Lucky Dip Number 18
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A Helping Hand
'I can see him still' my father said, 'a big chap with rough clothing standing in the middle of the road with his hand raised to stop us'. It was around the time of the civil war and he and a younger brother were returning from somewhere in the far west of Ireland. An RIC* man had been shot and killed and they had taken his body for burial back to his place of origin. Afterwards they were advised not to stay, as the hatred some felt for this man with his service in the police force might well be taken out on them. So they left and had started back towards their home city of Belfast and were in a village in Sligo when the unassuming stranger stopped them. 'I saw you going through earlier today and was watching out for you in case you might come back tonight' he said. 'There's trouble farther down the road and it would be unsafe to continue'. 'Is there somewhere here we can lodge for the night?' my father asked, for the day was far spent**. 'Unfortunately the village hotel is closed by this time. I tell you what though. If you would like I will find somewhere safe for the car and you can come home with me. We haven't much - there is only the old mother and I, but you are welcome to what we have'. He found a place for the hearse and then took them into his home and prepared supper. He gave them his own bed and in the morning got up early and made breakfast for them before seeing them safely on their way. 'I will never forget him - nor will I ever forget what he did', my father told me. 'He was a Catholic and knew that we were not, yet amid all the animosity of that bitter time he put himself so much out of his way to help us'. 'And they are marching in Northern Ireland today to perpetuate their divisions!' one person said after I had told that story at worship in the chapel of the beautiful Bield retreat centre near Perth, where people of commitment and vision have created a place of purpose and peace. In the quiet and calm of the centre I had forgotten that it was the twelfth of July and the height of the marching season, although I was once a junior member of an Orange Lodge in my native Belfast. 'Mother let you go with your friends, but I know she wasn't happy about it' my elder sister told me much later. Some sixty years and a short stretch of water separated me from that time, as I sat in that sanctuary of stillness and seclusion. And I was glad to have forgotten that martial day with its season of shared suspicion and insensitivity. |
* Royal Irish Constabulary
**Luke 24:29 (KJB) |