Sacred Residue

By Tom Corcoran

CORCORAN / GOTCHABack PageThis story of two immigrants from Ireland takes you on a journey of perplexing hardships, isolation, and rejection as you witness faltering decision-making processes. You marvel as each relies on the other for support and discover how they learned to detach their perception of self-worth from their choices. You become exposed to the choice of living in ambiguity instead of certainty and observe how persistence and sheer will can gradually allow an enduring faith to replace pride with gratitude. When their lives become inextricably linked with another immigrant family, you witness how these families change their perspective. You'll be encouraged to spin rejection into invitation and to thrive rather than cringe as you develop a life of blessing others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098062033

Tom Corcoran

Tom Corcoran has served Church of the Nativity in Timonium, Maryland, in a variety of roles that give him a unique perspective on parish ministry and leadership. First hired as a youth minister, Corcoran has also served as coordinator of children’s ministry and director of small groups. He is lay associate to the pastor and is responsible for weekend message development, strategic planning, and staff development. Corcoran also is the president of Rebuilt—an organization designed to rebuild parishes for growth and health. Corcoran is the coauthor of bestselling book Rebuilt—which narrates the story of Nativity’s rebirth—Tools for Rebuilding, Rebuilding Your Message, The Rebuilt Field Guide, and ChurchMoney. He is also coauthor of Seriously, God? and the bestselling Messages series for Advent and Lent. In 2023, Corcoran and Fr. Michael White were honored by Pope Francis with the Pro Ecclesia et Pontifice Award for outstanding service to Church and Pope.

Book preview

1

Spinster

Mary Ann Murphy was viewed by those in the small town of Tinnakilly, Ireland, as a silly, idealistic, frivolous, twenty-six-year-old woman. Everyone knew one another, and whenever she went into town, shopkeepers would greet her with, Good morning, Mary.

Walking along the narrow cobbled street, the routine was always the same. Small bells hanging over each shop door tinkled and announced your presence. Mr. Connell, the local butcher, always asked how Mary’s mother was doing, and Mrs. Rooney would always pause as she hovered over one of her café’s tables and exclaim, I’ll be with you in a minute, dear.

The widow McGregor always stood in her bakery doorway, but the minute she realized someone was headed her way, she would scurry inside, stand behind the counter, and busily straighten her fresh-baked goodies in preparation for a potential sale. Politeness was expected and each would ask Mary’s opinion about a variety of innocent topics. Mary politely shared her thoughts. Whether directly or indirectly, each shop owner’s response suggested she stop wasting her time on ambitious and unrealistic goals. They viewed her goals as absurd. Townsfolk had long ago accepted their role and destiny to live and die in the small town so they viewed Mary’s goals as absurd. Mary did her best to exude confidence, but occasionally, a naive and immature burst of annoyance-fueled anger would filter through the politeness and her retort would be, I don’t care, just leave me alone. Mary was viewed as arrogant and aloof. Behind her back, townsfolk nicknamed her Rebel Mary. Mary knew of the moniker and smirked knowing no one was brave enough to say it to her face.

Mary was an eternal optimist who refused to let go of her dreams. She believed one day, she would escape the shackle of small-town oppression. Disgusted at the prevailing social belief that young woman her age should be married, Mary refused to be subdued and was quite outspoken. Publicly she vowed she would never need to be cared for or protected by a man.

Matchmakers tried unsuccessfully to find her a perfect mate. Mary’s father, John, was an avid supporter of Mary’s aspirations. Whenever a suitable match sought to court Mary, he found some flaw which would make the young man ineligible. He found some suitors to be physically pungent, some simply lacked manners. Whatever the excuse, her father mediated to reconcile any hurt feelings the matchmaker or the suitor’s family expressed after spending time with his daughter. Mary was strong-willed and refused to be a part of any process which required her to be subservient. In time, matchmakers ran out of potential candidates who would attempt to court Mary and she was labeled as a spinster.

