tricky prism

Time the tricky prism

You are right, Father Tremblay, time is a tricky prism. Because it is, I find myself thinking not of your death in Oregon nor even of your last pilgrimage to Tonga when—weakened by a succession of strokes, you could only whisper your greetings to the many friends —both Tongan and papalangi, who came to see you for what we all knew would be the farewell visit.

What I remember now is a trip made over 25 years ago when, as newly-weds, my husband and 1 were travelling down from Vavau to Haapai on the old Hifofua.

You were on board returning to your beloved Lifuka and in no time at all you became a friend who then—and for all time after wards, used to joke about having been on our honeymoon with us.

I remember from so many times your joking, but even more I re member the love that flowed from

you—love for a couple of strangers, love for all the Tongans, love for God. Everyone remem bers the boats you built and the generations of boys to whom you taught your skill, but . . .

The tricky prism bends memory once more. It is 1962, 11 years since ill-health forced you to leave Tonga. For a happy while, you did publicity work for your church in the USA and Canada, telling young people who were consider ing a religious life of the many rewards that the missionary life, as you had known it in Tonga, had brought you, but that happy period was cut short when a stroke impaired your speech. Then you were sent to Honolulu to a new church, Star of the Sea.

Although speech was difficult for you, your hands had not lost their old skill. I remember the sunny morning I visited you. With what pride you showed me the altar rails and the pulpit which you had carved. I remember es pecially a solemn moment when you showed me a crucifix that had at its base a tiny relic of St Peter

Chanel. Always eager to turn the conversation to Tonga, you told me of Peter Chanel's frustrated attempt to stay and work in Vavau and reminded me that be fore he sailed away forever from its shores, he had climbed Talau Mountain, just opposite my house, and buried there a holy medal.

Your complete dedication as a priest, your hard work, your love of the Polynesian people who be came your people. ... I remem ber them all, but perhaps my best memory is of the parting moment of the Honolulu visit when you talked again of “the honeymoon trip on the Hifofua” and said with the old twinkle in your eye, “Let me know when you’re flying out of Honolulu and I’ll be at the plane with a lei . . . and a kiss."’

Time is a tricky prism and a good one. To me and to countless others, it brings back Patele Etuate, Father Tremblay . . . you who live still in our hearts and our memories. ’Alu a, Patele ’ofa ’atu. —Patricia Matheson, ’Utulei, Vavau.