God is in His Heaven...
Posted: Fri Aug 10, 2007 6:59 pm
God is in His Heaven...
The convent smelled always of buttery
shortbread and shone of fragrant wax, with
a rhythmic clicking of black wooden rosary beads,
and a swish of copious cloth, heads bowed,
eyes guarded in decorum, as laid down
by religious regulation.
I played soccer on a grass tennis court,
kicking the ball into the drooping net;
our Sunday visit; an old nun sat
in a brown stoned alcove reading from
a black leather bound prayer book;
my aunt and mother in quiet conversation
spoke of family, children and sickness.
An adventure it was from Artane to Howth,
riding on a green double decker, a chatty
bus conductor and a driver isolated in his
noisy cockpit -- past Dollymount reminding me
to ask: “Can we swim? Can we swim?”
and: “Can we walk to the cove?”
“Can we climb to the lighthouse?’”
Did God live only in places that were
shiny and silent? What happened to Him
when we closed the heavy wooden convent gate
and walked through a blackberry lane
full of thistles and wild wind swayed grass?
Would He have walked the pebbled, shingle cove
as we played by an abandoned boathouse
-- we, in a reverie of oil-skinned fishermen
and sea rescues -- He, in the sand crunch of sea, echoing
anger into the cliff above when the sun was hidden
behind heavy grey clouds?
The return of a smiling sea
at a sudden sun burst brought, “Can we swim?
Can we swim?” It was always too wildly noisy,
and unpredictable. “Let’s get back for tea
before the bell rings,” my aunt would say.
Tea was served with linen stiff serviettes
and shallow china cups -- a formality which
starched any compulsion to get to the chocolate
biscuits first. In convents where God lived,
you waited your turn, were polite and didn’t
let your mother down, even in front of aunts
who smiled like a benevolent big sister,
who wanted to indulge.
After the evening bell for prayer,
we would leave in a hurry because
God was waiting in the chapel and
she must not keep them waiting.
We caught the same bus; the conductor
with a Sunday evening smile asked me,
who would win next Sunday,
Kilkenny or Tipperary?
Even though I was a Leinster man,
I wanted Tipp to win (Tom and Noel’s
father was from Nenagh, and I did not want
to disappoint), though I knew I felt the tug
of loyalty to my native province.
I wondered which team God would want to win --
but He would not even be at Croke Park.
He was in a convent by the sea,
waiting patiently for my aunt.
The convent smelled always of buttery
shortbread and shone of fragrant wax, with
a rhythmic clicking of black wooden rosary beads,
and a swish of copious cloth, heads bowed,
eyes guarded in decorum, as laid down
by religious regulation.
I played soccer on a grass tennis court,
kicking the ball into the drooping net;
our Sunday visit; an old nun sat
in a brown stoned alcove reading from
a black leather bound prayer book;
my aunt and mother in quiet conversation
spoke of family, children and sickness.
An adventure it was from Artane to Howth,
riding on a green double decker, a chatty
bus conductor and a driver isolated in his
noisy cockpit -- past Dollymount reminding me
to ask: “Can we swim? Can we swim?”
and: “Can we walk to the cove?”
“Can we climb to the lighthouse?’”
Did God live only in places that were
shiny and silent? What happened to Him
when we closed the heavy wooden convent gate
and walked through a blackberry lane
full of thistles and wild wind swayed grass?
Would He have walked the pebbled, shingle cove
as we played by an abandoned boathouse
-- we, in a reverie of oil-skinned fishermen
and sea rescues -- He, in the sand crunch of sea, echoing
anger into the cliff above when the sun was hidden
behind heavy grey clouds?
The return of a smiling sea
at a sudden sun burst brought, “Can we swim?
Can we swim?” It was always too wildly noisy,
and unpredictable. “Let’s get back for tea
before the bell rings,” my aunt would say.
Tea was served with linen stiff serviettes
and shallow china cups -- a formality which
starched any compulsion to get to the chocolate
biscuits first. In convents where God lived,
you waited your turn, were polite and didn’t
let your mother down, even in front of aunts
who smiled like a benevolent big sister,
who wanted to indulge.
After the evening bell for prayer,
we would leave in a hurry because
God was waiting in the chapel and
she must not keep them waiting.
We caught the same bus; the conductor
with a Sunday evening smile asked me,
who would win next Sunday,
Kilkenny or Tipperary?
Even though I was a Leinster man,
I wanted Tipp to win (Tom and Noel’s
father was from Nenagh, and I did not want
to disappoint), though I knew I felt the tug
of loyalty to my native province.
I wondered which team God would want to win --
but He would not even be at Croke Park.
He was in a convent by the sea,
waiting patiently for my aunt.
)