(Just bringing up an old post. I linked to it in the combox over at New Liturgical Movement a week or two ago, and it became my new most popular post, so I thought I'd resurrect it here.)
I told this story at dinner the other night. The family liked it, and Puff told me I should write it out on the blog. Like most of my best stories, it isn't my story at all, but my father's, and like many of his best stories, it's from the war.
Dad was at or near the front lines in Italy one day when an officer came down the line. "Any Catholics here," he began. "There's a priest about to say Mass in the next field." Dad took his helmet and rifle and headed over to the next field, as did several other Catholics.
He was appalled when he arrived. The field was wide open, easily visible from the German positions, and exposed to any kind of enemy fire. The men immediately looked for a hill, a shell hole, a rock, a furrow- anything that might give them any sort of cover. Meanwhile, in the middle of the field stood the priest, carefully setting up his Mass kit on a big rock, taking his time and doing it properly, appearing as if he had no concern in the world other than this, and going about it as if he were in a parish back home, and there was no war to trouble anyone or anything.
If there was ever a time for a Tridentine speed Mass, this could have been it. But, to Dad's horror, (and he knew, because he used to be an altar boy at a Cathedral) the priest said the Mass slowly and carefully, doing every movement as prescribed, omitting no prayer, while gunfire raged around them.
At last the priest turned, holding the consecrated host. "Come to Communion!" he shouted out to the men hiding in the field. "I grant you all full absolution. Come!"
Dad's reaction was: "He's got to be kidding." But then he saw it: the soldiers making their way forward to receive communion. Granted, they approached the priest at a dead run, and left at a dead run as soon as it was received. But still they came. Dad, emboldened by the other men, came forward himself, received, thanked God, and raced away.
He stayed in his furrow watching as the priest put away his Mass kit as properly as he set it out, and, when finished and having said his final prayers, the priest snapped his case shut and walked away.
That's the story. Not the best punch line, but the family liked it. I like it for it reminds of a good man I once knew and shall never see again in the flesh. It reminds me that there were other good men like him, once upon a time. Men who believed there were things to stand for, things to fight for, things that were worth risking your life for. And on that list of things worth risking your life over was Mass, and the chance for Communion.
Showing posts with label Tributes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tributes. Show all posts
20 September 2011
11 November 2008
At the 11th Hour on the 11th Day of the 11th Month
IN FLANDER'S FIELDS
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.
-John McCrae
HIGH FLIGHT
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
Officer John G. Magee, Jr. - November, 1941
THE ACT OF REMEMBRANCE
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn [sic].
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
RESPONSE: We will remember them
TOMB OF THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER, OTTAWA, ON CANADA
KNOWN ONLY UNTO GOD
13 December 2007
Auguri di Santa Lucia
Best Wishes on this Feast of Saint Lucy.
Buon Onomastico a tutte le donne e ragazze chiamate Lucia.
Happy Name's Day to all women and girls named Lucy.
Here is and English version of a song to Saint Lucy
click to enlarge
Tips on how to celebrate Saint Lucy's Day.
and more from Wikipedia on her Day
Interesting note: in some cultures daughters cook breakfast and serve mom in bed wearing a Saint Lucy crown.
Buon Onomastico a tutte le donne e ragazze chiamate Lucia.
Happy Name's Day to all women and girls named Lucy.
Here is and English version of a song to Saint Lucy
click to enlargeTips on how to celebrate Saint Lucy's Day.
and more from Wikipedia on her Day
Interesting note: in some cultures daughters cook breakfast and serve mom in bed wearing a Saint Lucy crown.
10 November 2007
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald - November 10, 1975
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (MIDI)
[By Gordon Lightfoot]
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called 'Gitche Gumee'
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and crew was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early
The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ship's bell rang
Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too,
T'was the witch of November come stealin'
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the Gales of November came slashin'
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin'
Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya
At Seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in, he said
Fellas, it's been good t'know ya
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went outta sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searches all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her
They might have split up or they might have capsized
May have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams
The islands and bays are for sportsmen
And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the Gales of November remembered
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call 'Gitche Gumee'
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early!
