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Seven years ago, I got the inspiration to start a novel about Eileen O’Connor, a remarkable Australian woman currently being investigated for sainthood. I started researching almost immediately, rereading the biographies about her I had brought back from her house in Coogee, collecting more, talking with two of her nuns, walking the locations where she had lived and served and died. I finished my first draft in early 2020. It was an act of devotion to Eileen, a labour of love. And then, the tables turned. Eileen became my support and inspiration through a serious illness and slow recovery. Gradually, I returned to writing and editing. After submitting the completed manuscript to local publishers and collecting rejections, a friend I had made online, American author Perdita Finn (who has written several books including The Way of the Rose) recommended I send it to Monkfish Books. And now, seven years after I began, I am counting down the days till official publication on April 7th! Every Inch a Saint: a Novel about Eileen O'Connor, Australia's Second Saint-in-Waiting  is now available for pre-order in print and on Kindle on Amazon.com  and Amazon.com.au  In Australia, compare prices on Booktopia ​​For more USA purchasing options see Monkfish Books

Words have terrifying power. A well-told tale can evoke emotions. Rhetoric or a compelling slogan can rewire the human brain: we see examples on the news and in advertising every day. Words also have limitations. On one level, they pander to our inherent biases and cultural associations. But go deeper, and we see they are squiggles on a page, or sound vibrations in the air, wannabe symbols attempting to convey a single message about an ultimately ineffable mystery that can never be accurately described. Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,There is a field. I'll meet you there.. -Rumi That field is wordless, I suspect. Filled with silence and wonder, and birdsong, brook babble, the wind whispering in the leaves. Breathe that in. That field is where we can meet each other in peace. Every division, every prejudice disappears when the words and name-calling stop. Rhetoric falls lifeless on the ground and wars cease to be possible. I found that field by accident, in an intravenous infusion clinic, when I was recovering from a life-threatening illness.   An 82-year-old man sat in the next chair. He was clearly anxious, facing a major surgery soon, and the way he managed his anxiety was to talk. He had terrible veins, so the nurse apologised in advance, thinking she’d need to have a few attempts to get a drip in. She said she'd say a prayer to Saint Jude whose picture was hanging on the wall in the room. The old man protested, “As a scientist, I don't believe in that stuff. I don't believe in miracles.” The nurse got the drip in on her first attempt. I responded, “As a former doctor, I do believe in miracles and the benefits of grace.” He agreed to disagree and began to pour out his life story. He said, “I don’t believe in God, I don’t believe in Allah. I don’t believe in Jesus. I’m a scientist.” He migrated from Yugoslavia after World War 2. He trained as a medical scientist and told tales of the changes he had seen during his career. Many times, his whole face lit up as he said how lucky he had been. A priest provided a fake birth certificate for his father, so his family could be accepted as refugees in Australia. He’d had a terrible accident decades ago, and was the first person in the city to receive a new experimental antibiotic, which had just been developed and probably saved his life. He told me of his fascination for how things worked, for nature, for increases in scientific understanding. His passion was evident in every expression and gesture, and he'd say, “How wonderful! How lucky I am.” He told me about the countries he'd visited and the temples and mosques and cathedrals he'd visited, their beauty and the wonders of their history and architecture. “I don't believe in Jesus or Allah. I’m a scientist. Isn't it wonderful, aren't I lucky?” After he said it for the third time I couldn't keep silent any longer. I told him, “I see the wonder and awe and the passion for life in you. We believe in the same thing we just call it different names.” A rose by any name smells just as sweet …