John tried his best to shelter his daughter from the berating and belittling her siblings parceled out. Catherine Hamilton, Mary’s mother, was Mary’s chief inquisitor who tried to reason with her daughter. In the end, she begged Mary to stop dreaming and to deal with reality.

Being labeled a spinster placed Mary in a bit of a quandary. Her mother was embarrassed. On the one hand, she was grateful for her father’s various interventions; while on the other, she loathed the fact his actions validated the very social belief she was attempting to take a stand against. Asking him to stay out of her business would be disrespectful. Though she didn’t approve of his intervention, she never ceased to be amazed at his unwavering love and support.

Mary’s views of God and religion were molded from years of church attendance. As long as she lived under her father’s roof, she was obligated to attend. Her mom’s strong convictions were displayed by iconic religious symbols scattered around the house. A few rosaries scattered about on shelves provided a barrage of reminders that the center of life in the Murphy home was Christ and Christ alone. Mary’s mother believed faith flowed from the daily practice of discipline, efficiency, and righteous living.

A crippling illness had curtailed Mary’s mother’s ability to attend Mass. It had forced her to remain homebound. Relying on others to assist her around the house created a squabble with her husband over finances. She demanded they give more to the church as a means of saying thank you to the parish faithful for faithfully being an extension of God’s love. Some brought home-cooked goodies, some brought home spun clothes, and some came to labor alongside her husband during the spring or harvest seasons. Agreeing to his wife’s wishes so she would stop her nagging, Mary’s father still had to endure his wife’s constant verbal reminders that God loved a cheerful giver or that it was better to give than receive. He was forced to make financial trade-offs in order to increase the family’s tithing. The family learned to do without so others might receive. Catherine felt giving to the church had a greater priority than caring for the needs of the family, and she insisted her family remain positive about their impoverished circumstances. She felt God always rewarded those who gave and she was sure that in due time, the family’s needs would be met by God’s provision.

Mary was appalled by her mother’s attitude. When her father relented to her mother’s wishes, she was shocked that he would allow his family to suffer. Because she had never observed other men submit to their wives, Mary needed to mentally justify his choice. His choice had ensured peace continued in the household, and his friends and neighbors had easily observed his patriarchal role was not in jeopardy. Mary concluded he must be just devious; he certainly was no coward.

Marriage and the church were patriarchal social oppressions she wanted no part of.

An example of how patriarchal the church was could be seen in the way reading was taught. Reading was mandatory for schoolboys. It was taught in the parish by clergy. Girls were not taught to read. As a schoolgirl, Mary observed the male enclave gather weekly for literacy lessons in nearby Rosbercon parish. She would position herself outside an open window so she could listen to lessons as they were taught. Initially the priest would shoo her away, but in time, he refused to let her presence bother him. Like most men in Ireland, he believed women didn’t possess the ability to learn to read.

Once, the priest offered Mary an opportunity to learn to read. He respected her persistence and found her interest in learning how to read intriguing. He volunteered to teach her if she would meet with him once a week. All he asked in return was that she keep their partnership a secret. Doubting his sincerity and suspecting there was more to the offer than what he suggested, Mary politely refused his offer.

Mary’s father did not own the family farm. He served as its caretaker. He was responsible for ensuring the farm was profitable and did so by having others rent a home and grow, harvest, and sell crops based on a contractual basis. The owner reaped nearly all the profit. This was common practice in Ireland and most families were content with merely having a roof over their head and food on their table.

Not to be denied learning how to read, Mary sought the assistance of Patrick. He and Mary had been friends since his family had moved into a small cottage on the farm her father managed. Mary was much older than Patrick. It was natural for them to taunt each other in good fun. He saw her as a means by which he could parade and hone his evolving male prowess while she saw him as a silly immature nuisance whom she was willing to tolerate in order to reach her goal. Patrick agreed to provide her with secondhand dog-eared school workbooks, picture books, and verbal explanations of what the priest taught him. There was no quid quo pro but each grew fond of the other because each believed the other had a good heart and good intentions.

