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Father frank's log

22/3/2018

FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 18th – 25th MARCH

For very many years now my younger brother has ventured out, every Saturday afternoon, to an expanse of waste ground, bearing carrier bags of scraps to feed the birds. I have only accompanied him on a few occasions, and each time I was amused by the fact that, when we arrived at the chosen spot, there was not a bird in sight anywhere, neither on the ground nor in the sky, but that as soon as he would scatter the first scraps the birds would immediately appear from everywhere – crows, blackbirds, seagulls, pigeons, and various other smaller birds – until he was surrounded by literally hundreds of them. I think that the wrong brother was called Francis because I was in no doubt that they recognised him and knew him. This was affirmed for me by the fact that, at the height of the snow a few weeks ago, at our Passionist Community house in Bishopbriggs, we decided to scatter some scraps in our back garden, thinking that it would be a kindness to the birds at such a time, as they may have been finding food difficult to come by. The scraps were there for days and not a bird came near.

This bird-talk brings to mind one of my favourite true stories which many of you may remember. It was back in the late summer, early autumn of 2007, that a seagull began to appear at the R.S. McColl shop in Aberdeen where, as in most seaside towns, seagulls are not the most popular of God’s creatures. As the story goes, this bird would apparently hide around the corner and wait for the shop to open in the morning. When there was no one else in the shop and the assistant was at the till the bird would saunter in, pick up a packet of Spicy
Doritos, and saunter back out again. This became a daily event, with the gull always using the same routine and always choosing Spicy Doritos above all else. The shopkeeper began to get a bit frustrated and instructed the assistant to close the door over after opening up to prevent the bird from getting in. By this stage however the seagull, nicknamed Sam, had become a firm favourite with the locals, and they decided to club together to leave a fund behind the counter to pay for Sam’s Spicy Doritos, and so the door was left open.

Sam soon came to the attention of the media. Journalists and television crews appeared from all over. Sam didn’t let them down. Undeterred by all the attention he continued with his shoplifting escapade on a daily basis and, pursued by the cameras, it was discovered that he was unselfishly carrying the Spicy Doritos to a nearby spot where he would peck the packet open and share them with his friends. Sam persisted with his early morning visits to R.S. McColl’s for his Spicy Doritos for some time to come, no doubt unaware that for very many people, in that particular year, he beat politicians, film stars, football players, television
celebrities, heroes and the like, to be the Scottish News Personality of the Year, and well deserved it was too. If anyone knows whatever became of Sam, please let me know.

As we enter into Holy Week we might ponder the legends of two birds associated with Christ’s Passion. The first is the goldfinch, known for eating thistles and thorns, which in Christian art refers to Jesus’ crown of thorns. That’s why the child Jesus is sometimes depicted in art holding a goldfinch, foreshadowing his Passion and death on the cross. And then of course there is the robin, the legend saying that the robin's breast is red because, when Jesus was on the road to Calvary, a robin plucked a thorn from Christ's head where the crown of thorns had pierced, and a drop of Jesus' blood fell on the robin's breast, turning it red.

This will be the last log until after Easter so, let me finish with a quote from St. Francis:

My brother and sister birds, you should greatly praise your Creator, and love Him always. He gave you feathers to wear, wings to fly, and whatever you need. God made you noble among His creatures and gave you a home in the purity of the air so that though you neither sow nor reap, He nevertheless protects, feeds and clothes you without your least care.

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father frank's log...

15/3/2018

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 11th – 18th MARCH

My bedroom window in Bishopbriggs overlooks a wooded area and a pond which is home to a rare breed of frogs. While I hear these frogs constantly, I have never actually seen any. Only Father Gareth, when he was parking the car one night, claims to have seen one that had come through the fence and into the estate. There are also deer in the woods, and I told the story recently of, after over a year of never catching a glimpse, coming across a number of them, romping through the estate, as I returned from a middle-of-the-night sick call to the Royal Infirmary. I have since seen two of them, now antlered, grazing in the woods.

I can now, however, report a more unusual sighting. Before the recent snow, in the middle of another very cold spell, I looked out of the window early one Saturday morning, and I saw two beasts walking across the frozen pond. At first I wasn’t sure what I was seeing, but as they drew closer I could see that they were, what I can only describe as giant foxes. They were the size of wolves and their coats were, if not black, then a very, very dark brown. I watched them for a while and, when I heard Father Gareth come out of his room, which is next door to mine, but overlooking the street, I called him in and asked him to have a look. He was as mesmerised as I was.