Waverley Cemetery, where Eileen O'Connor's parents are buried This year when I made a pilgrimage to Coogee to honour Eileen O’Connor’s legacy, I went to visit her parents’ grave in the nearby Waverley Cemetery. I took a measure of good luck dispensed by someone who warned me it wouldn’t be easy to find and a photo of the grave in case that helped. I knew legendary Australians repose there too: bush poet Henry Lawson, and Fanny Durack, the first woman to win an Olympic gold medal in swimming, and I wanted to find them as well. I knew the cemetery ranges over hilly terrain on the cliff tops with spectacular ocean views. Charles and Annie O’Connors’ grave is not far from the fence along the cliff’s edge. I have an irrational fear of edges, so faced the twin hurdles of not having a useful map of the cemetery and not knowing if my courage would hold up as I got closer. The grave of legendary Australian bush poet, Henry Lawson and his wife Bertha The main entrance is far from the edge, so I got off to a good start. Established in 1877, the headstones are imposing Victorian gothic confections in marble and granite, marching down a hill that is deceptively reassuring in its gentle slope towards the azure blue beyond. I wandered, enticed to go beyond the architecture and discover the stories. Room with a View... In loving memory of Olive Lethbridge Cowper beloved infant daughter… aged 2 years And the gardener said, “Who gathered this flower?” Olive’s plot is full sized, so perhaps her loving parents came to join her. The grave is covered in crispy brown dead flower heads of some unknown weed.   Edward George Hall Aged 2 years and 8 months My Bud in Heaven In the midst of life we are in death This headstone isn’t ambiguous. Edward’s loving father joined him there, four years later, aged only 36, and his grieving widow followed, aged 47. Tragedies tripled.   In Memory of Our Dear Little Boy Thomas Gardiner Muir Born 21 st February 1886 Scotland Died 26 th March 1890 Born to parents so keen to give him a better life that they risked the long sea voyage from Scotland to Australia, only to have him die here just after his fourth birthday.   Surrounded by graves, the inherent, unavoidable tragedy seeped into my bones. Sometimes, it seems we live in an age of entitlement. Of wants and greed and ‘deserving’, the themes of modern advertising. Graves yawn, broken by time. Some have built-in vases, the promise that loved ones will bring flowers to honour the dearly departed parent, child, friend… the vases are empty. The generations of loving descendants are lost in the passage of time too. No one remembers them, either. The cemetery speaks: We aren’t entitled to anything. Not to surviving infancy, not to expectations of the health of our children. Not to life itself. How do we make sense of life when we are in the midst of death? What is left to measure a life by, if years - and time itself - are meaningless? If no one is left who loves and remembers us? What would the cemetery say to that? What would Eileen say? I wondered in the silence. Measure your life by what matters. Kindness. It is only our kindness that remains and only our kindness that we can take with us.   Eventually, I braved the steeper slope. The obvious presence of the cliff edge stirred my fear of falling, but I didn’t give up, I walked sideways, parallel to the edge, so I didn’t have to face it head on. Row after row of graves. None of them the O’Connors. Finally, I chanced on a cemetery worker and asked for help. Turned out, she doesn’t work here; her ancestors are here and she has been renovating their graves. She was generous with her assistance, but despite her knowledge and checking online databases, she couldn’t find them either. I pulled up the photo of their grave and she suggested I try to match the background: with no map and no compass the angle of a fence and a half-dead tree became my guides. A half-dead tree seems an appropriate signpost, doesn’t it? I’m sure God’s got a sense of humour.   And then I found it! I paid my respects and recalled incidents I remembered about them. The abiding love Eileen had for them. Annie and Charles O'Connor's grave Pondering impermanence, I listened to the ocean below. The same ocean that Eileen listened to as she lay dying on a sweltering day 105 years ago. It was choppy, with many small waves peaking. Each peak became a human head, as someone incarnated out of the cosmic waters. The little head popped up and bobbed along for a moment, thinking it was separate from all the other waves. Then it dissolved back into the ocean and disappeared. Wave after wave, head after head. Incarnating and dissolving.   In the blink of a cosmic eye, we all dissolve back into the ocean and discover there is no other, and we are all wet in the same ocean of love.

