KNOCKANURE
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A PRAYER FOR ALL OUR STUDENTS FROM OUR PARISH DOING EXAMS:
‘O Great St. Joseph of Cupertino, Who by your prayers, Obtained to be asked at your examination the only proposition you knew, Pray that I, like you may succeed in the examination which lies before me. In return I promise to make you known and cause you to be loved’. Amen.
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THE BEAUTIFUL HANDS OF A PRIEST
We need them in life's early morning,
We need them again at its close;
We feel their warm clasp of true friendship,
We seek them when tasting life's woes.
At the altar each day we behold them,
And the hands of a king on his throne
Are not equal to them in their greatness;
Their dignity stands all alone;
And when we are tempted and wander,
To pathways of shame and sin,
It's the hand of a priest that will absolve us --
Not once, but again and again;
And when we are taking life's partner,
Other hands may prepare us a feast,
But the hand that will bless and unite us --
Is the beautiful hand of a priest.
God bless them and keep them all holy
For the Host which their fingers caress;
When can a poor sinner do better,
Than to ask Him to guide thee and bless?
When the hour of death comes upon us,
May our courage and strength be increased,
By seeing raised over us in blessing --
The beautiful hands of a priest! Author Unknown
Exam Prayer
‘Lord, as I take this exam, I ask for Your peace and clarity of mind. Calm my nerves, help me to focus and guide my memory to recall what I have studied. Give me the wisdom to understand the questions and the ability to express my answers clearly. I trust in You. Amen.
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Reflect
In today’s Gospel, Jesus talks about paying taxes by explaining that whatever belongs to a physical king should be repaid to him but whatever belongs to the spiritual king must be returned to him.
Is Jesus really discussing money? Or is he pointing out that those pledging allegiance to Caesar are incapable of looking beyond the physical toward heaven?
Lord, help us to remember where our true treasure lies and judge the things of this world aright.
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Venerable Fulton J. Sheen
by Courtney Mares
Pope Leo XIV praised Venerable Fulton J. Sheen on June 1 as “a light of faith, hope, and love” whose radio and television broadcasts brought the Gospel to millions of Americans — including the pope himself as a child.
Speaking at a Vatican audience with members of the Pontifical Mission Societies, the pope called it providential that the beloved archbishop will be beatified during the centennial year of the Pontifical Mission Societies he once led as the national director of the U.S. Society for the Propagation of the Faith
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BREAD: I haven't bought bread in a year! I just mix chickpeas and lentils - so delicious and healthy
https://youtu.be/5Er9XEnbC4I?si=snz4fAGdf6djmljo
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A Cure for Clerical Loneliness: 8 Diocesan Priests Find Brotherhood Under One Roof
‘It has been wonderful to live in community,’ says Father Joshua Votruba, adding that ‘the brotherhood’ has been a tremendous support.
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Jerry Mulvihill
Faction fighting in 18th and 19th century Ireland was a mass brawl that involved hundreds and sometimes thousands of antagonists organised into groups and meeting at designated venues and dates such as fairs, markets, funerals, race meetings, or any other large gathering. The result was often the deaths of one or more of the participants, and always maiming and injury. The tradition of fighting was enthusiastically instilled in the next generation so that rivalries festered and grew. The phenomenon was most prevalent in the province of Munster and more especially in County Tipperary and always remained a rural practise. The illegal and uncontrollable nature of the mass brawls meant all kinds of weapons were used. The rural landscape provided an ample supply of stones for throwing. Women carried stones in their aprons for the men to hurl. Guns of all descriptions were also used when available. By the 18th century, the Irish had developed their own art of stick fighting using a ‘shillelagh’ known in the Irish language as bataireach. A fight between the Lalors and the Coleens at the racecourse of Ballyeagh strand, County Kerry in 1834 resulted in the deaths by stoning and drowning of 35 people. Police did make arrests when the fighting had run its course. By 1839 faction fighting had virtually ceased. WWW.JERRYMULVIHILL.COM
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DONOVAN: John Glascott, Dublin Castle, (2 copies), mother Wexford Donovan, a Protestant sept of the O’Donovans originating in Carbery described by Dr. John O’Donovan as ‘rabid Orangemen”. He may have later changed his name to O’Donovan.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1SbK24LpDBP8rFO_4XqjaRjYC37DyyResH_W_xMHtLuQ/edit?tab=t.0
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General Prayer Sacred Heart of Jesus Prayer:
O most holy Heart of Jesus, fountain of every blessing, I adore you, I love you, and with a lively sorrow for my sins. I offer you this poor heart of mine. Make me humble, patient, pure, and wholly obedient to your will.
