Monsignor Felix M. O'Neil gave the eulogy at Father's funeral. He had known him one month longer than I did. When Father O'Neil became pastor of St. Michael's in Newark, my brothers and I were sent to his parish school one of his parishioners by the name of Hoppen had a farm in Connecticut and Father O'Neil would go there from time to time Just to "rough it." on one such visit, Elias Hoppen told him the house across the road was now occupied. "Women are there and I heard they're Catholic, in fact, they call each other 'Sister.'" Father O'Neil crossed the road. It was then called Town Hill, but you know it today as Camp Trinita. He saw women in uniform but no veils, no rosary, no Crucifix--nothing to identify them as Sisters. A certain something let him know, though, they were truly "Women of God." That was early in July, 1923. The first mass was offered there on the feast of St. Anne, July 26th.

In early August, my oldest brother Bill returned from the Passionist Monastery, Pittsburgh, as he was not accepted for profession; and, he went to Father O'Neil for a letter of admission to the Diocesan Seminary.

In the meantime, Father O'Neil had met Father Judge and learned something of this new Order in the Church, He also learned they already had two foundations in New Jersey--Orange and Gillette.

Bill went with Father O'Neil to the Gillette house - a farm about 25 miles from Newark. A model T stood in the front yard, but the drivers were on Retreat and the Sisters were walking two miles each way to St., Vincent Church in Stirling, so my brother returned to Gillette after this visit--to be their driver. Immediately, without benefit of candidacy, postulancy, novitiate or profession, he became Brother William. August 15th, when Barringer -High Summer School closed, I joined my Mother and Dad who were going to visit Bill. When we arrived at the Farm, a woman wearing a black dress rushed out to greet us and then another and another--Sr. Sacred Heart Clark, from Upstate New York; Sr. Mary Paul Burke from the Bronx, New York, Sr. Angel Guardian Burr, from Cottonton, Alabama, and Sr. Rosario Shanahan from Ireland. Our first visit was to the Head of the House--a Chapel with about ten pre dieus and an altar, Except Bill, who had been an altar boy--we had never been so near an altar before. Then, we sat down to dinner, Sisters, Brothers, Farmhands and our family. A long family table. We saw firsthand Father's Vision of a family in the life of the Cenacle. This was my first impression we are all together, laughing, talking, Joking, eating, having fun over the news which had Just arrived in the mail that the newly appointed Superior was only twenty-eight years old. They called her, though, a Custodian.

We ate together and we prayed together. We visited the farm. We saw the barns and livestock,- the chickens, the geese, the river. When it was time to leave, my Dad left a donation for all our hospitality. Later, I learned the Sisters were out of cash and had been praying to the Three Kings for help. They loaded our arms with fresh produce from their garden; 'and invited us to come back. Needless to say, I went back and back and here I am now.

The weekend of Labor Day, I was at Gillette and I heard someone say, "Father's sleeping, so be quiet." Some Sister asked me If I would like to shine shoes. It was a Saturday ritual (in 1923) to prepare for Sunday morning church. I shined several pairs of shoes.

Father walked out of the dining room into the kitchen and said: "Something smells good." I said, "do you want a shine?" He put his foot on the metal form of my box and while I shined, he asked my name, my age, my school, my grade, my City, my Church, and my Pastor's name. When I finished his job and my answers, he reached out his hand and made the Sign of the Cross on my forehead. I looked up into his face and saw his blue eyes, his wavy gray hair; he was smiling and thanking me for the shine. Then he walked around the kitchen showing off his shined shoes and saying, "Mary did that." Everyone he saw held say, "did you see my shoes? Mary did that." He made me feel ten feet tall. I was just thirteen.

When Father told anybody about anything you did, it became a charmed thing, indeed. Like, if you cut a grapefruit and fluted it around the edges--or, how one day you polished his shoes, or, even if you dried a glass, the glass would take on an extra shine because of the way Father would describe it--with his eyes beaming, a little glint in his eye and his smile.