Eileen O’Connor was only twenty-eight years old when she died, ravaged by the tuberculosis that had converted bones in her spine to pus-filled abscesses, struggling for breath as her heart finally failed on the 10 th  of January, 1921. Even when she was alive, she was revered as a saint by many who knew her, who stored up memories and mementos of her, knowing her terrible illness would snatch her from them too soon. When she was well enough, she was carried out to sit on the grass at one of the many picnics held in the grounds of Our Lady’s Home for the Poor, for fundraising or to feed and uplift the hungry children of the sick poor. Once she had retired back to her bed, people would dig up the ground she had sat on, to treasure as a relic. Thinking about that gives me chills.   The Eileen O'Connor Centre. Portrait commissioned as a souvenir for her nurses, by Eileen when she knew she was soon to die. Life-sized statue of Eileen, who only grew to be about 3 foot 10 tall due to the illness that crippled her and distorted her spine. And now, over a century later, people in her local community continue to keep her memory alive. An annual Mass and morning tea are held in her honour at nearby St Brigid’s Church, after which her chapel and the new Eileen O’Connor Centre are opened to the public.   The evolving view from Eileen's garden: new housing, St Brigid's Church and the ocean. Of course, the landscape has changed since 1921. Eileen’s house, the original home of the Brown Nurses and home to Eileen from 1913 until her death is still there, with a view of the church spire and beyond that, the ocean. The current St Brigid’s Church was completed not long after her death, but the church she used to attend when she was well enough to be carried there was in the same grounds, and her nurses, later nuns, would through her gardens and down the hill to the church. Over time, Eileen’s gardens became smaller, and houses and apartments infilled the space, but there is a ‘secret’ narrow walkway that slips between building almost opposite the church, unofficially nicknamed ‘The Nun’s Walk’ that offers a little shade and nostalgia to those who want to avoid the heat on their walk to Eileen’s house after the service.   The secretive, unofficial 'Nun's Walk' Up at the house, the devoted and curious enjoy the opportunity to reflect in the chapel that occupies Eileen’s former bedroom, taking turns kneeling to pray at her tomb, which is opened for the day, bedecked in blue satin and revealing her coffin under the floor. Eileen was initially buried in Randwick Cemetery, near where many of her sisters and Fr Ted McGrath rest now. She had always planned to return here and was finally reinterred here fifteen years after her death. Her body was found to be incorrupt (perfectly preserved).   Eileen's tomb is opened on her anniversary The adjacent Eileen O’Connor Centre is an immersive museum, showcasing the remarkable contribution Eileen, her co-founder Fr McGrath, and the Brown Nurses have made not just to local sick poor, but to the history of nursing in Australia. And, through a century of change, that legacy continues. The Brown Nurses, no longer nuns, but still committed to compassionate service of the destitute and marginalised in inner Sydney, is one of the oldest continually-running not-for-profit community nursing organisations in Australia. It was swelteringly hot the day Eileen died and it was 43 degrees Celsius on her anniversary in 2026. The way Eileen’s Day is celebrated has changed over time, too. The final chapter of Every Inch a Saint: a Novel about Eileen O’Connor, Australia’s Second Saint-in-Waiting is set in 2020 at the ninety-ninth anniversary of her death. Back then, the service was held in the old meeting room at Our Lady’s Nurses for the Poor (the new museum is on that footprint now). Two hundred people overflowed the space and spilled out onto an adjacent patio. The late Sr Margaret Mary Birgan offered the communion wafers, just as she did in the novel. Sr Greta Gabb, who was so generous in helping me with the factual background of my story was there too. Covid then locked us down, but with Eileen’s centenary happening in 2021 and the advancement of her Cause for sainthood, the service has now moved to the larger space in the church down the hill. Every Inch a Saint will be published in print and on Kindle on April 7th, and is available for pre-order on Amazon.

Eileen’s chapel, Our Lady’s Nurses for the Poor, Coogee. This is where it all started, in a way, my journey of invitation to write a book about Eileen O’Connor. A pilgrimage. I didn’t know it then, of course. What I knew, that day back in 2018 was that I was in the presence of a saint. No doubt, no question. The air in the chapel was electric with holiness and I could feel it. Sitting alone in her chapel a few days before the anniversary of Eileen’s death in January 2026, I remember the pulsing electricity I had experienced before, but the atmosphere is calm now, dead calm. On this day 105 years ago, Eileen, aged twenty-eight, was lying in this house, waiting to breathe her last. The stillness of her house holds that memory. It’s hot. Not sweltering as it was on the day Eileen died, but hot enough to remind me of her suffering. The windows are all open today, and as the stillness fills me, I notice I can hear the soughing of the same sea that Eileen heard, long before me, carrying on a soft breeze that rustles the leaves of the trees in her garden, and the pristine white cloth on the altar. How many days and nights did Eileen listen to that ocean’s communion with the beach below? Feel the relief of a sea breeze on fevered skin? Smile at the squeals of faraway beach goers carried on the wings of the wind? Sea view from Eileen's verandah Further back still, on April 15 th , 1913, this is where the story of Our Lady’s Nurses for the Poor formally began, after Eileen moved here from the nearby home she had shared with her