The anniversary of Hugh Doyle, Fr Doyle’s father

A photo of the Doyle family, taken in 1907, shortly after Fr Doyle’s ordination. The occasion is his parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. Hugh and Christina Doyle can be seen in the centre of the middle row.

Today is the anniversary of Hugh Doyle. the father of Fr Doyle. He died on this day in 1924 at the ripe old age of 92. 

Fr Doyle clearly had a close relationship with his father. It is due to this relationship that we know so much about his experiences in the war as he wrote many letters home to his father. He clearly missed his father and wanted to reassure him that all was well. 

One of the striking characteristics of his letters to his father was their remarkable cheerfulness. Here he is, surrounded by death and squalor, yet he makes the effort to be cheerful in his letters, to reassure his father and to very warmly express his love and affection for him. It illustrates Fr Doyle’s own virtue and concern for others, as well as his filial love. 

There is one further charming story about Hugh Doyle. One night in 1922 (he would have been 89 or 90) he was disturbed by a burglar who made him get up and open all of the drawers. As he was ransacking the drawers he came across a photo of Fr Doyle who had been dead for 5 years at this stage. The burglar became excited and asked who it was. Fr Doyle said that it was his son who had given his life for the soldiers in Flanders. The robber responded by saying “That was a holy priest, he saved many souls”. He then took the card, kissed it, put it in his pocket, and left the house! 

The grave in which Fr Doyle’s parents are buried.
Deansgrange Cemetery, County Dublin.

 

The Third Station of the Cross by Fr Willie Doyle

The Third Station of the Cross: Jesus falls for the First time

Image courtesy of St Raphael's Parish, Surrey. www.straphael.org.uk

Bravely has our Lord borne the galling weight of His cross; bravely has He struggled on, tottering and stumbling, longing for a moment’s rest, yearning for a respite however short. But rest He will not, that He may teach us how unfalteringly we must press on to our goal. But nature will have its way. His sight grows dim; His strength fails and with a crash our Saviour lies extended on the ground. Oh! if you have not hearts of stone let Him lie even thus, poor, crushed and broken thing. If you have but one spark of compassion left, one tender feeling of sympathy urge Him not on awhile, so spent, so weary. On a poor maimed brute you have pity – think of the sorrow of Him extended there.