I was in Tewksbury, MA, recently.  After we had finished the business for which we had come, I took a walk back to the cemetery where our Oblates are buried.  It was a cloudy, cold afternoon.  I was all alone.  It was very quiet.  I had not been there for a long time.  But it is always a must for me when I go to Tewksbury to visit the cemetery.  I like to go to say “hello” to those among whom I have had the privilege to live and work for a little more than half a century.

 

It may seem strange to others, but for me the memory of the Oblates interred there brings them to life again for me.  I was surprised and saddened this time to see that more than half of the graves now belonged to men I have known personally.  Either they were friends or I worked with them or I had some other connection.  The oldest, who lived and died long before my time, I knew from the stories I heard, they were legends.  I was there for more than an hour.  I stopped at each stone.  It was a deeply moving experience for me.

 

I visited my friends and colleagues.  I also visited all my teachers who are there.  Even though it was sad for me, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the lives of those Oblates.  I did not pray for them.  I envisioned them all welcomed by our beloved Founder, St. Eugene, whose dream they made reality in the missions they accomplished here on earth.

 

I looked around at the stones neatly in rows.  It’s not a large cemetery, but it is a lovely place.  I knew immediately this was hallowed ground.  It was hallowed not because some long-time-ago someone said prayers over it.  It was hallowed because of those who honored it as their last resting place, those blessed lives.  There were those who preached missions and retreats up and down the length and breadth of this country.  There were those who formed and taught generations of Oblates and priests.  There were those who carried the honors of their country for their service to our Armed Forces.  There were those who taught in our high schools and colleges.  There were those who founded parishes and pastured God’s people with such diligence and care.  And there, too, were our venerable Brothers whose humble ministry is still legend among Oblates today.

 

What a history of mission that touched the four corners of the world.  All of those years of hard, sometimes daring and heroic work.  It was not just the ordinary kind of thing one might expect.  Every one of them brought to their mission the unique gift that was so special and a generous self giving that is so uniquely Oblate.  Yes, I was sad, and old men do cry.  But, more than that, I was so proud of these blessed lives as I thought of the astounding things they did for the Church and for countless of God’s people wherever they were missioned.  I was humbled at the same time that somehow this old man had managed to be a little part of their lives.

 

It started to rain.  I walked back to the center of the field of honor.  There in the circle I saw the stone that marked the resting place of one to whom I had been so close as a scholastic, the great missionary of the Inuit, Bishop Arsene Turquetil, OMI.  I remembered his greeting when I visited him every evening, mon ti vieux!  It made me smile.  I turned to leave, took another look around.

 

As I walked toward the big glass room where about 70 or so of us had been working for the last two days, something happened.  It might have been just the rustling of the leaves in the trees that line the walk, but I like to think it was those blessed spirits from that hallowed ground whispering a prayer for us Oblates still living.

 

Thanks be to God who, wherever He goes, makes us partners in this triumph, and through us is spreading the knowledge of Himself, like a sweet aroma everywhere.  (2 Cor. 1:14)

 

I know that they now know how true that is.