Peter Hartnett, Intercessor for Priests
We Are Surrounded by So Great a Cloud of Witnesses
The month of November out of all the months of the year reminds us the most emphatically that we live in a massive communion of saints that extends throughout the world and into a world that we cannot see or touch. At Our Lady of the Cenacle we have already celebrated two All Saints Days — All Saints on 1 November, and All Saints of Ireland on 6 November — and we are awaiting our third All Saints Day — All Saints of the Benedictine Order on 13 November. Our Epistles have been drawing a lot from the Apocalypse — the signing of the 144,000 on All Saints Day and the descent of the New Jerusalem from Heaven on the Feast of the Dedication of St John Lateran — and we have started reading the Prophets at Matins. We have entered a moment of liturgical time where worlds seem to collapse. The saints and suffering souls seem close and we begin feel that this is truly the last hour, as St John called it (1 Jn 2:18).
This is the story of one of those heavenly friends and lower-case saints that has become close to us in the monastery. Although he was over the age of reason, his innocence makes him like those whom St Thérèse called “holy innocents”, as she did her own four siblings who died young, one of those who, as she put it, stole heaven by entering it so early.
“You Just Close Your Eyes and You’re with Jesus and Mary”
Thirty-four years ago today, at 7:15 am on Martinmas, 11 November 1990, a courageous little boy died after a lifelong struggle with cystic fibrosis. Peter Hartnett had turned seven just a few months earlier on 3 July. We first heard about him five or six years ago when his parents visited the monastery. Since then, we have been impressed with the way he lived, with his love for the priesthood and for the Eucharist, and with his compassion and desire to intercede. Right up to the end, he was filled with faith and love for Jesus, Mary, and the priesthood.
He was constantly surprising, constantly edifying. When, toward the end, Peter had to wear a mask to help him breathe and his father had tried to fix his mask a little bit, Peter spoke up and said: “It’s okay, daddy. I’m dying, and it’s okay I’m not afraid of dying. You just close your eyes and you are with Jesus and Mary!”
My Cross is my Cough
It was not only to his father that this unusual boy said unusual things.
Once a nurse was making his bed. She moved back and forth. Peter and his mother chatted with each other. Then Peter spoke up and addressed the nurse. “My cross is my cough,” he informed her, “What’s yours?” he asked.
The nurse nurse stopped bustling about the bed. “Sorry?” She asked.
“My cross is my cough,” Peter repeated “What’s yours? You know, like Jesus. Everyone has one.”
The nurse was taken aback in surprise. “I’m not sure,” she stammered. “I’ll have to think about it.”
Peter Gerard Sean Hartnett
Who was this child with so great a faith?
Peter was born on 3 July, 1983, a in a large Irish family. He was frail from the beginning. At four months, a downturn almost cost him his life. When the diagnosis came, it was cystic fibrosis. The doctors predicted a short life and advised the family to move a better climate. They tried to find a home in Trinidad, and, after that, would move several more times in Peter’s short life, seeking the best location.
Peter’s Character
Peter’s personality developed strongly and beautifully in his seven years on earth. He was a brother who loved his brothers and sisters and they were very close. He accepted everything, and was cheerful despite the pain. He was gregarious and helpful. He looked towards others and particularly had a heart for the poor and for those who were suffering. His own suffering was borne in silence. Though he was obviously suffering, he did not focus on it in conversation. He had patience through it all, and he was grateful for everything, both at home and in the hospital. In fact, he was in the hospital a lot, since he had fortnightly visits and a number of long stays. During this time, he made friends with the other suffering children.
11 November
In March of 1990, his parents were informed that nothing more could be done for the lad and that he might not make it to Christmas. He was to die in November, and in early November, an early Christmas party was thrown for him, because they knew that he would be spending the next Christmas in heaven, with the child Jesus, mother Mary, and the Holy Innocents. His family and his best friend came. Nurses and doctors brought gifts.
His heart was failing, his breathing laboured. On the long night before Martinmas, he was heard to call out twice “Mamma.” And then came the end, or, rather, the beginning.
