Fr Seamus Maguire

This is a series of short stories by Fr Seamus Maguire that have been inspired, for the most part, by his experiences as chaplain at the San Fernando GeneralHospital.
Fr Seamus hopes that this series of anecdotes may help to foster vocations to the priesthood and religious life.
Fr Seamus served the San Fernando Parish between 1995 and 2006. He has since returned to West Virginia, USA.

I was just getting into the car parked outside the church door, when a guy came up to me with a problem. I was in a hurry as usual – this time I was rushing to a “Communal Penance Service” at 7.00 p.m.

He said, “Father, I’d like to tell you something.” I took him a little further away for privacy, and then asked him what he wanted to ask. “Well, you know those kids that were on TV tonight? I know where they are,” he said.

I said, “Big deal. So, why were the kids on TV? Did they win a race or competition of some sort?” I asked. “No, you not see TV?” he said. “I don’t look at TV,” I said. “Well, on the radio?” “I don’t listen to the radio either,” I said.

“Well, these four kids are missing – kidnapping, they say.” “Oh?” I said a little more interested; “Do you know where they are?”

“Yes, I see them myself; they are on the farm opposite my house.”
“Well, why don’t you tell the police if they are kidnapped?” I asked.

“I afraid to go police” he answered; “I don’t want my name in the papers; I afraid they might come later and get me for telling.” He replied.

I took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eye, then with a slow, serious and even tone of voice I said, “I want to tell you a story!” “Oh, yes,” he said smiling all over, hoping to get rid of the responsibility of helping the kids by his going to the police.

“A Frenchman wrote a novel, about a man who witnessed a woman drowning in the Seine River in Paris. The woman splashed and screamed out ‘Help, help, help,’ and he stood on the bridge and did nothing. She came up again and tried to scream, but splashed and he stood and watched. She came up the third time and he still did not try to help her.

She drowned. The rest of the story was about the remaining days of the life of that man: he often came to that bridge and stood there, recalling the scene and the woman drowning, and her screams for help. He could never forget it.

“Now”, I said, moving closer to his face, “You know where there are four children – drowning – they are calling for help, help, help; you saw them; you can save them, but you just stand and watch. You watch four kids drown because you are a coward.

You’re just afraid to go to the police station and get someone to ‘jump in’ and save those four children.”

 I dug my forefinger into his chest and glaring at him said in a firm, loud voice, “Now, GO – NOW – RIGHT NOW, and report to the police where you saw those four kids, Go! Go!”

He was off running to the police station before I was finished the last “Go!”
Next day I read a headline in the paper: “Four Children Found Safe!”  I didn’t read the rest of the account, but thanked God that they had been saved.

The man in question could not trust anyone else. He could only trust a priest. Isn’t it strange how he came to me rather than go to the police? He knew a priest would properly advise him – no one else would do.

He recognised me, as a priest, because I always dress in my clerical uniform. I am proud of my uniform as a priest. People trust a priest and come to him in times of trouble.