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NUNS: The excitement of a group of Salesian nuns attending a San Antonio Spurs game quickly went viral on social media. Wearing team jerseys over their habits, the sisters even gave the players their blessing before the game began.
The women are members of the Daughters of Mary Help of Christians, also known as the Salesian Sisters of St. John Bosco, a religious congregation serving throughout the western United States and dedicated to accompanying young people and families according to the charism of St. John Bosco.
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Writers Week 2026
https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1L8s5Me9KK/
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June 2026; CONGRATULATIONS to Seanie Kissane, TJ Finucane and TJ Ahern who were crowned Munster champions at Munster Schools Skills Competition!
As well as winning the team competition representing Knockanure NS, TJ Finucane came 2nd overall in the individual skills competition.
Thanks to Darragh O'Keeffe and Timmy Larkin for their help and support with the lads. We are very proud to see 3 players win Munster medals, well done lads
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Abbeyfeale Fleadh 2026
https://www.facebook.com/share/v/18Ja3FBJtp/
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Forgotten Stories
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The banker's son from Amsterdam had everything.
Frans van der Lugt grew up in one of the Netherlands' wealthiest families. His father ran a major agricultural bank. His brother would become a top executive at ING Group. Frans could have had corner offices, country clubs, a life of quiet prosperity.
At 23, he walked away from it all.
He studied psychology, became a therapist, then shocked his family by joining the Jesuits. In 1966, he boarded a plane to Syria. He was 28 years old. He would never come home.
Frans didn't just visit Syria. He became Syrian.
He learned Arabic until he dreamed in it. He walked the mountains with teenage pilgrims, hundreds at a time, Christians and Muslims hiking together for eight days. His favorite Arabic word was "ilal'amam" - forward.
In the 1980s, he built something extraordinary outside Homs.
Al Ard - "The Land" - welcomed 40 disabled children every day. They came by bus from villages across the region. Christian kids worked beside Muslim kids, tending gardens, learning together. Their parents didn't care about Frans' religion. They saw how their children smiled when they talked about "Abouna Francis."
When the ancient mosque needed to protect their oldest manuscripts - documents dating back centuries - they gave them to Frans. Not to the government. Not to Syrian institutions. To the Dutch priest who'd earned their complete trust.
Then 2011 arrived like a hurricane.
The Syrian Civil War turned Homs into hell. The Old City became a battlefield. Government forces surrounded rebel-held neighborhoods. Artillery shells fell like deadly rain.
The Christians started leaving. Ten functioning churches became empty shells. Sixty thousand people became thousands, then hundreds.
Frans moved into the Jesuit residence in the heart of the siege zone.
His superiors called from Rome. "Frans, you need to leave."
His friends begged him. "You're 73 years old. You have Dutch citizenship. Nobody would blame you."
His answer never changed: "As long as there are Christians here, I cannot leave. I am the only priest left."
By early 2014, people were eating grass.
The siege had lasted 20 months. No food trucks. No medicine. No hope. Babies died for lack of milk. Children collapsed from hunger in the streets.
Frans shared his own rations with families worse off than him. He opened the residence doors to anyone who needed shelter. Muslim neighbors. Christian families. It didn't matter.
In January 2014, he made a video that broke the world's heart.
Standing in his black robes, gaunt from hunger, Frans spoke directly to the camera in perfect Arabic: "Christians and Muslims are suffering together. Mothers search the streets for food for their children. We love life. We want to live. We will not sink in a sea of pain."
The video went viral. The UN finally negotiated an evacuation.
In February, 1,400 people escaped through a humanitarian corridor. Frans wasn't among them. He and about 20 other Christians had missed their chance.
The corridor closed. The siege continued. Easter approached.
On the morning of April 7th, someone knocked on the residence door.
Frans had never seen this man before. Hunger had made his vision blurry, but he did what he'd always done. He reached out his hand in friendship.
The stranger took Frans outside. Beat him. Then shot him twice in the head in the street he'd called home for decades.