mother. The short journey was almost too much for the ill and crippled Eileen, who fell unconscious. The verandah just behind the chapel became a temporary bedroom for her as her family and her co-founder Fr Ted McGrath were afraid of the consequences if they carried her into her own room. Eileen's home, Our Lady's Home for the Poor And it was here, in September 1914 in her former bedroom, now filled with pews, that a miracle occurred. After being bed-bound for years, Eileen asked nurse Cissie McLaughlin to lay out some clothes for her. When she was alone, she slipped out of bed and dressed herself, shocking her visiting mother who found her bed empty and feared the worst, and her loyal band of nurses who had never seen her walk before. Here’s the bedroom door she walked through for the first time on that astonishing day, 18 months after she arrived here. A spontaneous celebration erupted in the nearby dining room. Eileen's former bedroom door As I contemplate this, there’s suddenly chatter and laughter, probably from that same dining room, where staff and volunteers are busy finalising celebrations for Eileen’s Day. Echoing the joy of that celebration, and the busyness of this house in Eileen’s Day, with nurses coming and going, telling Eileen about their challenges and successes with their patients, with fundraising fetes and regular garden parties for the local poor and children. And, finally, with pilgrims desperate for one last glimpse of the woman they revered as a saint in her own lifetime. Eileen's tomb in the floor of the chapel The walls of this holy place hold all these memories and more. The building creaks and groans as its timbers expand in the heat, its secret language that I am sure Eileen would know. And the sea whispers still. Silent tears of emotions I can’t put into words are running down my cheeks when Sr Kerry, one of the nuns I recognise but haven’t met before, comes into the chapel. As she leaves, she gives me a copy of a beautiful poem she wrote on the centenary of Eileen’s death. She blesses me for coming so far and tells me Eileen will love that I’ve come. I love that I’ve come too. Information about the Eileen O’Connor Centre: https://www.ourladysnurses.org.au/the-eileen-oconnor-centre Every Inch a Saint: A Novel about Eileen O'Connor Australia's Second Saint-in-Waiting will be out in print and Kindle on April 7, 2026. You can find it on Amazon.

Writing authentically about a real person, especially one being investigated for canonisation, is a daunting task that requires not just mindful research and reflection, but also devotion. Devotion to truth, to a frequent examination of my motivation and objectives, and devotion to the woman at the centre of my novel. Fortunately, Eileen O’Connor inspires devotion, not just in me, but in her sisters, her contemporaries, and many of us who have come to know about her since her death. I knew when I first sat in her chapel that there was something special about her. I left her house in Coogee armed with her biographies, which I read diligently and which left a lasting impression of a remarkable, unstoppable woman whose drive and compassion led to the foundation of a ground-breaking domiciliary nursing service to care for the sick and dying in Sydney’s slums, despite being deathly ill and the brunt of a hostile backlash from church authorities. When I was later inspired to write a novel about Eileen, I re-read everything and contacted Our Lady’s Nurses for the Poor to let them know what I was doing. I now see that the timing was perfect. Sr Greta Gabb interviewed me on the phone and once satisfied that my heart was in the right place and that my medical training and experience allowed me to understand Eileen’s medical condition, she became my friend and collaborator. Sr Greta wrote and emailed me with historical details and anecdotes about Eileen. She and Sr Margaret Mary Birgan reviewed the first draft of the manuscript and prayed for its publication. First draft and the cork board with images I used to set the mood for writing about Eileen. In January 2020, I went to Sydney to attend the annual mass to commemorate Eileen’s death, and spend a delightful day with the sisters. We spoke about Eileen, and about the manuscript. I was given access to the convent’s archives, to read Eileen’s personal correspondence and get a real sense of how she spoke. I studied copies of her X-rays. It was a profoundly emotional experience to hold in my own hands concrete evidence of her dire illness and constant pain from the tuberculosis infection that had destroyed bones in her spine. I walked the streets of Surry Hills and Redfern, getting to know them as Eileen would once have done. Tracking down her known childhood homes. Comparing the modern streetscapes with archival photographs. Taking photos. When we first meet Eileen in the novel, she is watched by a neighbouring child, sitting on a front doorstep, peeling potatoes. I needed to find that step, so I could see the scene through Kathleen’s eyes. And I did, the perfect step was on the opposite side of the street, just a few doors down from Eileen’s former front door. The Perfect Step I wandered around Coogee, working out where Eileen had lived before moving to Dudley Street, where she had been carried to get to church or the tram stop, where she had taken photographs at Coogee Rocks. The cemetery where her nurses are buried. There was a lot of walking, somehow, fortuitously scheduled in a few days before Sydney was choking in bushfire smoke from the terrible fires of the summer of 2019-2020. A few weeks after my return home, the world shut down for Covid and travel became impossible. I kept in touch with the sisters until Sr Margaret-Mary died in 2023 and Sr Greta became unwell in her nineties. Looking back, I see the serendipity in that window of opportunity. The sisters' experience, love and compassion deepened my understanding of Eileen and infuse the pages of the novel.