I think that the other members of our community were more sceptical. And then, one night, as Father Gareth was driving home from the church, and nearing the house, he came upon one of these giant foxes on the path in front of him. He arrived home almost in a state of terror, being of a delicate disposition, and told anyone who would listen that, up close, this beast was even bigger and more ferocious looking than when he was watching it out of my bedroom window. I believed every word he said, but the others remained sceptical, and Brother Antony, being a local lad, seemed to suggest that giant beasts of one kind of another were fairly normal in Bishopbriggs.

At the risk of sounding fanciful, and having far too vivid an imagination, I must confess that this wasn’t the first time I had come across a larger-than-life version of an animal. When I was doing my 30-day retreat at Manresa House in Clontarf, in Dublin, back in 1987, I would walk early every morning on Dollymount Strand, which is a part of Bull Island, a specially protected bird sanctuary and nature reserve, which has since become a special area of conservation under the EU Habitats Directive. On one particular morning, about 6 a.m., as I clambered over the sand dunes to get to the strand, I was suddenly face to face with a huge hare, and, I kid you not, it was the size of a small kangaroo! Once again, I stood mesmerised as we gazed at each other, and then the hare scampered off. Being on a silent retreat I couldn’t go back to talk to anyone about it until we were on one of our two break days, when we were allowed to chat, and even go out for a few hours with the other retreatants. My story, however, met with the same reaction as that of our Passionist community to the giant foxes. Perhaps Clontarf is twinned with Bishopbriggs and giant beasts are quite normal.

Very soon, when we enter into the Easter Season, we will meet many different people in the Gospel stories, some of whom will see and believe; some of whom will believe without seeing; and some of whom will see and still not believe. All I can say to my doubters is, I know what I saw, and I will not withdraw my testimony.

Here is the chorus of a beautiful hymn to Christ by David Haas, inspired by 1 Peter 1:8:
Without seeing you we love you. Without touching you we embrace.
Without knowing you we follow. Without seeing you we believe.

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Father Frank's Log

8/3/2018

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 4th – 11th MARCH

Thankfully the snow has abated now but what a time we had! As mentioned in last week’s log (I call it a log and not a blog – nostalgic memories of Captain Kirk’s Log in Star Trek – and someone sent me an email recently, in all innocence, addressed to Father Frank Log) I brought my brother to hospital to see a consultant about his broken metacarpals. I had the car but we prudently decided to get the bus as overnight, Tuesday into Wednesday, the snow had come with a vengeance. The bus took a long time but we arrived at the minor injuries clinic in Partick just slightly late for his appointment. In the end there was no stookie, just the splint, a regime of finger exercises to follow, and blood tests to be sent to his doctor. We made it back on the bus but it was obvious the buses would be cancelled later in the day.
I decided to try and bring the car back as far as St. Mungo’s and I made it safely in the wake of other traffic that had ground the grit well into the road. Father Gareth, Brother Antony and Father Justinian were getting ready to head home to Bishopbriggs and I stayed to do the afternoon Adoration and Confessions – nobody came to either.

As Glasgow was now on red alert I thought it best to stay the night at the church so as to be here for the morning and allow the others to stay home safe. There is a nice reclining chair in the office so, after closing the church for the night, I pulled on a pair of heavy socks and my walking shoes and headed out to see if anywhere was open. I saw a number of foreign students taking lots of photos of the snow with great excitement. I had some vouchers from Christmas and so I bought a duvet to keep me warm and stocked up on some food for the night and the morning. As I got to the top of the High Street, just at the Duke Street junction, I saw a man, slightly the worse for wear, having a great laugh at some poor soul’s spinning car wheels as he tried to move off from the traffic lights, but instead just sliding all over the road. There was no other traffic in sight. The smile was wiped from his face however when he turned around and saw that the Old College Bar was shut. He let out a cry of great anguish as if to say “you can take the buses off, close the shops, shut down the airports, and stop the trains – but don’t close the Old College Bar” – this was a sure sign of Armageddon!

I slept okay on the chair, except that my feet got cold. There were 5 people at the 10 o’clock Mass; nobody for morning Confessions, and 8 people for the 12.15pm Mass. I headed out after lunch to try and get a charger for my phone as it had run out of power and my charger was in Bishopbriggs. I had a successful trip and managed to get myself a pizza in the only open café I could see. As I trudged back to St. Mungo’s I passed 3 men heading over the walkway. They were carrying bottles of something to keep them warm and one was crying out to the other two. “Eskimos, we’re turning into Eskimos!!!” He had a point.

