We celebrated the Feast of St. Brigid on February 1st.
After the 11:30 Mass we went from "holy hour to happy hour" for some fellowship, song and food. We also pulled the $500 winner in the Pot'O Gold Bonanza.

Here is the poem Father Ralph read for the Feast of St. Brigid's...

"The Giveaway" (from The Love Leters of Phyllis McGinley, New York, Viking Press, 1957)

Saint Bridget was a problem child.
Although a lass demure and mild,
And one who stroveto please her dad,
Saint Bridget drove the family mad.

For here's the fault in Bridget lay:
She would give everything away.
To any soul whose luck was out
She'd give her bowl of stirabout;
She'd give her shawl, divide her purse
With one or all. and what was worse,
When she ran out of things to give
She'd borrow from a relative.

Her father's gold, her grandsire's dinner,
She'd hand to cold and hungry sinner;
Give wine, give meat, no matter whose;
Take from her feet the very shoes,
And when her shoes had gone to others,
Fetch forth her sister's and her mother's.

She could not quit. she had to share;
Gave bit by bit the silverware,
The barnyard geese, the parlor rug,
Her little niece's christening mug,
Even her bed to those in want,
And then the mattress of her aunt.

An easy touch for poor and lowly,
She gave so much and grew so holy
That when she died of years and fame,
The countryside put on her name,
And still the Isles of Erin fidget
With generous girls named Bride or Bridget.

Well, one must love her nonetheless,
In thinking of her givingness,
There's no denial she must have been
A sort of trial unto her kin.

The moral, too, seems rather quaint.
Who had the patience of a saint,
From evidence presented here?
Saint Bridget? Or her near and dear?

Now here are the "hidden verses", only recently discovered in an archological dig in the rectory back yard...

Now it's 1500 years later
One must think more of the Irish than potater
Brigid's generosity is seen in folks like you, you see.
You built this church, and watched it flourish
And countless generations nourish.

And folks like Kelly, & Miller, & Finegan
Saw this parish always begin again
When priests like Gaeta and Schaefer and before them Code
Led all of you further down the road
To God's good kingdom
And YOU pulled the load.

McCartins, McKenna's , McGowan's, and Cleary
Kept going on, even though you were weary.
Morris and Murphy, O'Reilly and Sheehan
All of your good works, clearly were seen.

Now God sent strangers into good Brigid's path
And she welcomed them whether they were Kilfoyle or McGrath.
Or even Zaino or Ianucci or Abatiello or Pascucci.

McGovern, Sullivan, Miller, & Cloonan,
Had equal status in the room
As Cavallaro, Buffolino & D'Allesandro, you see:
Brigid knew no end of hospitality

O'Toole or Rodriguez, Hoovert or Josey
Everyone could feel so cosey
In St Brigid's loving embrace
Didn't matter the language, didn't matter the race.

Fogarty, Cassidy, Clavin, & Clancy
Didn't matter if you were plain or if you were fancy.
There was a place at the Brigidian table.
She'd feed you with love as long as she was able.

And that's how we got to be who we are.
Do you come from right here? Or do you come from afar?
No Matter. You're welcome. Sit down where you are.

Happy Feast Day!