Frans van der Lugt died three days before his 76th birthday.
Pope Francis spoke of him two days later: "A Dutch Jesuit brother of mine who did good to all, with gratitude and love, for 50 years in Syria."
But here's what the Pope didn't mention.
Every single day since Frans died, Christians and Muslims from Homs make a pilgrimage. They walk to his tomb in the Jesuit residence garden. Together. Both faiths. Both communities.
They pray over the grave of the man who never saw "Muslim" or "Christian." Who saw only human beings who needed food, shelter, hope.
The banker's son who walked away from wealth. The Dutch priest who became more Syrian than most Syrians. The man who reached out his hand to a stranger on the morning he died.
Because after 48 years in Syria, that's simply who he was.
#FransVanDerLugt #Syria #UnforgottenHeroes #FaithInAction #Homs
~Forgotten Stories
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Stories of Depression
https://www.facebook.com/share/v/18ZUoezF2Y/
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Lent; One of the most significant passages centered on Mary is in Chapter 1 of the Gospel of Luke, in which the birth of Jesus is foretold. She was a young, faithful woman whose world radically changed when the angel Gabriel appeared to her saying: "Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you!" (Lk 1:28).
First, the angel says, "Hail, full of grace." No one else in the Bible has ever been honored by an angel with such an exalted title.
Second, the angel says, "The Lord is with you!" Often in the Old Testament the words "the Lord is with you" signal that someone is being called to a daunting task, such as when God calls Moses at the burning bush to confront Pharaoh and lead the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt.
When Mary hears the angel say to her, "The Lord is with you," she realizes that God is asking something important and difficult, but he will be with her. Mary's "yes" -- her "fiat" -- allowed God's plan for our salvation to unfold. We recall this marvelous moment recalled each time we recite a Hail Mary.
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Bishop Sheen also told of an ordinary Catholic girl in Paris. Her name was Elisabeth and in the summer of 1889, she married an atheist doctor, Felix. As Felix tried breaking down the faith of his wife, she responded by studying it.
Here's the story.
From 1905 to 1914 she was ill and bedridden. “When she was dying,” Bishop Sheen shared, “she said to her husband, 'Felix, when I am dead, you will become a Catholic and a Dominican priest.'" He reiterated his sentiments of hatred toward God; she repeated her prophesy and died in his arms.
After her death, the husband found, among her diary and papers, that, in 1905, she had asked God to send her “sufficient suffering to purchase [Felix's] soul.”
https://aleteia.org/2026/02/10/fulton-sheen-and-3-amazing-stories-of-our-lady-of-lourdes/
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Glounsharoon, Castleisland
https://www.facebook.com/reel/1447823143450370
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Kerry v Dublin 1984 All-Ireland SFC Final
https://youtu.be/97iP0F56yZk?si=-AVtWhA4sMuDvaP9
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Reflection for Good Friday
Why do we call this Friday ‘Good’ when so many bad things happened ?
It is a day of contrasts and of paradox, a day of contradictions.
It is a day of unparalleled evil but we strangely call it ‘Good’.
God came to earth so that we may go to heaven.
God became human so that we might become divine.
The Son of God became a slave so that we could be set free.
Jesus was rejected so that we might be accepted.
Jesus forgave so that we would forgive.
Jesus was convicted so that we might have conviction.
Jesus was sold so that we could be redeemed.
Jesus was hurt so that we could be healed.
Jesus was scourged – we were purged.
Jesus descended into hell so that we might ascend to heaven.
Jesus was crowned with thorns so that we might have the crown of eternal life.
The sky went dark so that we might see the light.
The earth shook so that we might be calm.
Jesus was condemned as guilty so that we might be found innocent.
Jesus carried his cross so that Satan’s plan would be crossed out.
Jesus’ heart was opened by a spear so that our hearts might be opened by love.
Jesus laid in a borrowed tomb for only three days.
This is a day of supreme contrasts, paradox and even contradiction.
Jesus suffered all those bad things, so that we might call This Friday ‘Good’.
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Marco Gallo
When the Servant of God Marco Gallo died at the age of 17, he carried in his wallet a small image of the Virgin of Medjugorje, a childhood photo of himself eating a Nutella sandwich, five euros, and a handwritten note containing a “promise”:
“Today, I promise that—with immense desire and unwavering strength, as if this were the last day of my life and I were choosing to whom to dedicate my day and my life—I will open myself to the search for the Mystery, with discernment and respect for everything that reality places before me, even if it proves arduous. I depend only on the Mystery.”