Later in the afternoon I got a call asking me to tend to two people in the Royal Infirmary as the chaplain was snowbound. I put a notice on the Confessional to say I would be back as soon as possible. I had trouble getting out of the hospital as it seems there was a major incident coming in and people were being directed out by another route. When I returned, feeling the beginnings of storm Emma as I waded through the snow, there was one person waiting for Confession. I then closed the church and had a quiet night, doing a little work; reading, and saying a few prayers in the darkened church. Earlier in the day I had discovered a bed in one of the rooms in the old house and so I decided to take my duvet up there and get a better night’s sleep, which I did, hoping that the next day would begin to see a change.

Isaiah 1:18. Come now, and let us reason together, says the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; Isaiah 55:10. "My word is like the snow and the rain that come down from the heavens to water the earth. They make the crops grow and provide seed for planting and food to eat.

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Father Frank's Log...

3/3/2018

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 25th FEBRUARY – 4th MARCH

I have a famous older brother, at least to those who follow football, but I also have a younger brother whose life is much more secluded and private. He has worked for the same organization since he left school, which is over 45 years ago, and while the running of the organization has changed hands, the location has moved, and the nature of the work has altered dramatically with developments in systems and technology throughout those years, he has been there as an ever-constant presence, like an immovable rock in an ever-changing sea.

He hates missing work, and rarely has, in all that time, apart from a couple of strokes which saw him hospitalised for a period. No sooner would he be out of hospital than he was making plans to get back to work as soon as was humanly possible, and even on occasion when it didn’t seem humanly possible. He is a man of routine, and those routines are sacrosanct.

Since coming back to Scotland, I have tried to call up to him once a week to have a chat and watch some television together. Last Monday when I called up he wasn’t there and I wondered and worried what was keeping him so late. Not long afterwards he appeared with a splint in his hand, having been at the hospital for most of the day. It turns out he’d had a fall the previous Saturday but declined to mention it or do anything about it, until he appeared into work on Monday morning with a black eye, a swollen hand, sore feet, and a stiff shoulder. Thankfully he was ordered by kindly colleagues to get himself to the hospital where it was discovered he had two broken metacarpals. The poor guy must have been in agony, but in his own stoical way he had just intended to soldier on as if nothing had happened.
I stayed with him that night and helped him to get up the next day before I headed in to St. Mungo’s. He has a number of other health issues too, and was really quite incapacitated. I went back to him that evening to discover he had spent the day practicing various ways of rendering himself more mobile. Later in the evening he asked me what my plans were. I told him that I was intending staying the night again, to which he furtively replied: “You do know I’m going to go back to work tomorrow, don’t you?”

I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised, and neither were his work colleagues. He reminds me of one of those TV characters like the great Jack Bauer in 24 who, after being beaten, stabbed, shot and blown up, pulls the tubes out of his body in the hospital, to get up and get on with the task at hand. In fact, I remember back in 2010, just a week or so after my brother had come out of hospital after suffering a stroke, he went back to work in the midst of a snow blizzard. Sometime during that day the buses were taken off the road. Someone kindly gave him a lift as far as they could, and then he ended up walking about 5 miles knee deep in snow the rest of the way, still intending to go to work the next day. I knew nothing about it until I phoned him from Dublin later that night. As I write, I am preparing to bring him to hospital in the morning, perhaps to get a stookie, and, no doubt, he will be back at work shortly after.

While my older brother pursued his journalistic career and raised a family, and I pursued my Passionist studies and moved around in various ministries, our younger brother facilitated us in doing that by assuming the major share, by far, of looking after our mother in the latter years of her life, which he did lovingly and willingly, without complaint. To me he is one of those unsung heroes of ordinary life who just gets on with things no matter what, and asks for nothing in return. If I were to choose a Gospel image that might capture him, it would be Jesus, setting his face firmly towards Jerusalem, despite those trying to advise him against it, determined to do what he was meant to do, resolute and committed, to the very end.

As Christopher Reeve once said: A hero is an ordinary individual, who finds the strength to persevere and endure, in spite of overwhelming obstacles.

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Father frank's log

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Father Frank's Log

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FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

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