Remembering Michael O’Grady

Monsignor Michael O’Grady, beloved priest, spiritual guide, friend and mentor passed away last week. He died peacefully in his sleep in his “little house,” in Kildysart, Ireland. This was the exact place he told so many of us where he would choose to die; and he did, in the same bed as his mother passed years ago.

I met Fr Mike in 1996, when our mutual friend Marlene introduced us. My soul was in desperate need of weeding and Marlene knew the perfect person to guide the gardening. The first time we met, I wept, he listened quietly. After thirty minutes of silence he took down a copy of the 103 Psalm. He prayed it and then suggested I pray it everyday. I saw him once a week for a season, and then nearly once a month ever since.

That same year, Fr Mike would bless Cathy and my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Then he blessed our family’s first trip to Ireland in 1998. He gave me a few “Punts” to get us started. I still have them. Those coins carry Ireland’s Harp and well represent Mike’s blessed lyrical voice and soul.

Mike personally introduced me to John O’Donohue when the poet was doing a poetry reading in Phoenix just after the American publication of his book “Anam Cara.” Then years later, Mike, Cathy, and I would visit O’Donohue’s grave in the Canamara. We all remembered our favorite verses, Mike’s from memory.

While in Ireland, Mike would make dinner for us in his home and then the next morning celebrate the Mass at his kitchen table. He introduced us to what he said were the “real Ireland, the people.” They generously shared their stories and their Jameson, we drank deep from both. This morning, I see the faces of those people, his friends, his mentors, those he cared for—he is now with them in what the Irish call the thin place. Those spaces and places where the souls of dead and the living mingle. These places and spaces are everywhere if we are still enough to imagine them.

For twenty-three years, Fr Mike listened to my soul pour out my life before him; raw and unfiltered. He never judged, rarely offered advice, usually told me a story, and always, always, listened deeply. He walked me through the transition from baseball coach to college president. He held my grief and anger during the dark days that followed my exit from that university. He encouraged me through the process of becoming an Episcopal priest. We cried together when our mothers died. And we laughed together with joy when the holy grand boys came into this world.

I saw him just a bit before coming to Ireland, we both had a few tears in our eyes. We said goodbye, hugged and he said the same thing to me he always said in departing. “As Anne would be saying, say your prayers, and do your little bit. And be good to Gil.”

Two nights after Mike slipped away, he came to me in a dream. He placed his left hand on my head, blessed me, and disappeared. Now we walk together in a new way. I would imagine he has appeared to many of you.

For all of those countless people that can tell a similar story about their relationship with Fr Mike, and there are countless numbers of you; I would be imagining that we all will remember his gentle stories, his wisdom, his laughter, and his love. Mostly his love. Please remember, “Wherever you go, there you’ll be,” and Mike will still be with you.

Gaelic Camino

Morning, Day Four: Law of Three to make Seven.
Sun blistered wind,
Quarter way to summit War’s Hill;
Muscles burning, stumbling over the stones I placed on the trail;
Shoulders bending under my own burdens packed;
Chest gasping for cooler air than my own stale exhaust;
Eyes begging for level ground
I would not let be found.

Unaware, I fail to recognize demons as allies,
Mistaking them for ghosts of my ancient failures—
Pressing backward, running from my self.

Who is that hiding behind Crone’s Tree,
The shadow I?
Certainty feigned,
Defense sung sharp,
Pride denied.

Who is hiding under Quartz Stone,
My well formed gods?
Irascible commitment,
Transactional relationships,
Veiled love.

Who is that hiding between Raven’s Wings,
Trembling me, aching to flee?
Avoiding history’s trauma,
Denying pain,
Escaping Reality.

Though Demons despised,
Their haunting familiarity lingers as mystic clouds
Whispering wind wisdom through the Rowans, saying:
“Companionship we shadow demons offer.”
Their voices fetching me to risk
What the I of me
Fears to lose:
A crammed rucksack of masks...

Much lighter now,
Hand in hand,
My demons and I,
Lean into what we lovers are becoming—
What always was already;
The True Self of Us being one intimate soul.