About three days after, his mother was praying alone in the semi-darkness of the morning. It was early, and the sun was not yet up. The family was still present, and as his mother prepared to face the day, she whispered in her prayers: “I wish I could could hug you.” Within seconds, he seemed to see her son, Peter, coming towards her. He appeared as if he were about twenty. A white light shone from behind him. He fair hair glistened in the light. He walked with his arms outstretched, saying as he walked: “I want to hug you too.” He was so happy — smiling. Then he came close, and she had the impression that he hugged her, then suddenly he was gone. How could his family have any doubts that their beloved Peter, though he passed out of this mortal life, remained close to those still in this valley of tears?
An Intercessor
Peter was aware of the value of his prayers. He loved especially to pray for the holy souls. His meditation was on Jesus on the Cross, and he kept his eyes on the Blessed Virgin Mary. His parents taught him to offer up his sufferings in union with Jesus and Mary. He made this offering with the simplicity of a child, and he was heard to say, “I get with lot of souls out of purgatory with that cough!”
A Priestly Heart
Several years before his holy death, Peter knew what he wanted to be. He told the chaplain in Dublin that he wanted to be a priest, a desire which, despite how weak he was, made him very happy. This desired stayed with him, and the very month before he died, in September 1990, he declared to his family that he wanted to be “a priest, not a mathematician.”
He had made his First Holy Communion early, with the older group because his parents knew time was short. Because of this, he had the opportunity to grow closer to one particular priest who became his hero. He would receive his instruction, and then they would have an ice-cream together. His appreciation for the priesthood and for all priests grew through his contact with this priest. It also grew at the time he received confirmation (he took the name Sean).
He loved priests and gravitated toward priests and would pray and offer his suffering for priests. His desire was to be ordained, but, like another Marcel Van, God was satisfied with his desires alone. But can we not apply to him what St Thérèse said of those who loved the priesthood in life, that their souls will shine with a priestly radiance in heaven? His parents believe that he is an intercessor especially for priests.
A Eucharistic Heart
How much Peter loved Jesus in the Most Blessed Sacrament of the Altar! He would encourage his family to overcome difficulties to be able to go and receive Jesus. Once his little baby sister had a bad nosebleed. The family was just about to go to Our Lady Queen of Peace for Mass. “Peter,” his mother said to him, “we had better stay at home. Your sister has a nosebleed.”
“No, Mummy,” he replied. “We need to go to Mass for Jesus.”
This answer won the day, and off to Mass they went. Peter went to receive communion, but, as soon as he received the Host, he began coughing so much that there was nothing to be done but for his mother to receive the Host that had already touched Peter’s mouth.
“Mummy,” came the pious plaint, “You have had Jesus twice, and I have not!”
A Marian Heart
His love for the Blessed Mother was constant. He loved to visit her shrines and to pray for her.
One day, while he was with his mother in the potting shed, drinking cocoa with a blanket around him, Peter gave an indication of his intimacy with the Blessed Virgin. “Mummy,” he said, “Our Lady spoke to me just now”. His mother had such great respect for the inner sanctum of his soul that she simply remained silent and waited to see if he would say anything else. “Her voice sounds like music,” was all he added.
A Heart for the Poor
At some point, Peter had heard the saying of Mother Teresa about meeting Jesus “in His distressing disguises.” He never needed anyone to explain this to him. It made immediate sense. His empathetic heart combined with his faith, and his care for the “down and out” was regularly evident. He would often want to invite them to join his family for breakfast at their table in a cafe. Once in Dublin the family was having a cup of tea. A poor man walked into the café. His parents saw Peter’s head go down, as he often did when he was praying. His father asked him: “Are you okay?”
“Yes, daddy,” he replied. “That man is poor. He has no food. I wanted to pray for him. Can he have tea with us? He must be very hungry.”
So, of course, they invited him for tea, and, in Ireland, you never have tea on its own. There is always a scone, or some biscuits, and sometimes even a full meal.
He was always very kind. Sometimes it was after a hospital checkup, while the family was having breakfast, and Peter would want to invite the poor. “Mum Dad,” he would say, “can that man have breakfast with us?…he’s very poor…”
New Life in Christ
Peter’s seven years are an example of a life well lived, and we might reasonably expect that in heaven he continues to value those things so dear to him on earth: his family, the Priesthood, the Eucharist, the Blessed Virgin Mary, the down and out, and the poor souls in purgatory. May God grant him the grace to continue to make Jesus loved and to remember priests, especially on this day when he left this world in the hope of the resurrection.
