Paula and the Hour of Blessing at Banyan Tree

Fr. Edward B. O'Sullivan, M.S. (1910-1951), missionary in Burma (now Myanmar), pausing at the grave of Fr. Wieńczysław Weslak, M.S. (1908-1938)It was after a week of touring the villages that I came to Nyaungbin (meaning Banyan Tree) on the south-central shore of Burma. In the early 1940s I had last been here and found it a most discouraging sort of place. One is never more fully aware of the abyss that separates true Catholic life from sheer, awful unbelief than when we’re out in these villages. It is truly the work of heaven and none of the poor missionary's doing when the spark of faith perseveres in such an overwhelming darkness.

So I wasn't surprised that the few Catholics at Banyan Tree had only the barest sparks of the fire of faith left in them, what with the war (World War II) and the absence of priests adding to their unwholesome surroundings. It was our business – mostly the catechist's in this case, to be honest about it – to fan a little flame from those few embers.

We were in the midst of a catechism examination. It was of a young lad from another village who has been waiting for some time for Baptism and will soon be a Catholic. One of our few surviving Catholics burst in on us with the news that his sister lay dying in a nearby hut. Would we come and anoint her?

Anointing of a poor elderly woman

She was truly a pitiful sight. Well over sixty years of age, she was shriveled up into a tiny thing. Her old wrinkled hands with the skin hanging loosely on them reminded me for all the world of big raisins. She lay on the floor on a small square of thin quilting, scant protection for her old bones from the cold and hardness of the bamboo flooring. She seemed to have no eyes at all, though her brother assured me that she could see dimly now and then, at other times being quite blind.

But if her old shrunken body had nearly run its race, her soul was still very much alive. She brightened up at once when she knew the priest had come. It was so long since she could go to confession. Oh yes, she knew how to confess and all about anointing and viaticum. The thought of it all put new life into her. But did I bring her a rosary? It was before the Japanese came that she lost hers and she did so want one. Fortunately I had one to give her and a medal and she was immensely pleased.

Her name was . . . Paula

Group of families with woman with rain hat in 1940sI asked her, "Do you remember your Christian name?" It took a lot of asking but finally she understood what we wanted. "Oh yes, wait a minute and I'll get it," came the slow answer.

After quite a struggle with her memory she told me, "There were two of them that went together. He (her brother) was named after one and I the other. But who were they now?" At this point he came in to help for his name is Peter. "Was it Paula?" "Paula? Paula? and he's Peter? Yes! Yes! that's it—Paula."

And so we anointed Paula and gave her all the last rites to prepare her for death, between her repeated moans of "K'yaier, (I'm tired)." Yet she insisted on sitting up the whole time. We left her quite happy with her new-won graces, and her rosary.

Somehow the whole atmosphere of Banyan Tree seemed changed by our visit to Paula. Our catechist's instruction with catechism pictures that night proved a very impressive session for all. To think that such a beautiful soul could blossom forth in the very heart of a non-believing situation. God's grace is wonderful.
Local family home during the World War II