectively passed away in the early 2000s. And he stood with a small number of us during later troubles that culminated with (still unresolved) murderous tragedy in 2006, when many others from all walks maintained professional silences or, at best, muttered ‘polite meaningless words’.
Fr Des’s talent has been striving to deliver an inclusive ministry of the people with a modesty based in active challenge and real courage; where civic values of dignity, humanity and integrity are inextricably bound with moral gifts of hope and charity; where social goals of equality and justice are interwoven with spiritual traits of gentleness and good humour, wisdom and wit.
Sitting in Good Shepherd chapel last week,the congregation who packed the chapel in respect for the Wilson family, reflected every class and creed of our society.
This communion of citizens was brought together in a ceremony of beauty and faith by interconnections that only became truly visible after someone’s death, rising outwards like the open roots of a great fallen tree.
Shortly after shaking the hand of a colleague with whom I work on equality issues, another old (but not yet ageing) associate sidled into the only spare seat. It was beside me.
Our families come from the same gaelic club and community, Kickhams Creggan, and we played on the same teams a lifetime ago. Yet through totally unconnected associations with the bereaved, we ended up shoulder to shoulder again at the same funeral celebration.
And then there was the celebrant, Fr Stephen McBrearty, to whom I had served as an altar boy for many years at St Comgall’s in Antrim. Fr McBrearty was often in our home, but I had not seen him in decades.
Remarkable connections and countless stories, created through deep roots of community and club, culture and church, that transcend lives and deaths, time and distance.
Later that same day, I talked with a new friend whom I had met through the recent death of a mutual old friend. Our conversation flourished in the memories of our friend and seamlessly wove into the works of St Ignatius – desolation, consolation, discernment.
And we realised too a mutual contact, Bishop Donal McKeown, another priest whose ceremonies I had served, another Creggan man.
And it was to Creggan that I went on Saturday morning where, with family and friends, I planted two tiny trees for our parents in the new Kickhams memorial garden beside the pitch.
Many trees marking many stories over generations, each standing alone yet all leaning into another. Each with equal significance, equal importance.
Little saplings now taking hold on the loughshore under whose future branches only tomorrow’s generations might ever hope to be chasin’ and courtin’, rakin’ and messin’.
Lasting connections, that – with compassion and gentleness, care and nurture - will endure coming decades in strength together, despite the coldest winds and longest winters. Because they have done so before. For generations.
A positive legacy of hope nourished in the complex roots of our collective and interlinked history. Just like the open hand of compassion from a caring priest in 1983 that led me to a funeral last week, and that will echo across lifetimes. Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine.