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By Francesca Pollio Fenton
Denver, Colo., Jun 10, 2023 / 06:00 am (CNA).
Donal Walsh was tired of seeing young people end their lives while he was fighting each day for his.
Born and raised in County Kerry, Ireland, Walsh was diagnosed with bone cancer in his tibia at the age of 12. He endured nine months of chemotherapy and an operation to give him a prosthetic knee. After two years the cancer returned, this time to his lung. The young boy underwent surgery again to have half of his lung removed and endured more chemotherapy.
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Anybody from Ballyduff (Co.Kerry) out there. · Follow
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“A Morning at the Creamery Gate — Ballyduff, 1900s”
On a fresh May morning in the 1900s, the quiet street of Ballyduff’s creamery came to life as churn carts rolled steadily toward the gate. Framed by the familiar Homes of Hanlan’s, Jones’s, and O’Connor’s, farmers arrived with the fruits of early rising and careful work. Donkeys stamped patiently while neighbours exchanged news and greetings. In those years, the creamery was more than a place to deliver milk. It stood at the heart of the local co-operative movement, where farming families met not only to trade but to share conversation, stories and the rhythm of rural life. The steady procession of carts and churns each morning reflected a community bound together by work, cooperation and tradition.
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.....Anybody from Ballyduff (Co.Kerry) out there. · Follow
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“A KERRY FIRST — AND A BALLYDUFF STORY WORTH REMEMBERING”
Mary Pickford, Hollywood’s “America’s Sweetheart,” returned to her North Kerry roots in the summer of 1955. Ma… See more
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Kerry Archaeological and Historical Society · Follow
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Following our Croke Park tour, our Dublin outing concluded with a double lecture hosted by the DCU School of History and Geography, at their Drumcondra Campus.
Two fascinating talks were delivered on Kerry’s 1891 Hurling All Ireland victory and the 1892 Football All Ireland when Kerry were runners up by Brendan O’Sullivan and Fr Tom Looney.
Amazingly on the night, one of our attendees produced an actual 1891 Kerry All Ireland Hurling winning medal which was very special to see.
Many thanks to Professor Dáithi Ó Curráin and DCU for hosting this event in the wonderful Seamus Heaney lecture theatre, and to all who attended.
Kerry County Museum Kerry Library Discover Kerry Ardfert Historical Society History Ireland
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By Nicholas Waigwa
Nairobi, 14 March, 2026 / 10:20 pm (ACI Africa).
The U.S. Commission on International Religious Freedom (USCIRF) has released a new report calling for tougher measures to address religious violence in Nigeria, warning that the country faces an “unfolding catastrophe.”
In the annual report for the year 2026, USCIRF says the West African nation “is facing a terrifying crisis of religious violence”, which has claimed at least 53,000 lives since 2009, the first year it recommended that the country be designated as a Country of Particular Concern (CPC).
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Tessa Gervasini
By Tessa Gervasini·DC Bureau
March 14, 2026 at 10:15 AM ET
Psychologist Dr. Paul McHugh spoke with “EWTN News In Depth” about his decades-long career, detailing how sexual reassignment surgeries are not the answer for transgender individuals.
McHugh is a 94-year-old American psychiatrist and educator. He is a distinguished service professor of psychiatry at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, where he was previously the Henry Phipps professor and psychiatrist-in-chief from 1975 to 2001.
McHugh has conducted years of research on sexual reassignment surgeries, which are medical procedures that alter a person’s physical sex characteristics such as the chest, genitals, or facial features. McHugh found they do not resolve underlying psychological issues. While some may believe McHugh’s view on the surgeries comes from his faith as a Catholic, he said it is also based in research.
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Lent: The purpose of life is to know, love and serve God. To know him means to know things about him, but it also means to “have knowledge” of him in the Biblical sense: to unite with the Body of Christ. That means that the Catholic Mass’ Liturgy of the Word and Liturgy of the Eucharist are a summing up of one of our whole life’s tasks.
There are two remarkable passages in the Bible recounting mystical visions of sharing in Christ’s knowledge. In one, the prophet Ezekiel is given a scroll to eat; in another, St. John the Evangelist is given the same. We have this gift not in a vision, but in reality through Scripture and Communion at each Mass.