Part one: attention to detail in the historical backdrop to the story To write a historical fiction novel requires two things: research – cold, hard, accurate facts; and inspiration – something personal that touches the writer’s heart and makes the story authentic.   I imagined Eileen and her friend giggling over the difficulties of a girl dressed like this managing to do anything courageous. Contemporaneous events and the details of how people lived their daily lives are so important, they are almost characters in their own right. I learned this in primary school, watching a documentary on the ancient traditions of Eskimo hunters, long before the conveniences of modern shopping, tracking caribou across the tundra. The sudden flick of an animal skin-clad wrist exposed a digital watch (the must-have new accessory in the ‘seventies) and completely destroyed the credibility of the film in my young eyes. Since then, I have been appalled by faux pas including a zip up the back of the outfit of a medieval queen, and yellow roses in a Jane Austen-era movie. (In case you wanted to know, the first yellow garden rose, Soleil d’Or was released in 1900. It got terrible black spot.) When I set out to write the story of real saint-in-waiting Eileen O’Connor, I was ready to be fastidious in my research. Writing authentically about a real person, especially one being investigated for canonisation, takes the need for diligence and reverence for truth to an even deeper level, and is worth an article of its own. As luck would have it, I had spent more than a year researching the history of World War I, because my homeschooled daughter and I thought it would be a cool project to run workshops for the centenary of Armistice Day. That research seeped into my bone marrow, waiting to become invaluable in the writing of this story. When it comes to that personal touchstone that brings the story to life in my mind, and thus, hopefully, my readers’ minds too, inspiration can come from many surprising places. Decades ago, I had a conversation with a woman in her nineties that I never forgot. She told me the story of her husband, returned from the war with an infected leg wound. She was haunted by the look of devastation and defeat on her husband’s face every time the nurse changed the dressing and he saw that it hadn’t got any better. The memory of that long-gone wounded soldier and his widow. was vivid when I wrote about fictional character George. I have a photograph of my grandfather as a young boy which, according to family legend, was at the Western Front with his father, and was returned home with his personal effects after his death. That inspired the presence of a mysterious old photo in the story. Vintage inspiration. I also am the proud owner of a copy of the book the young Kathleen reads to Eileen. My father found it in a flea market in before I was born. When I was wondering what book Eileen might have enjoyed reading, Fifty-Two Stories of Courage and Endeavour for Girls  (c1902) fitted the bill perfectly. Eileen O’Connor’s courage in the face of devastating illness was so great that she was found to have heroic virtue by the Vatican. You can’t get more courageous than that! Opening the gilded, ocean-storm-coloured cover, my eyes fell on the photo on the frontispiece, and I could imagine a young Eileen and her fictional best friend giggling over how hard it would be to be courageous in a frilly frock and with roses in your hair, just as I had when I was a little girl.

