Last Monday I had the always difficult task of breaking the news to a mother that her young daughter had been found dead in her flat at Jack Allen Court in Derry.

As I held her in my embrace and comforted her she cried sad tears with heavy sorrow.  From her aching heart I kept hearing her sob: “My wee Maeve, my wee sweet Maeve.”

I could see a reflection of myself in her story-a lady with a passion for poetry, painting, pottery and music. Like myself, she too had mental health issues which she fought with great courage.

They say that it’s from that broken wound, that vulnerable place of frailty and fragility that the artistic gift often comes and an appreciation for the finer, sometimes hidden things in life finds its wellspring.

Maeve was a talented artist with a degree in Fine Arts from Manchester Polytechnic. She had a beaming smile, a wicked sense of humour and a throaty laugh.

She had the gift of being fully present to the world around her and the ability to see beauty and wonder in all she experienced. She would phone her sisters with excitement about the latest book she was enjoying or a piece of music that stole her heart away.   

She was generous in her appreciation of the kindness and goodness of others, especially their artistic achievements.

“She praised and encouraged me in my poetry,” her sister Colette told me, Colette who is now an established Irish Poet. (Books available on Amazon)

At the Requiem Mass some of Maeve’s art work was displayed and I read one of her own poems in my homily, one line of which goes: “The stopped clock tells its own time.”

In our eyes the clock stopped for Maeve, far too early. But for our Father in Heaven, whose ways are not our ways, it was time to call her gentle soul home.

On that sad Monday morning when I got that call from the police to come and give Maeve the Last Rites I noticed a plaque on the wall which went ‘Live, Laugh, Dance, Love.’ With all the exuberance of her spontaneous spirit Maeve had done that  ‘in spades’.


Colette gave me a gift of   her latest book, Selected Poems, and said  that I have a mention in one of them  about growing up in Derry.

It’s a memory she had of me coming into her primary school in Francis Street and banging out ‘Teddy Bear’ on the piano.   I like the pun on the word King, Elvis as King and Christ the King. It brought back some memories of my own as a young priest during those painful times.

‘’I was born between the Creggan and the Bogside

To the sounds of crowds and smashing glass

By the River Foyle with its suicides and rip tides.

I thought that city was nothing less.

Than the whole and rain-domed universe.

A teacher’s daughter, I was one of nine

Faces afloat in the looking-glass

Fixed in the hall, but which was mine?

I wasn’t ever sure.

We walked to school, linked hand in hand

In twos and threes like paper dolls.

I slowly grew to understand

The way the grey Cathedral cast

Its shadow on our learning, cool,

As sunlight crept from east to west,

The adult world had tumbled into hell.

From where it wouldn’t find its way

For thirty years.  The local priest

Played Elvis tunes and made us pray

For starving children, and for peace.

And lastly for ‘The King.’ At Mass we’d chant

Hypnotically, ‘Hail Holy Queen,

Mother of Mercy’; sing to Saint

Columba of his Small Oak Grove, O Derry mine.”

(excerpt from ‘Derry’ by Colette Bryce)


With the click of a mouse or a text on your phone

Or a fax from some faraway place

We have the world at our fingers, no need for our feet.

Just skype and be seen face- to -face.

You can tweet what you had for breakfast this morn’

or Google any query you like.

Your phone or your iPad’s your very best friend

And Wi-Fi both husband and wife.

You can sit at a table of kids for a meal

And try to share something to say

But each head is bent low, digits dancing a jig,

all lost in a place  far away.

Are skipping ropes, bows and arrows, even books too,

Soon to be things of the past?

Poor Santa’s confused, his elves gone on strike,

Saying ‘it’s all moving too fast.’

Words of Wisdom

Never change your originality for the sake of others. Because no one can play your role better than you. So be yourself. You are the best.


Having reached the grand age of 69 last Tuesday I was reminded of the following joke:

At the seaside the man renting the yachts kept calling on his megaphone: “Number 69 your time is up, come back in!” This went on for a half hour until finally he asked: “Number 96, are you having trouble?”

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