Mary’s father didn’t object to Mary learning how to read. He didn’t interfere but insisted she only practice reading at home. He warned her to not let anyone know she could read as he feared his male friends and business associates would judge and persecute him should they find out.

The Irish Freeman’s Journal was the primary instrument used by clergy for reading lessons. The publishing company donated old editions of the Journal to the church at no cost and volumes were scattered in small piles around the parish classroom. The boys would select articles of interest, and Patrick would bring home one or two editions each week.

Mary enjoyed reading each tattered issue. They proved to be a wonderful resource, and as she flipped through each volume, she hoped she might find articles written about America. One article compared America’s recently ended Civil War to the struggle experienced centuries ago by Ireland’s patron, Saint Patrick. Its author retold the story of the saint’s journey from slavery in Ireland, his escape, and his voluntary return to Britain as a cleric. Once back in Ireland, Saint Patrick set about teaching both nobles and the oppressed how to look inward, examine their hearts, and trust God to transform their thoughts and actions. He motivated all he came in contact with to rid themselves of all forms of slavery. Mary viewed Saint Patrick as just another Irish icon who had two strikes against him. He was male and part of religion. Still his devotion to rid the world of all forms of slavery and oppression was a shared passion and she chose to overlook his shortcomings.

The Journal article explained how most of the 150,000 Irish men who volunteered to take part in America’s Civil War chose to serve with the Union Army. They chose to share in America’s struggle to see slavery abolished and Mary felt no different. Those Irishmen were warriors for justice and so was she. She longed to live in an environment where her spirit wasn’t squelched, and she was tired of those who tried to ignore her need to make a difference.

*****

It was nearly 1:00 a.m. when Mary Anne Murphy escorted the last of her guests to the weather-beaten door of her county Kilkenny home. Encountering a chilly forty-three-degree breeze as she opened the door to bid her guests good night, Mary was aware her parents had already set about tidying and ridding themselves of the remnants of the party they had hosted. Such parties had become tradition throughout Ireland, and though they didn’t condone their daughter’s choice to leave Ireland and sail to America, they were inwardly proud of her persistence to pursue her dream. Many Irish families had succumbed to the magical draw of America and such parties were reminiscent of a funeral wake. Each provided a moment where loved ones could exchange goodbyes and find closure before their loved one sailed away. Both celebratory and bittersweet, emotions of those in attendance ranged from remorse and guilt to refection and gratitude. It was the general belief and experience that once a loved one departed for America, he or she would never return.

Knowing her parents would not be going to bed, Mary kissed each on the cheek before climbing up the stairs to her bedroom. She hoped she might squeeze in a few hours of sleep before leaving the only home she had ever known. Lying in bed, she stared at the ceiling. Her heart was pounding, and as she felt the stabs of nostalgia wander in her mind, she wondered if she would ever lie in this bed again. Calming herself, she mentally focused on recapturing the black and white hand-drawn sketches of the tall New York City buildings she had seen and admired while reading the Irish Freeman’s Journal. It wasn’t long before she fell asleep.

After a short rest, Mary woke up, stood up, and habitually turned and tucked in the corners of the sheets on her bed. She fluffed her pillow and realized this would most likely be the last time she would be making her bed. She had no idea what time it was but guessed it must be around 5:00 a.m. It was still dark outside, and as she left her bedroom, she paused and glanced back. The bed seemed so small. So did her bedroom. As she shut the door, she left behind a part of her inner child.