When Father told Father O'Neil about his Cenacle Apostolate, Father O'Neil said, "I have a family in my parish that is already doing that." He brought Father to our home. My father and mother had been using our home for Apostolic work for many year. My father taught reading and writing three nights a week around our dining room table to Italian laborers so they could take their license in plumbing. They could do the work but they couldn't get the license. My mother would come in at the close of the session with refreshments and ask about their family--how many children, were they all baptized, then get around to their marriage, to the Sacraments, etc. I don't know how many times they stood up with a couple who had their marriage validated. Father listened and even sent Sisters to' listen to how my parents did it. They were teaching Father how a layman 'has to do Apostolic work in his home. I learned later that Father was against smoking, but at the table, when my Father offered him a cigar after the meal, Father took it, lighted it, and smoked. When the Sisters said, "they never saw Father smoking before," I knew he did it so as not to embarrass my Dad, who was a big smoker and this was his way of being polite to Father. Our home was always open to the Down- and- outer; and we were taught to respect them. The men who would come to collect papers might be reforming from alcohol abuse with the Salvation Army or the Volunteers of America. My brother would be sent in the house, "tell mother we have company-- set an extra place at the table." My Dad would take his identifiable hat, call him "Captain." show him the washroom and then set him at the table. We all listened to our guest's stories while we ate and some of them would be more than interesting.

When my parents and Father became real close over this Apostolic work which they shared, Father told them that he was interested in opening up the Gillette farm to raise chickens. Someone had told Father that if he could get a lot of chickens, they could sell eggs; and, this would be a means of revenue for the Sisters. Well, my Dad recruited all the men who worked with him at his off ice. They worked weekends and holidays and far into the night, to build chicken coops. They were probably the best built chicken coops in New Jersey. The chickens arrived and the Sisters looked forward to their revenue. The problem was that the first week the chickens began to lay eggs, they brought eighty-seven dozen eggs to my family's home, and now my parents found themselves in the egg business. I remember the Sisters and Brother Augustine Philips at our dining room table, making a list of people whom my parents thought might take two-or three dozen and then phoning Rest Homes, Hospitals, Nurseries, etc. A regular route was set up and when the day came for them to come, we Id have three or more extra for meals; and, if all was not sold, we'd have overnight guests. There was one particular week when my Dad said, "we'll take three dozen;" and the Sisters had sold every blessed egg and had not kept any for us.

My family, by now had a fifty trip family train ticket to Gillette. In July, 1924, one day, I used it to go to Stirling. I was not aware of it, but a Sisters' Retreat was going on and although I came to see Father, a Sister would always make it to the door before I could. I waited a long time and when I heard Father didn't eat yet, I went and sat on a little ledge inside the door that lead downstairs. When Father opened the door to go down, I said, "Father, I'm waiting to see you." Father brought me downstairs and I had dinner with him. When we were finished eating, he asked the Sisters who were waiting, "would you mind if Mary sees me? She came all the way from Newark to see me. You wouldn't mind If she took your place, would yOU9.11 That was the day I told Father I wanted to be a Missionary Servant of the Most Blessed Trinity. Father and I had a long talk. Then we went to Chapel which was later our dining room, there. There was no predilla. Father and I knelt on the floor. Father said a prayer--a prayer that I have never heard since. He introduced me to the Court of Heaven, one by one, the Eternal Father, the Incarnate Son, the Holy Ghost, the Blessed Mother, St. Joseph, the Angelic Host, especially my Guardian, Angel.
One day, I said to Mother Mary of the Incarnate Word, I never have seen that prayer in all the writings; and, she said, "I know what you mean--I never have either."

When we came out of Chapel, Father said to me, "do you know what today is, child?" (Father always called everyone "child.") I said, "Friday." He said, "but what Feast?" I did not know, so he said, "today is the Feast of St. Vincent de Paul." Father continued, "St. Vincent de Paul always gives me a gift on his Feast Day, and your vocation is the gift from St. Vincent." Then, Father told me to have my mother come to see him. My mother came in a week or so. He began to speak to her, and she said: "Father, if you have anything important to tell me, I have to wait until my husband is with me--we have never done things alone." Father laughed and said, "You're very old fashioned".

