Reflecting on a lost brother
Letter to the Editor
The mass at 10:30 on the night of Tuesday, Jan. 30, 2001, was quite an oddity. The music was thrown together at the last minute, the Nicene Creed was skipped and 10 percent of the congregation was forced to stand due to lack of sitting space.
It was the most beautiful mass I had ever attended.
Allow me to begin afresh. In the Zahm Hall Chapel, a mass was held for Conor Murphy, a Zahm brother who was diagnosed with leukemia some time ago. As of Tuesday night, Conor's condition had worsened and the men of Zahm were informed that Conor was not expected to make it through the night.
A freshman, I do not know Conor personally. I had not met him and I was familiar with him only through the brotherhood that members of Zahm Hall share; the brotherhood often mocked on this campus, but the brotherhood that all people wish to know and possess. As an active member of the Zahm choir, our rector asked me to try and pull some music together for a mass for Conor.
Before the choir began to rehearse its first song of the night under my direction, the chapel began to fill. By the time the choir finished rehearsing its last song before mass, the chapel was filled to overflowing with supporters, friends and acquaintances of Conor and people like me: people who had never met Conor before.
Mass was said. As of that night, I had never cried before and I will never cry again.
As the tears left from my eyes, I wondered at the sheer stupidity of it all. It is only at times of tragedy that we stop to ponder life, its purpose, its wonder and its frailty. Every other week in our lives we walk around without a deep thought in our heads. This is true and everyone knows it. I went to LaFortune after the mass, hoping to be shocked back into the reality I knew and could be comforted by. I saw it there, on the face of every person who had not attended the mass, but I was not reassured. I saw how ugly it was, and how cheap it was, and how shallow it was. I hated it.
We get so wrapped up in all of the little things that cause us irritation or lead our lives. People continue to gripe about the last election, I receive weekly e-mails from an Iranian friend regarding the injustice of Jews in the Middle East and I hear young lovers quarrel over petty matters like misunderstood phrases and unappreciated looks.
Infrequently do we ever put our lives on hold and reflect on what is really going on: How have we grown? Are we happy? Is happiness defined in an ever-increasing set of goals? What are we doing with our time?
I do not know if Conor Murphy pulled through on Tuesday night, because I write this that very night. But I pray for him, as I pray for my parents, my sisters, my cat and the rest of my family. And I go to the grotto that night, light a candle, and sing "Notre Dame, Our Mother" with the rest of the students and others gathered there. And I look up and I see a leaf on the limb of the tree. It holds on, fearing the fall of letting go, knowing that it should be with the tree. The leaf is Conor. The leaf is me. The leaf is all of us. The leaf is everything.
The walk back to Zahm was cold.
Wm. Taylor Palfrey, Jr
freshman
Zahm Hall
January 30, 2001
All Viewpoint Stories for Thursday, February 1, 2001