A modern saint "The first thing people would see, when visiting after [Eileen O'Connor] died, was the telephone by her bed. They'd say, ‘Oh she's a modern saint. She's got a telephone. None of the saints that we ever read about had these had any of these modern appliances.’" Eileen's bed with the telephone she used to coordinate the business of Our Lady's Nurses for the Poor William Perrottet knew Eileen when he was a child. Interviewed seventy-one years after her death, he still had warm memories to tell. Not just of her startling modernity, but of the way she was revered by people. His own mother routinely collected soil Eileen had sat upon, and took it home as a relic. Eileen O’Connor’s personality, deep spirituality and compassionate love for her fellow humans touched the hearts of those who knew her and offers inspiration to us now. Her work transformed the lives of patients and their families by providing free, benevolent nursing care that was otherwise not available in Sydney’s slums. The poverty-stricken and hungry were never turned away unfed. And then, during the Spanish flu, the wider community saw the masked young women risking their lives to aid the afflicted. All the while, Eileen herself was desperately ill, in pain and partially paralysed. A century after her death, Eileen is still cherished in the communities around Our Lady’s Nurses for the Poor, based in Coogee, and its regional branches, and by people around the world who have come to know of her. There’s something about her that can comfort and inspire us all. Photo of Eileen in a wheelchair from https://eileenoconnor.com.au/eileens-story/

Sometimes, you need to see something more than once to appreciate its story. My recent visit to the Eileen O’Connor Centre in Coogee was memorable for many reasons. Not least because of a lock of Eileen’s hair. A lock of Eileen's hair displayed at the Eileen O'Connor Centre I had seen it before - blond and braided into a single plait several inches long. I had appreciated seeing it then: a relic of the inspirational Eileen whom I have come to love.  The hair, then on temporary display for her Feast Day in 2024, attracted me more deeply because I knew people had started to collect locks of Eileen’s hair during her lifetime, revering her as a saint and her hair as a holy relic. That image is so striking to me that a fictional lock of hair made its way into my novel. But this time, as I stood before the cabinet and gazed at Eileen’s all-too-real, severed plait, I was pulled into a deeper perspective. This wasn’t just a little snipping as a souvenir. It wasn’t the short length you’d expect from a haircut. This was a substantial plait, cut on 20 January 1898, a month before Eileen’s sixth birthday, and kept by Eileen’s mother. In a flash, I felt sure no mother would cut so much hair from her daughter’s head as a keepsake. Even when I was a little girl, I wanted to be a doctor and this got me into big trouble around age five, when two of my beautiful vintage dolls got scarlet fever and I cut their hair off, knowing somehow that was what you did when children got very sick. What if Annie O’Connor had cut Eileen’s hair off during a bout of terrible disease in childhood? That would explain why a perfect, substantial plait would have become a treasured keepsake. It’s not unusual for a child who is blond to grow up having darker hair as Eileen has in her portrait. We know Eileen contracted tuberculosis in childhood and it infected the bones of her spine. We know she received medical attention at age five for problems with her back. We know she had repeated back surgery in childhood. There is a revered story of her being carried towards a hospital operating theatre and, turning to an image of Jesus crowned with thorns, saying, “This will be my consolation.”   Eileen seated on her father's knee. Photo from https://eileenoconnor.com.au/eileens-story/ A photograph shows the young Eileen on her father’s knee, sporting a short haircut. Admittedly, her sister Mary has the same style, but we know Mary doted on Eileen and it’s easy to imagine a loving family where the healthy sister would have her hair cut in sympathy. Their younger siblings are in the photo, brothers Charles and Francis. Francis, born in December 1897, is an infant cradled on his mother’s lap, so the picture must have been taken around mid-1898. This would make Eileen about six and a half. Her sticking-up hair may well be regrowth. The little girls are both looking at the camera and smiling and, even though we know photographic subjects at the time often looked serious to keep their faces steady for longer exposure times, both parents are looking away and we might not be imagining the haunted look in her mother’s eyes. Archivist Carlos Lopez says, unfortunately, the reason the hair was collected was not recorded. But we do know that after Eileen died, her mother passed it into the care of her staunch ally, Farther Edward Gell. So, did Annie O’Connor cut this plait with shaking hands, not sure if her beloved five-year-old daughter would survive surgery on her infected spine in early 1898? We’ll probably never know for sure.