Lord Jesus, give us the gift of receiving you deeply at each Mass, through our ears and on our tongues.
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BIBLE: https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/traleebiblefellowship
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Faith, Science, and Bodies That Won’t Rot
Tom Hoopes
February 15, 2026
When Steve Johnson approached the habited corpse of Sister Wilhelmina Lancaster in Gower, Missouri, on May 24, 2023, his mind went to his own elderly parents.
Sister Wilhelmina was the foundress of the traditionalist Benedictine Sisters of Mary, Queen of the Apostles, and is Black. Johnson is a churchgoing Methodist, and is white. She had been dead for four years when Johnson visited—and she was 90 years old when she died.
https://media.benedictine.edu/faith-science-and-bodies-that-wont-rot?utm_medium=email&_hsmi=404551875&utm_content=404551875&utm_source=hs_email
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ATHEA Notes
The Way I See It
18 Feb 2026
By Domhnall de Barra
They used to say, long ago, that if you got the name of getting up early, you could stay in bed ‘till noon. Well, I don’t know about that but it came to mind when someone said to me lately, after I told them I was from Athea, “sure, isn’t that the home of music.” Athea has a reputation for traditional music and, while it may have been true at one time, I don’t think it stands up today. When I was growing up there was a musical instrument in almost every house. The standard of music might not be on a par with today but there were certainly more people involved. We have to understand that, at the time, there was no TV or radio and portable recording devices were not yet invented. The music was local and was learned at the local rambling houses, especially during the winter. During the long evenings people gathered in some local house and news was shared, games of cards played and the younger folk probably learned to dance a polka or reel set. Music had to be played for these sets so tunes were also passed on to anyone who wanted to learn. In our area it was mainly polkas, slides, hornpipes and the odd reel. The polkas were simple enough and easy to pick up. I remember learning some of them on the tin whistle from Davy Connors in Knocknaboul. His son, Mick, and I were the same age so we learned together. We would sit in front of him as he played the tune very slowly and imitate what he did with his fingers. It didn’t take me too long to get the hang of it and soon I could pick up tunes by ear which is how most musicians got their tunes in those days. In my area alone there were several musicians. Donie Cusack, Richie (Brown Dick) Woulfe, Timmy Woulfe and Jack Gleeson, all from Cratloe, were accordion players. Maybe their repertoire wasn’t too exhaustive but they had enough to play with the wrenboys and also for the wren dances that followed. In Knocknaboul there was the aforementioned Davy Connors, whose son Paddy is a great flute player, Denny Kelly, Stephen Ahearn and Joe Keeffe, a noted concertina player whose sons Joe and the late Timmy mastered the accordion and Timmy’s son Joe also played. Pat Joe Gleeson was well known as a flute player and of course Patie Enright played the accordion with his own band, The Western Star, and went on to form a long lasting partnership with Timmy Keeffe as the “Boys in Blue”. In Gortnagross, the Quilles, Denis and Ellie May were great concertina players as was Nora Brouder from Knocknaboul who was married to Sony Hurley. Colm Danaher from Gortnagross was an accomplished piper and accordion player as well. He usually played for wren dances with Pat Joe Gleeson and Timmy Woulfe. There were a couple of great players before my time, Paddy Taylor and Tom Gnea. I never knew Taylor but I had the pleasure of playing a tune with Tom who was grandfather of Dote and Donie Brouder, Upper Athea. I’m not too sure of the year but I was in my early teens and I was taken to Athea by my father and Willie Healy because Mossie Brown was after buying Meanie Peggy’s pub. I had been playing the accordion for a couple of years and I was playing away when an old man sat down beside me and took a tin whistle out of his pocket. I hadn’t a clue who it was and it was years later that I realised how well he was regarded as a musician and how lucky I was to get a chance to play with him. I am sure there were a lot more musicians in the Knocknaboul area because, at one time, they were able to put together a fife and drum band in honour of Paddy Dalton who was killed in the Valley of Knockanure. Some of them, like Patsy Lynch of Blaine were from outside the area but the bulk of them were local. Vincent Barret from Templeathea was a great flute player who had a lovely style of playing as had Tony Dalton, over the road from him on the banjo. I have only covered a part of the parish and I’m sure there are a lot more that could and should be mentioned. My point is that, at that time, Athea really was the home of music. Can we say that with any conviction today? Tom O’Connell from Toureendonnell, emigrated to England at a young age