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It Happened in Dublin many Years Ago
(From The Irish Catholic Marist Messenger and
March '59, Our Lady's Digest)
A winter's night had already thrown its black pall
over the quays of Dublin when an urgent ringing of the presbytery door bell of one
of the city parishes brought its aging pastor quickly to his feet.
It was so
dark that he could scarcely distinguish the form of a woman on the doorstep. She
spoke rapidly, as if anxious to be gone.
"A poor man," she said, "was dying
very far down, beyond the great jetty of the North Wall. A priest was needed. There
was no time to lose." And, having delivered her message, she sped away into the night.
"I
will go myself," murmured the old priest, peering after the retreating figure.
There
were no buses in those days, and the tram cars did not go along the quays, so he
set out on foot.
It was very dark and he seemed to be walking a long time but
he was heedless of fatigue as he clasped the Blessed Sacrament to his heart with
one hand and carried the Holy Oils in the other.
His sole guide was the lighthouse
flashing every two seconds across the bay.
The tide rose high on either side
of the jetty on which he walked, and it was the sound of the waves rather than anything
he could see which led him at last to a group of fishermen's cottages.
Instinctively,
he stopped at one of them and pushed open the little door. There was no light and
no sound broke the silence.
He entered but could see no one.
"Who will
lead me to the sick man?" he asked himself anxiously.
He paused to listen. All
was quiet.
Then his eyes, grown accustomed to the gloom, perceived a little
staircase.
As he placed his foot on the first rickety step, a feeble voice fell
upon his ear. But what was he saying so plaintively?
Holy Mary . . . Mother
of God . . . pray for us . . . poor sinners … now . . . and at the hour of death… "Holy
Mary . . . "
And ceaselessly the weak voice repeated again and again always
the second part of the Hail Mary.
Gently the priest opened the door of the little
room.
On a miserable pallet lay a poor man dying. He was all alone. "My friend,
you sent for me?" began the priest.
"No, Father, I sent for no one!"
"I
see that you love the Blessed Virgin. You are praying to her."
"I do not know
who the Blessed Virgin is."
"Well, at least you pray to God."
"Never heard
of Him."
The priest was puzzled. Who had come for him?
The man before
him was obviously not hostile towards priests, but of God he knew nothing!
"My
friend," he asked, "why do you repeat unceasingly 'Holy Mary Mother
of God . . .?"
"Ah!'
replied the sick man, "when I am in great pain I say those words and they bring me
relief."
And then he told the priest this touching story:
"I was a sailor,
and oftentimes our ship was anchored off the west coast of Ireland. Those of us
who wished got leave to spend the nights ashore in lodgings with the natives. I
am not Irish but I liked those
people.
"In the cottage where I used to stay,
the family gathered every night for prayers. The Mother said some words alone which
I cannot recall, and all the others answered:
" 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray
for us, poor sinners, now and at the hour of our death.'
"I have never forgotten
those words and it does me good to say them."
The priest was deeply moved.
He
remained all night with the sick man, talking to him of God, of the Blessed Virgin
and of that other life which he was so soon to enter.
Here was a soul in all
its freshness eager to drink in the eternal truths, a laborer of the eleventh hour
indeed, and that Our Lady herself had gone out to seek . . .
At dawn the priest
baptized him. He then gave him his first Holy Communion and the Sacrament of Extreme
Unction.
When morning had come the priest had to leave.
"My friend," he
said, "I must leave you.
. . . I am going to say Mass for you. . . . and I
will return.
As he left the house he was deep in thought. Who, but who had
come for him? He was certain someone had come, but who?
As if in answer to
his thought a poorly clad woman appeared at the door
of one of the cottages. He spoke
to her.
"That poor man up there is very ill," he said. "He will not last much
longer." She shook her head, then added suddenly:"It was I who went for you. I
do not belong to your religion. I am a Protestant, but when I heard Mr. . . . .
. .always saying the Catholic prayer, I said to myself, 'I really must go and fetch
one
of his ministers to him before he dies," so I went for you."
Trying to hide
his emotion the priest thanked her for her charitable action and hastened away to
offer the Holy Sacrifice.
"Here," he pondered, "is a poor unfortunate who repeated
the Ave Maria without even knowing what he was saying, yet the Blessed Virgin heard
his request!" 'Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death!' . . .
She came,
most certainly, at the hour of his death, this good and holy Mother!
"How far-