In a song, Nick Cave boldly declared his disbelief in a God that actively intervenes. This was a sentiment I shared, yet it was opposite to my late mother’s firm conviction, who spent a large portion of her life in devout worship.
My mother assumed the dominant role in our household following my father’s death in 1995. With her prayer book in hand, she adopted his former place in our kitchen, next to a cupboard where he had stored a cookie tin filled with pension applications and miscellaneous documents maintained by him as a Fianna Fáil county councillor.
Delivering her eulogy, I made light of how my mother seemed to have inherited my father’s public roles, only she wasn’t entrusted with the duty of advocating for local matters. It was widely accepted in our community that she had exclusive communication with a superior power.
Her compassion for others led them to delegate their prayers to her, and many in the community saw her as a direct avenue to divine intervention. In addition to her spiritual altruism, she was renowned for her generosity to various charities.
However, the relationship between my mother and I was fraught with tension. My adolescent self was a huge disappointment to her, and the feeling was mutual. Her love for me was consistent, but a rift created by my teenage self remained unhealed as I moved out.
Our differing religious beliefs created a significant divide. Her unwavering faith was incomprehensible to me, and my scepticism was deeply troubling to her.
It caused me great sorrow that she devoted so much of her energy to what seemed to me as a great delusion. This sorrow was keenly felt when I had to give her eulogy, a task my five sisters commanded I perform. For that event, I consciously chose to celebrate my mother’s devout faith. After all, it was an homage to her life.
Her birthplace, which when translated meant “the hill of the saints”, introduced a recurring topic of discussion. Her marital journey took her from this high point to figuratively come down – physically, as she relocated to a location near sea level, and metaphorically, as she became affiliated with Fianna Fáil.
Harking back to the past, it struck me that she returned from whence she initially set out. It gave me great comfort to feel that we now had an ally in influential circles. Granted, the sentiment is a tad clichéd, yet it’s heartfelt nonetheless.
Unexpectedly, I never shed tears over her demise, maybe it was the buzz of her memorial service, which saw a crowd of several thousand people visit the house in a span of two days.
Or possibly, I simply put my mourning process on hold. This could shed light on why I still, on odd moments, have this nagging feeling that I ought to give mum a call to check on any recent losses. Then it dawns on me that she herself has been gone for 13 years.
Interestingly, Áine, not just an entrepreneur but a broadcaster, newsman and chair of Gaisce, happens to be my niece.
During her initial days as a teacher, she sought my counsel on making a transition to journalism. As always, I found myself ill-equipped to guide her, given my own complicated journey into the field.
However, Áine didn’t require guidance. She rose to prominence in a series of professions, chiefly due to her sheer intellect and relentless work ethic. Her success amazes me and since she’s too occupied to catch up over a cup of coffee, I get updates about her through the newspapers.
As such, the Q&A resembled reading about a public figure. That is until the question on her musings after death was posed.
To which Áine replied, “I look forward to reuniting with my Granny McNally, who personifies the epitome of kindness and goodness I only hope to achieve.”
She further revealed that she left a note in her Granny’s coffin promising to carry out good deeds in her honour. She concluded, “When I feel burdened, I envision her saying a prayer one slow beat behind the priest. Her peculiar delay always brought a smile to my face in church… my Gran always got the last say.”
One must reflect back to this past Saturday when my dry-eyed presence at my mother’s funeral was remarkably corrected within a café in Dublin. I currently am unsure of the location or existence of my mother post mortem. My beliefs hardly extend to the notion of us reuniting in some sort of mystical realm after death. However, Áine’s article served as a reminder that individuals continue to exist, in a certain capacity, through the reminiscences and impressions they leave in the minds of those they once knew. Regardless of the deities they sought solace or triumph from, those we love and lose maintain substantial ability to intervene from beyond the grave.