[By Gordon Lightfoot]
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called 'Gitche Gumee'
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and crew was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early
The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ship's bell rang
Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too,
T'was the witch of November come stealin'
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the Gales of November came slashin'
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin'
Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya
At Seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in, he said
Fellas, it's been good t'know ya
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went outta sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searches all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her
They might have split up or they might have capsized
May have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams
The islands and bays are for sportsmen
And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the Gales of November remembered
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call 'Gitche Gumee'
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early!
26 September 2007
Another Canadian Falls in Afghanistan
Corporal Nathan Hornburg
Unit: The King’s Own Calgary Regiment, Alberta
Deceased: September 24, 2007
Incident: TBA, Panjwayi District, Kandahar Province, Afghanistan
The Last Post
THE WORDS TO THE LAST POST
Come home! Come home! The last post is soundingfor you to hear. All good soldiers know very well there
is nothing to fear while they do what is right, and forget
all the worries they have met in their duties through the
year. A soldier cannot always be great, but he can be a
gentleman and he can be a right good pal to his comrades in
his squad. So all you soldiers listen to this - Deal fair by all
and you'll never be amiss.
Be Brave! Be Just! Be Honest and True Men!
Act of Remembrance
They shall not grow old, as we who are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We Will Remember Them
We Will Remember Them
Reveille
23 August 2007
My Mother-In-Law has more portraits to paint.
Three More Canadian Soldiers die in Afghanistan.
Private Simon Longtin
Age : 23
Home Town : Longueuil, Québec
Unit : 3rd Battalion, Royal 22e Régiment, Valcartier, Québec
Deceased : August 19, 2007
Incident : Improvised Explosive Device, Afghanistan
More died yesterday, August 22, 2007. When the "National Defence and Canadian Forces" Memorial For The Fallen Webpage displays their photos I'll update this post. But until then, please pray for:
Master Warrant Officer Mario Mercier and
Master Cpl. Christian Duchesne,
who were killed when their armoured vehicle struck roadside explosive.
Act Of Remembrance
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them. R. We Will Remember Them
The Last Post
Private Simon Longtin
Age : 23
Home Town : Longueuil, Québec
Unit : 3rd Battalion, Royal 22e Régiment, Valcartier, Québec
Deceased : August 19, 2007
Incident : Improvised Explosive Device, Afghanistan
More died yesterday, August 22, 2007. When the "National Defence and Canadian Forces" Memorial For The Fallen Webpage displays their photos I'll update this post. But until then, please pray for:
Master Warrant Officer Mario Mercier and
Master Cpl. Christian Duchesne,
who were killed when their armoured vehicle struck roadside explosive.
Act Of Remembrance
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them. R. We Will Remember Them
The Last Post
10 July 2007
Pontifical Hymn
The Pontifical Hymn
On the occasion of the 1950 Holy Year, His Holiness Pius XII decided that Charles Gounod's (1818-1893) Pontifical March should become the official hymn, executed for the first time as such on 24 December 1949. The Pontifical March, as it was called by the Author (and according to some also known as Religious March), took on the new title of Pontifical Hymn, thus replacing the old Anthem composed by Vittorino Hallmayr in 1857 in the style of that period. Gounod, a man of sincere faith, had composed for the Priestly Jubilee Anniversary of His Holiness Pius IX the above-mentioned march, which was performed for the first time in his presence on 11 April 1869 by 7 military bands in Saint Peter's Square. In spite of the success, it did not
substitute the old Hallmayr's Anthem for 81 years.
4 July 2007
Once there was a time...
I told this story at dinner the other night. The family liked it, and Puff told me I should write it out on the blog. Like most of my best stories, it isn't my story at all, but my father's, and like many of his best stories, it's from the war.
Dad was at or near the front lines in Italy one day when an officer came down the line. "Any Catholics here," he began. "There's a priest about to say Mass in the next field." Dad took his helmet and rifle and headed over to the next field, as did several other Catholics.