Feeling a twinge of glee, Mary walked the short distance to the stairway where the wonderful rich aroma of her mom’s steaming hot breakfast filled her nostrils and touched off a new wave of nostalgia. She could hear the sizzling grease and knew her mom was standing at the stove, flipping plump sausages in her favorite black cast-iron griddle. Mary faced the reality that this might be her last breakfast with her parents and took a deep breath to calm and steady her nerves before proceeding down the stairs. She wanted no drama this morning. No arguments, just peace. Laughter would be a bonus. She wanted to depart on the best of terms.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Mary walked over to the breakfast table and pulled out a chair then sat next to her father. He was always calm and normally was quiet. This morning was no different. Looking toward her, John nodded as Mary took her seat. Mary paused to savor the moment and, except for the sound of sizzling sausages, silence filled the room. It was suffocating. The moment seemed surreal, yet here she was, on the verge of realizing her dreams. This was not how she had envisioned this morning would transpire, yet oddly, it was much better than what she had envisioned. She had only thought of the celebratory aspect. It had never crossed her mind how blessed she would feel or how her joy would be bitter and sweet.

Catherine approached the table and set down a plate filled with the still-sizzling sausages. She turned and fetched other dishes which were filled to the brim. Scrambled eggs were piled high on one plate and other plates were filled with baked beans, grilled tomatoes, and hashed potatoes. These were placed next to the plate of sausages, and Mary realized her mother must have been saving all week for this one occasion. Next her mom brought over a plate of toast, a bowl of butter, and a small tin of marmalade. The small tin of marmalade was a special treat and Mary had no idea how the family had scratched up extra money to purchase it. A steaming pot of tea followed and then Catherine took her seat directly opposite Mary.

As if scripted, Mary and Catherine simultaneously burst into tears. John sat there with a phony smile plastered on his face and stoically, yet unsuccessfully, tried to show no emotions.

Mary’s mom could no longer contain her emotions. Tearfully she exclaimed, Oh, Mary Ann, are you sure you want to leave? I was hoping you would change your mind. I’m so disappointed and I’m worried sick. I love you and God knows I want to support your decision. I’ve tried. God knows how I’ve tried. Somehow I just can’t. Forgive me. You know you still have time to change your mind.

Redundant questioning and comments like this had been part of each day for over a month. At times, Mary had tried to quietly reason with her mom and had tried to win her over to her way of thinking. Other times, Mary chose to remain quiet and absorb her mom’s anguish; but when she did, there had been a few ugly angry exchanges. She knew those were borne from their deep desire to persuade the other because they loved each other so much. Neither had harbored any animosity because each knew there was nothing to forgive. Mary knew now was not the time to rehash repetitive conversations which had taken place earlier. They had both cried many times throughout the past month, and now, all they could do was cry some more. The sadness of the moment was indisputable so Mary’s father, always the peacemaker, pushed his dishes aside, stood, and winked at Mary as he enveloped his wife in kisses and a big hug. The tension in the room immediately dispersed and was replaced by laughter. Wiping their tears away, the three sat, ate breakfast, and relished each moment.

A bell ringing outside interrupted the harmonious gathering. It announced Mary’s departure time had come so the three left the dishes on the table and gathered their cloaks. Mary checked once more to ensure her ticket still sat snugly in the inner pocket inside the waistband of her dress then reached for the small parcel sitting by the front porch. In it was everything she deemed critical to her new adventure to America. Her father took her mom’s arm and led the trio toward the door.

Waiting outside was a buckboard with one tethered horse. It was outfitted with two wooden benches which accommodated six people. The horse wore a bell around its neck, and each time it shook its head, the bell would tinkle. There was little space for luggage.

Already seated in the buckboard were Mr. Walsh and his family: his wife and two young daughters. They had departed the small village of Tinahely as the sun was just making its appearance. The family had sold everything after receiving word that Mr. Walsh’s father had died suddenly in America. They were traveling with just the bare necessities and were going to America to care for his elderly mother.

The Guion Steamship Company routinely published listings which were posted at all postal stations. Each listing contained the names of ships scheduled to depart from Queenstown, and under each ship’s name was a listing of ticketed passengers and the name of the village they lived in. These listings provided instructions on when passengers were to arrive at the Queenstown immigration center. Twice a week,