My Dad came in with her. Father told them both together I asked to be an M.S.B.T. They agreed if I completed High School, they would not withhold their permission. Then, Father told them I could be an M.S.B.T. and finish High School in Trinity Academy, In Alabama, there were both grammar and high school. When my Dad .heard Academy, he was somewhat softened in his position as he knew he could not afford Academy tuition. My mother had a great love, and some fear of God(Whom 5he always called "Gawd") that whatever God wanted, He could have, one way or another. Children (she believed) were only loaned, not owned. Father could paint a rainbow with words and Trinity Academy became like the polished shoes, the cut grapefruit, the shined glass.

When I arrived at Holy Trinity, Alabama they did have a High School and a Grammar school. The High school was one room in the Utility Building. At a long pine table were Alice and Grace Ledwige (Father's nieces), Catherine Berry (S. Mary Patrick Berry's daughter), Betty Taylor (S. Thomas Augustine Taylor), Ann Sara (S. Mary Louise Sara) and (probably) two more girls from Columbus, GA, whose names I do not remember. It was a-different kind of High School than I had been attending for the past two years. In your imagination, you at least pictured some kind of a brick building, not a single room with second hand one-armed chairs. It helped me to understand Father: he wasn't lying--he just saw everything through the light of God and then held paint a picture in words.

There was a lot of activity going on in the year 1923. Town Hill had their first mass and blessing, July 26th, the Feast of St. Anne--as a Retreat House for the Lay Apostolate in New England. Stirling had been purchased and had a first mass and blessing just two months later as a Retreat House for the Lay Apostolate in New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. My Dad set up the first Altar and prepared it for the stone. The first Tabernacle was a medicine cabinet. The Chapel was what some of you knew as a dining room. The corner house on Long Hill Road, that you now know as Trinity Ministry Center was opened as a Boarding School for boys. It was blessed just one year later on September 14th, in 1924 as the Blessed Trinity Academy. There was no calendar preparation as of today, two or three years ahead, we just went with the flow as the Holy Spirit put things in our way. We prayed and things happened. Once we knew it was God's will. We went ahead.

One cannot speak of early days in the Cenacle and of Father, without telling of Mother Boniface, who was our heart. On September 14th 1924, less than two months after Father had spoken to my parents, he called me over after the Blessing. of Blessed Trinity Academy, Stirling, N.J, Father introduced me to Mother Boniface as "her new child." Mother Boniface told me there was a Sister returning to Holy Trinity in two days; and, if I could be ready, I could go with her. My parents were at the Blessing and they were told. I went home to pre pare. We had one whole day and it rained. I remember my mother drying my clothes in front of a gas oven.

My mother 'brought me to Gold Street, Blessed Trinity Missionary Cenacle, Brooklyn; and, Mother Boniface was there. We went by trolley, by train, by taxi to the Brooklyn Bridge, where we took another trolley. I left almost immediately with Sr. De Sales Demeny to meet Sr. Hilda Johnson at Penn Station, NYC. We missed the train and I then had to return to the Cenacle at Gold Street. I found my mother tearfully talking with Mother Doniface; and. then, Mother Boniface said, "I'll take you with me as far as Philadelphia. We'll meet Sr. Hilda Johnson there." My mother insisted on going as far as the train station and I begged her not to because I was afraid she'd cry. I was asking her to say "goodbye" to her only girl, the youngest of five children, on her twenty-second wedding anniversary. My mother came and kept her -promise "not to cry." In the train, every once in a while, Mother Boniface would ask me., "are you alright, Mary?" 11 finally said to her, I think I'm alright but please don't make me talk." I could hear the wheels of the train, saying, 'you're going farther and farther and farther away from home.

We left in the afternoon from Philadelphia for the south, Sr. Hilda Johnson and Catherine Woodvine, a girl from Nova Scotia, who became Sr. Winifred Marie, and me.

In Holy Trinity, Alabama, I'd go as a Postulant to the woodpile after my-Chapel visit. It was about a city block from the original Chapel. I'd wait there for Mother because I knew she'd come to get her load of wood. We could talk all the way over to the kitchen, which was about two city blocks. We'd dump as much as we could carry into the woodbox in the kitchen, Everyone did that. We were family--everyone helped if you were able. It was not a private thing--she shared what was happening in the Cenacle with us--we shared Holy Trinity happenings with her.

