Paul Nicholson SJ

I lay awake one night in the hard-to-let council flat we theologians had in Clapton while our drunken neighbour systematically smashed every window of his partner's flat below us.  The next day the local council called tenants to a meeting to discuss whether we wanted the doors painted blue or red when the estate was next refurbished.  As it turned out, the budget ran out that year before our decision could be implemented.

The first Mass I celebrated in Soweto was the funeral of an 18-year old woman who had been shot dead when a family argument spiralled out of control, and the guns which they had to protect themselves from apartheid-sponsored violence were brought into play.  Although they and I had no language in common, the grief of the mourners was overwhelming.

As a rookie hospital chaplain in Boston, I sat helplessly at the bedside of a young woman suffering from AIDS.  She had been infected by her husband, who had died a little while later.  Her only child had been born with the virus, and only lived for three months.  When I made my next visit to the wards a week later, the woman herself had died.