He was appalled when he arrived. The field was wide open, easily visible from the Germans, and exposed to any kind of enemy fire. The men immediately looked for a hill, a shell hole, a rock, a furrow- anything that might give them any sort of cover. Meanwhile, in the middle of the field stood the priest, carefully setting up his Mass kit on a big rock, taking his time and doing it properly, appearing as if he had no concern in the world other than this, and going about it as if he were in a parish back home, and there was no war to trouble anyone or anything.
If there was ever a time for a Tridentine speed Mass, this could have been it. But, to Dad's horror, (and he knew, because he used to be an altar boy at a Cathedral) the priest said the Mass slowly and carefully, doing every movement as prescribed, omitting no prayer, while gunfire raged around them.
At last the priest turned, holding the consecrated host. "Come to Communion!" he shouted out to the men hiding in the field. "I grant you all full absolution. Come!"
Dad's reaction was: "He's got to be kidding." But then he saw it: the soldiers making their way forward to receive communion. Granted, they approached the priest at a dead run, and left at a dead run as soon as it was received. But still they came. Dad, emboldened by the other men, came forward himself, received, thanked God, and raced away.
He stayed in his furrow watching as the priest put away his Mass kit as properly as he set it out, and, when finished and having said his final prayers, the priest snapped his case shut and walked away.
That's the story. Not the best punch line, but the family liked it. I like it for it reminds of a good man I once knew and shall never see again in the flesh. It reminds me that there were other good men like him, once upon a time. Men who believed there were things to stand for, things to fight for, things that were worth risking your life for. And on that list of things worth risking your life over was Mass, and the chance for Communion.
Dad was at or near the front lines in Italy one day when an officer came down the line. "Any Catholics here," he began. "There's a priest about to say Mass in the next field." Dad took his helmet and rifle and headed over to the next field, as did several other Catholics.
He was appalled when he arrived. The field was wide open, easily visible from the Germans, and exposed to any kind of enemy fire. The men immediately looked for a hill, a shell hole, a rock, a furrow- anything that might give them any sort of cover. Meanwhile, in the middle of the field stood the priest, carefully setting up his Mass kit on a big rock, taking his time and doing it properly, appearing as if he had no concern in the world other than this, and going about it as if he were in a parish back home, and there was no war to trouble anyone or anything.
If there was ever a time for a Tridentine speed Mass, this could have been it. But, to Dad's horror, (and he knew, because he used to be an altar boy at a Cathedral) the priest said the Mass slowly and carefully, doing every movement as prescribed, omitting no prayer, while gunfire raged around them.
At last the priest turned, holding the consecrated host. "Come to Communion!" he shouted out to the men hiding in the field. "I grant you all full absolution. Come!"
Dad's reaction was: "He's got to be kidding." But then he saw it: the soldiers making their way forward to receive communion. Granted, they approached the priest at a dead run, and left at a dead run as soon as it was received. But still they came. Dad, emboldened by the other men, came forward himself, received, thanked God, and raced away.
He stayed in his furrow watching as the priest put away his Mass kit as properly as he set it out, and, when finished and having said his final prayers, the priest snapped his case shut and walked away.
That's the story. Not the best punch line, but the family liked it. I like it for it reminds of a good man I once knew and shall never see again in the flesh. It reminds me that there were other good men like him, once upon a time. Men who believed there were things to stand for, things to fight for, things that were worth risking your life for. And on that list of things worth risking your life over was Mass, and the chance for Communion.
9 April 2007
On this Day.......
90 years ago today, on another Easter Monday, Canadian troops climbed from their trenches and began an assault on a ridge both the British and French had failed to take and hold previously. Their capture Vimy ridge has become part of our national mythology, a story of how 4 divisions of Canadians, fighting together for the first time, took what our founding nations could not. Though our men fought bloodier battles, and more significant battles (Vimy was part of a grand plan of attack, and it was the plan's sole success (it was also only considered a diversion- no-one thought they could do it.)) it was Vimy that became the battle that captured the imagination and patriotism of Canada.
My grandfather was among them. As far as I can tell, it was his first time going over the top. He never spoke of the war after, not even of how he earned his decorations. I never met the man, but I am proud to call such a man my grandfather.
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