The Finger of God

As I stand in line for Communion
at the Latin Mass
I have a very real sense
that it’s the finger of God
that has brought me here.

Looking back now
I can see
that my journey here began
a long time ago
when I made a decision
that was absolutely horrendous.

I sense that
at that exact moment
My God stepped in
and, just like a parent
teaching a child to walk,
He took me very gently
by the hand
and led me on a journey
that would end right here.
My God did all of this
very tenderly
and I am reminded
of the prophet Hosea
who described God
as leading the Jewish people
with “leading strings of love.”

So today,
as I stand in line for Communion,
I find myself thinking
about the finger of God
and how He has guided me
right here
to Latin Mass
and I find myself fascinated
at how gentle and patient
My God has been
with someone
as foolish as me.

© Claire Murray

Storytelling

Mammy used to tell stories
when she worked
in our local library.
Every Tuesday afternoon
she would gather around her
all of the children,
then sit down
and read them a story.

The children used to sit
at Mammy’s feet
wide-eyed
and listening intently
while, just around the corner …
all of the adults,
apparently browsing through books
listened as well!

And sure why not?
Doesn’t everyone love
a good story?

This pops into my head
when I read this morning
about Jesus
by the shores of Lake Genasareth.

Simon Peter’s boat
is moored just off-shore
after a fruitless night
of fishing
while nearby
his disappointed crew of fishermen
wash out their nets.
Getting into Simon Peter’s boat,
Jesus begins to teach the crowd.

I wonder about the fishermen.

Washing their nets
by the water’s edge
they are perfectly positioned
to hear every word
that Jesus says.
And I wonder whether,
under the guise of working
the fishermen, too, listen-in
to all the Jesus has to say
(just like the adults
in the library)?

And sure why not?
Doesn’t everyone love
a good story?

You see, not only was Jesus
a gifted teacher,
he was a master storyteller
as well!

© Claire Murray 3rd July 2022
(Luke 5: 1-11)

Holiday at Muckish

A week spent in Donegal
in a cosy wee cottage
near Muckish Mountain.

Using maps, we explore
quiet, meandering country roads
past deserted stone cottages
and hidden lakes.
Sign-posted trails lead us
along stony tracks.

As Muckish Mountain
towers behind us,
its steep, dark slopes
reminiscent
of a giant, outstretched
slumbering pig,
I make a mental note
that Muckish is aptly named –
its name means
“Pig Mountain”.

A buzzard soars overhead,
a cuckoo calls in the forest
and, in the evening,
a shy deer steps daintily away
as she grazes
in the heather.

Brisk walks
along mile after mile
of golden strands
and lazy afternoons
drinking coffee,
and dandering along sandy coves
by shimmering waters.

Scrabble and Monopoly
in the evenings.

Thank you, Lord,
for a whole week
of quiet, family time –
unrushed, unhurried,
unworried.

Perfect!

© Claire Murray, 30th June 2022