One day, on my way to Chapel through the porch, a man stood at the screen door and asked to see Mother Boniface. I asked him to wait while I went to the office to tell them. Sr. Marie of Precious Blood (Campbell) came out of Mother's office, and said, 'Tell him she's not here." I did. The next day, at the woodpile, Mother called me over and said, "Today, we'll walk alone to the woodbox because I have to tell you something." She said, "when the man came yesterday and asked for me and you came in and asked for me, I didn't want to see him. Sr. Marie told you to tell him I was not home, but what I really meant was that I wasn't home (to him)." "Oh," I said, "I knew that; we used to get phone calls for my Dad and my Mother would want him called only at his office so she I'd say he wasn't home (to the call). But, I knew Mother Boniface was being very careful that I wasn't getting the impression that she or Sr. Marie were being dishonest. It was important to her to take care of this personally--she didn't- take it for granted that I knew. She wanted to make sure.

Mother Boniface had a sense of humor. When Sr. Peter Custy complained, "Mother, why on earth did you name me as bookkeeper at the Bureau (of Catholic Charities)," her answer was, "I knew you were a Librarian (before you entered) so I thought you knew all about books." Then, she laughed.

Six months after receiving my name and garb, I went to St. Patrick's School Phenix City, Alabama, but I was only there long enough for the school to be cleaned before re-opening. Mother Boniface had me return to Holy Trinity and she then told me, "I have a very special assignment for you." There were six boys at St. Joseph's who did not fit into the classes there. They were to take some school work on the Sisters I side in Holy Trinity Academy. "I picked you out," she said, "because I know you had only brothers and you are used to boys. I want you to be with them before school at recess, lunch hour and even after school, till the car comes over to bring them to St. Joseph's. on rainy days, you can use upstairs in the utility Building and I'll get you games and tools if you want to make things." It was only after I grew up that I knew Mother was only protecting their vocation from the girls at Holy Trinity.

I felt important; I felt missioned and needed. Joseph Brediger, later, Fr. Lawrence was one of my boys. I was going to be sixteen in a -month. To let me be recognized as a real teacher, they gave me a twenty minute class in Mental Arithmetic for the fourth, fifth and sixth grades.

In 1928, Mother Boniface sent me to St. Elizabeth's Social Center, Rockford, Illinois, to do "Boy work," and, to New York to the Grand Central School of Art to learn carpentry and Shop Work. There, I was one female with about forty men, who at first scorned me, but later we'd swap tools.

After the fire at Holy Trinity, Mother Boniface assigned me to drive in Philadelphia, PA. She told me, "if you are careless or have an accident, we may lose the privilege of driving." Each assignment carried a weight. It was important, not to me but to the community. Father and Mother always reminded you that you were a Servant--this is not for you; this is for God--you are but one cog in a wheel that goes round and round.

One morning, we left the Cenacle at Wynnefield Avenue, Philadelphia, to make our rounds with the banks. We lost everything in the fire at Holy Trinity, except the debt. Mother Boniface, a small town country school teacher, now had to go from bank to bank, looking for credit. Depositing here, only to cash at another bank; establishing credit because our limited lease and temporary shelter would soon be up. She got out and told me to go around the block; she wouldn't be long. I went around once and the second time she was waiting. When she got in the car, I said, "Mother, you can't go around a block in Philadelphia; you have to go around four blocks; they call it a Square; they are all one way streets. Patting my leg, she said laughing: "Francis Damien, when I get to Heaven, I am going to be the Patroness of Parking. We do already have a Patron for Drivers, but they have no idea what it is like down here, and you remember.that.11 It was August, 1931, and in November, she was dead at forty-six.  I was. in Cleveland, Ohio. Fr. John Joseph Morrisey the Custodian went to Mother's-funeral in Philadelphia,. Sr. Mary Alice Vose came from Pittsburgh to be with me. Sr. Agnes Mary Comer had to go home tor her mother's funeral.