and made a big name for himself as an accordion player. My sister Margaret also was a great whistle player and Eamon Riordan from Clash on the flute. The Broderick family from Cratloe have also had their share of success in competitions but we are lagging behind neighbouring branches at the moment. How many practising musicians have we in Athea at the moment? I’m not sure but we are definitely behind Carrigkerry/Ardagh, Glin and Templeglantine. The story is not all bad because our traditional classes are well attended and we look forward to the day when Athea, once again will be “the home of music,” It is great to see so many young people getting involved especially with all the distractions that arte there today in comparison to when I was learning. One of the biggest differences is that, in years gone by, people who didn’t play themselves had a great interest and knew the names of all the tunes. You wouldn’t be too long playing in a session when someone would ask for “The Bucks of Oranmore”, or “The Battering Ram”. It is up to us to create the environment where music will flourish. Sessions for beginners and improvers are very important. I often make this comparison; Not everyone who plays football or hurling gets to win All-Ireland medals but there are thousands who get great enjoyment out of playing together every Sunday. Long live the session
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Reflect; Healing The Wounds Of The Heart
All of us are wounded by sin.
The part of us which is most deeply damaged by sin is the heart.
The heart is so beautiful, so innocent,
but it can be betrayed, scorned and broken.
Darkness of the heart is the blackest night of all.
Emptiness of the heart is the greatest poverty of all.
A heavy heart is the most wearisome burden of all.
A broken heart is the most painful wound of all.
Only love can heal the wounds of the heart.
Lord, send your Holy Spirit to us,
to heal the wounds of the heart,
so that we may produce the fruits of love.
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Reflect- Robert Frost
Incredible and Strange Everything · Follow
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America loved him for peaceful woods and roads not taken. They had no idea he was writing from a darkness so deep, he buried four of his six children—and kept writing anyway.
Robert Frost is the poet Americans quote when they need comfort. His verses show up on greeting cards, graduation speeches, and motivational posters. We picture him as the gentle grandfather of American poetry—white-haired, wise, reciting verses about snowy evenings and country roads while sitting by a warm fire.
But that image is a lie. Or at least, it's only half the truth.
Robert Frost wasn't writing from a place of peaceful contemplation. He was writing from a place most of us pray we never have to know—a darkness so complete that the only way through it was to carve beauty from the wreckage.
His poems sound peaceful. His life was anything but.
Frost grew up poor in San Francisco, the son of a brilliant but troubled father who drank too much and a mother who struggled to hold their family together. Young Robert was a gifted student who read by candlelight because that's all they could afford, devouring books and dreaming of escape.
At 11 years old, he buried his father. Tuberculosis and alcoholism had taken William Prescott Frost Jr., leaving the family with nothing—no money, no stability, no safety net.
His mother, Isabelle, fell apart under the weight of grief and poverty. She turned to Spiritualism and séances, desperately trying to communicate with the husband who'd left them behind. Robert watched his mother slip away into a world of ghosts while he tried to figure out how to survive in the world of the living.
By age 20, having married his high school sweetheart Elinor White, Frost thought maybe life was finally turning toward light. Then their first child, Elliott, died at age four from cholera.
That kind of pain either destroys you or transforms you. For Robert Frost, it did both.
He failed again and again. He tried farming—failed. Teaching—barely scraped by. Editing—went nowhere. He was always broke, always watching his dreams evaporate like morning mist, always wondering if he'd made a terrible mistake believing he could be a poet when he couldn't even provide for his family.
His wife Elinor—the love of his life, his first reader, his anchor—grew frail with grief and exhaustion. They lost another infant. The weight of poverty and loss was crushing them both.
At 38 years old, desperate and nearly defeated, Robert Frost made one last gamble. He sold the family farm and moved them all to England, hoping for one final chance to make his poetry matter.
And in that tiny English cottage, something extraordinary happened.
Frost wrote the poems that would make him immortal:
The Road Not Taken
Mending Wall
Birches
After Apple-Picking
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
We read them as gentle stories about nature. Comforting reflections on simple rural life. But look closer. Read them knowing what you know now about the man who wrote them.
