`Welcome home' to somewhere from my past

When my parents journeyed to Ireland in 1968, my mother kept a journal. It began, "So now through the great goodness of God, we are starting on our trip to Ireland " a nice, warm feeling to visit the land from which our ancestors sailed so many, many years ago. The O'Briens sailed from County Waterford to settle in Pittstown, and the Madigans from Limerick to settle in Tomhannock. How hard they all worked to raise their children to be good and decent citizens and especially to keep the faith in living their lives. They did well, so well, these old folks."

With those words etched in my mind, my wife and I recently arrived in Ireland. My heart leaped up when an elderly Christian Brother, after hearing my name, said, "Welcome home." For nearly 40 years, I have known of the work of the Christian Brothers in Schenectady; and for the last 21, I have taught with the Brothers at Notre Dame-Bishop Gibbons School. Now I stood on the grounds of the first school established by Edmund Ignatius Rice, the founder of the Christian Brothers of Ireland.

In 1802, in his school at Mt. Sion, Waterford, Edmund Rice had reached out his arms to feed, clothe and educate the poor youth of Waterford. And for three days, Brother Barney, Brother Frank and seven other Christian Brothers made their home at Mt. Sion a warm and hospitable place for our small group of Americans " Brother Kevin, Brother Joe, my wife, and me, sharing their knowledge of Edmund Rice, their stories of Ireland their Irish humor, and their breakfast porridge and breads. We were growing in an awareness that, "Yes, you can go home again."

Priest's memories

We had received an offer of a Kilkenny countryside tour and dinner from Father Jim Hayes, prison chaplain at Great Meadow Correctional Facility in Greenhaven, who was back in Ireland visiting his family. He and his mother met us early in the afternoon at Duiske Abbey, Graignamanagh. In the quiet coolness of the church, Father Hayes spoke of his own childhood, his family coming to this church for weekly Mass, his Confirmation and the Mass he celebrated at a side altar for his mother's and her twin sister's 90th birthdays.

Then he led us by car into the countryside of Ireland and, after a few miles, pulled over near a small ruin. A sign in the shape of an arrow read: "St. Moling's Well." We followed Father down a path and stopped at what appeared to be a foundation of stone. He bent his head and stepped through a low, narrow opening.

Inside the walled space, we could see water flowing into a natural basin from an opening in the wall. "Once a year when we were growing up, we would come here and my father would dunk our heads in the water and say a prayer," Father said as he moved toward the well, leaned over and drank from the flowing water. Each of us stepped forward in silence to touch and drink the water blessed by St. Moling in the year 696.

Deep into Ireland

Deeper and deeper into the heart of Ireland we drove, following Father Hayes' car along what seemed to be narrower and narrower roads. At one point, he stopped the car and got out to show us the countryside.

"The most beautiful view in Ireland," he said. His left arm extended outward. "My mother came from the mountain in the mist; my father" " his right arm now extending " "from that valley in the distance."

Finally, we turned up a cement-covered driveway and arrived at the farmhouse, the home of Father Hayes' family. Entering the living room where Father would celebrate Mass for us, I was instantly reminded of the Irish house I grew up in: knick-knacks and mementos of all sorts on the tables and mantle, vases of flowers, paintings on the walls, and family pictures, especially of a young priest newly ordained.

Home Mass

Having met Essie, Father's sister, and Mick, Father's brother, whose handshake was like gripping a steel rod, we began the Mass. During the Prayer of the Faithful, Father prayed for the Ireland that had kept the Faith alive, for an end to the violence in Northern Ireland, for his deceased father, and for our presence and our safe journey through Ireland.

In his reflection, he recalled how much his parents many years prior had appreciated the invitation of my wife's parents to spend some time at Raquette Lake in New York. Mrs. Hayes' eyes lit up, and she smiled. I wiped my eyes, and Essie handed Mick a tissue.

The evening came to an exciting and dramatic conclusion when Father Hayes took us to the Irish horse races. The race track reminded me of country fairs my father had taken us to when we were young " the smells of baked foods, sweet candies, fresh fruit and the strong scent of animals, along with that easy flow of conversation that comes from people feeling at home with each other.

On the last race, Brother Kevin and I bet the horse that was the long shot. To our amazement, it won, paying eight to one.

As we left that evening, I thought of my parents journeying back to their roots, and I thought of the word "home" and how much the meaning of that word is captured in simple actions of hospitality and generosity. The Christian Brothers, Father Hayes and his family had welcomed us to Ireland, and we had found our home.