The Cleveland Mission had only, been open a few weeks. A priest from the parish knocked at the back door and asked if I would do a favor. "Yes, Father," I said and when he asked if I would wrap and mail a bottle of pills to his Mother, it seemed so simple. she had to have them by morning when I closed the door. I said to Sr. Mary Alice, "I don't know if we have wrapping paper". She answered me, "we'll find some." This was a period in the Cenacle when we didn't read newspapers, so every bit of wrapping paper had to be used for our household needs. We looked. No luck. Did you ever look for wrapping paper in your house? Then I remembered lining my bureau drawer with paper a few days before. I went up; dumped everything on the bed; pulled out the brown paper. As I wrapped up my package I saw written on the inside "Mother Boniface Keasey," as she had sent us our Chapel Prayer Books just a few days before. I said, "Mother, you're laid out in the Cathedral in Philadelphia but I know you are in Heaven with God. You find me a parking place down at Cleveland's Post Office when I go to mail this package and I'll tell somebody about it." She didn't fail and she has never failed me since.

The last time I saw Mother Boniface, she came to our Cenacle in Uniontown, PA. It was a weekend visit with Mother at her best. She played the piano, sang, poked fun at Sr. Anthony Rivers (who was her close friend from a long time). We put her on an early train to Philadelphia. That night Mother phoned and first told Sr. Anthony what a good time she had. Then she asked, "are you willing now to make some sactifice?" Mother and Father always prefixed a request which t-hey thought might be a little hard with a question which reminded us why we were asked to do it. Always God was foremost. Sr. Anthony whined, "Oh, Mother, what are you going to ask me?" Mother said, "I'm moving Frances Damien, tomorrow." Then Mother asked to speak with me. Mother Boniface told me she needed me in Cleveland right away. Sr. John Joseph Morrisey was there but sick. She was living in a "Woman's Residence;" but Monsignor Smith (pastor of the Cathedral) had fixed up a Community Center and living quarters for three Sisters. He was having a fit because he had not seen any Sisters yet. I said, "Mother, what will I do?" She said, "you've been in Rockford, you know all about clubs and classes. Get something started." "What if I make mistakes?" She answered, "Francis Damien, you can do it and even if you make mistakes, you doing something." These were the last words Mother Boniface spoke to me because that was the night she left for Holy Name of Jesus Hospital, Gadsden, Alabama.

It was after Mother Boniface had gone to God. Father," I said to him one day, "I don't think I can stay on this Mission." "Why?" he asked. "I don't get along with the Custodian." "Why don't you get along, child?" "Well, she's short and I'm tall and she is always ribbing me about that, telling me that I think I'm something special because I'm straight and tall." "Is there any other reason for you not getting along with hey other than being tall?" he asked. "Well, yes. One Sunday, Mrs. Grambly was taking the Sisters out for a drive to see the autumn leaves." The Custodian said, "I'm not going," so I said, "I don't want to go either because I want to prepare for my class, tomorrow." The Custodian really wanted me to go. After the Sisters left for the ride, the Custodian went out. I was home alone when the phone call came that two Sisters were in the hospital. There had been a car accident. I had no way to locate my Custodian so I called the Motherhouse in Philadelphia. They told me to go to the Hospital and call them back. After my second call, they said, "have sister (Custodian) call us when she comes home." "I'm sure this also is part of my problem." "Well," he said, "in that case you had better ask Mother Mary of the Incarnate word for a change and tell her that Father told you to."

To let me know that he wasn't angry with me for asking for this change, he put his hands in his pockets and said, "now Father wants to give you a little treat." He never had much money. He emptied all his pockets and laid the change on the table. I think it amounted to ninety-four cents. Then he said, "I want you to buy an ice cream soda on your way to the Motherhouse. That's a treat from Father. Now you buy it at the Railroad Station on your 'way back."

I was supposed to talk to you today about Father's vision, but I only told you of some of my own experience with Father and Mother.

About his Vision: Father once wrote as quoted by Sister Joseph Miriam Blackwell, In Ecclesial People: "Study the signs of the times for the manifest action of the Holy Spirit in the Church. Every age in the Church has it's own problems and God is always preparing men and women of FAITH and COURAGE who will respond to them in a manner suitable to the age."

Do a good job,