Under those quiet leaves and peaceful woods: loneliness, regret, isolation, self-doubt, the exhausting work of survival.
"A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom," Frost once said.
His poems began in grief and ended in endurance.
But tragedy wasn't finished with Robert Frost. Not even close.
Two more of his children would die. His daughter Marjorie died in 1934 from complications after childbirth. His beloved Elinor—his partner through every loss and failure—died in 1938, leaving him hollowed out with grief.
Then in 1940, his son Carol, struggling with depression, took his own life with a shotgun.
Robert Frost buried four of his six children. He buried his wife. He outlived nearly everyone he loved most.
And he kept writing anyway.
Not about escaping the darkness—he knew that was impossible. He wrote about walking through it without breaking. About finding reasons to continue when every part of you wants to stop. About the small, stubborn acts of survival that get you to the next day.
That famous line everyone quotes:
"I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
We think it's encouraging. Uplifting. A reminder to keep pursuing our dreams.
But knowing Frost's life, read it again. It's not encouragement—it's a vow. A man telling himself he has to keep going, even when the darkness whispers that stopping would be easier. Even when everyone he loved is gone and the miles ahead look endless and cold.
It's survival dressed up as poetry.
January 20, 1961. John F. Kennedy's inauguration. The entire nation watching.
Robert Frost, now 86 years old, stands before the crowd to read a poem he'd written specially for the occasion. It should be his crowning moment—America's beloved poet honored on the grandest stage.
But the sun's glare is blinding. The pages are unreadable. He can't see the words he'd prepared.
For a man who'd spent his life being undermined by circumstance, this could have been the final humiliation. The moment that confirmed all his old fears of failure.
Instead, Robert Frost lifted his chin and did what he'd been doing his entire life: he improvised through the darkness.
He recited a different poem entirely—"The Gift Outright"—from memory. Every single word perfect. His voice strong and clear.
Taking brokenness and turning it into brilliance. One more time.
That was Robert Frost.
Four Pulitzer Prizes. America's unofficial poet laureate. A voice that defined an entire era of American literature.
And underneath it all: a man who buried almost everyone he loved and somehow kept finding reasons to put words on paper.
He left behind poems that people quote for comfort, for inspiration, for those moments when life feels overwhelming. And most people have no idea about the pain that shaped those words. The accumulated losses. The grief that never quite went away.
But maybe that's exactly the point.
Robert Frost turned his heartbreak into language the rest of us could use for our own struggles. He walked through darkness so complete it should have destroyed him, and he came out the other side with poems that help the rest of us find our way.
He showed us that beauty and darkness aren't enemies. They're collaborators. That the most profound art often comes from the deepest pain. That you can lose everything and still create something that matters.
Robert Frost: 1874-1963.
The man who taught America that you can write about peaceful woods and still carry unbearable sorrow. That gentle words can come from brutal experience. That the road less traveled is often the one you take because all the other roads led to graves.
He walked through woods so dark he shouldn't have survived—through losses that would have broken lesser people—and left footprints for the rest of us to follow.
Not footprints that lead away from the darkness. Frost never pretended that was possible.
But footprints that show it's possible to walk through the darkness and come out the other side still capable of creating beauty. Still able to see wonder in falling snow and country roads. Still finding reasons to keep those promises and travel those miles.
Even when sleep sounds like mercy.
Especially then.
That's the real Robert Frost. Not the gentle grandfather. Not the comfortable poet of simple country life.
But the man who turned unspeakable loss into words that comfort millions who've never known his name or his story.
The man who proved that poetry isn't about escaping life's darkness—it's about learning to carry light through it.
And sometimes, when you've carried that light long enough, you become the light for others who are still walking through their own dark woods, wondering if they'll ever find their way out.
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Thought;
Today’s the feast of one of the patron saints of lawyers: Dominican Father Raymond of Penyafort (1175-1275). His codification of Church laws was so well done that it was used from the 13th century to the 20th. And his life was one of a continual loving advocacy for justice and freedom for all.
Among his accomplishments, he worked to set sinners free through a book on how best to administer the sacrament of penance; set up an organization to liberate Christians held captive by the Moors; pioneered learning Arabic and Hebrew to promote an equal exchange of ideas by all; and insisted on freedom of speech in public debates. Raymond was an advocate filled with the call for freedom of the Advocate, the Holy Spirit.
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