I was lucky enough to make a trip to Sydney to see the new museum that commemorates Eileen O’Connor, a young woman who suffered terribly from illness and deformity but founded an order of nurses to care for the sick poor in the slums of Sydney in 1913. Considered by many who knew her to be a saint in her own lifetime, Eileen was declared Servant of God in 2018 and her cause for canonisation is now being investigated at the Vatican. A life-sized statue of the three-foot ten (115cm approx) Eileen gazes towards the entry. The statue of ‘Little Mother’ was carved from ironbark by Brother James (Gregory) Fitzgerald. The museum is in the grounds of Eileen’s former home, and uses treasured artifacts, photographs and videos to immerse visitors in her life story. While I stood studying the contents of one of the display cases, my breath was suddenly taken away when I heard familiar voices. Sister Greta and the late Sister Margaret Mary had recorded their memories and incidents from Eileen’s life. I met them while I was working on my novel about Eileen and was spellbound by their storytelling on the screen.   The late Sister Margaret Mary was a familiar face. She was wonderfully supportive ally while I was researching and writing my novel about Eileen, and even made a cameo appearance in the story. There’s a replica of the bedroom that became the hub of Our Lady’s Nurses of the Poor when Eileen, paralysed in both legs and her right arm, took over the duties of matron, coordinating patient care and fundraising from her bed and taking phone calls on an Ericsson broom handle phone. Her actual bed and phone take pride of place in the display along with her Pieta statue. Eileen must have been one of the first potential saints to have her own telephone!   Next to the bedroom, is a reproduction of part of her living room, with the sofa the desperately ill Eileen was resting in to have her portrait painted as a memento for her nurses. The painting, by Norman Carter, is also on display, showing a serene young woman, with a penetrating gaze. Eileen had her portrait painted only months before her death as a gift to the nurses, who lived in her house with her and who she knew would miss her dreadfully when she died. While allowing us to get a feel for Eileen’s dreadful suffering, the museum also showcases Eileen’s zest for life: her passion for photography, her love for her devoted dog Rags, the joyful images she scrap-booked to show children who visited for the garden parties she liked to host, partly to bring fun to the lives of impoverished children, and partly to ensure they had a decent meal. Eileen died at age 28 and is buried in her former bedroom which has become part of the chapel in her home next to the museum. The memories of nursing care in the slums shared by Sister Margaret Mary really struck home. Sometimes the nurses would get to a patient’s home to find the door was locked, so they’d climb in through the window. They’d navigate floors with the risk of falling through holes up to their waists, and the before beginning to care for the patient, they’d have to clean up cat and dog excrement. Eileen’s own experience with catastrophic illness and poverty and her abiding faith that she was doing God’s work, drove her to go to extraordinary lengths to alleviate the suffering of people in dire circumstances, before social security payments and Medicare. She inspired a courageous, dedicated group of young women to take up a vocation and do the same. She and her Sisters lived by the maxim, “The cause of a person’s poverty is not yours to question. The fact a person is poor is the reason you help.” Congratulations to Project Manager Andrew Summerell and Archivist Carlos Lopez for creating a welcoming and authentic testament to Eileen, co-founder Father Ted McGrath and the generations of nurses who have lived and died in loving service to Eileen’s vision and the poor. An enlarged photograph of Eileen welcomes visitors to the Centre. The Centre, at 35 Dudley Street, Coogee, is open by appointment on Tuesday and Thursday. Bookings can be requested here: https://www.ourladysnurses.org.au/request-your-visit

Eileen O’Connor met Father Edward McGrath when he was called in to assist her grieving family after the early death of her father, which left the family destitute. He was a steadfast companion during the terrible illness which led Eileen to have a near-death experience and a vision that the Virgin Mary was calling her to care for the sick poor. Father McGrath and Eileen were united in the desire to see their nurses care for the sick poor in Sydney’s slums, not just with professional skill, but with deep love, courage and compassion drawn from their love of Our Lady. They delivered spiritual direction to their nurses, that was grounded in Ignatian spiritual inquiry, and sought to model their own behaviour on the Mysteries of the Rosary and the Stations of the Cross. Many years after Our Lady’s Nurses for the Poor was established, Father McGrath wrote a beautiful letter to the nuns. It is a lovely summary of the vision he and Eileen shared. Perhaps they will speak to you, as you read an extract from that letter, in Father McGrath’s words: “In and through the sick poor you will continue to slake the thirst of Our Saviour, as the poor Samaritan woman did at the well … Through the Poor you will feed Him as Lazarus, Martha and Mary Magdalene did when, in the evenings … He returned weary and hungry to Bethany. “You will continue to console and comfort Him by visiting and bending over those in their agony, as the angel in the Garden of Olives comforted Jesus … “[Y]ou will play the part of the Good Samaritan who bound up the wounds … carried him to the Inn, watched by his bedside and took care of him … “Help the poor to carry their crosses as Simon of Cyrene helped … “[You] will wipe the cold sweat from off the brows of Jesus’ and Mary’s Poor when in their last agony, even as saintly Veronica wiped the … blood-stained brow of Jesus “[Y]ou recognise and serve Jesus and Mary in all and each of your sacred charges” There would have been challenges in recognising Jesus and Mary in the destitute, alcoholic, often hostile, dirty, perhaps criminal, slum dwellers of Sydney through World War 1, the Spanish flu, the Depression and beyond. The cash-strapped nurses, who never charged for their services and did it all for love, sometimes walked five or six miles each way to attend their charges, as they couldn’t always afford tram fares. And they walked into those slums alone, not in pairs. Tough stuff indeed. Father McGrath was no stranger to life's toughest challenges either. He undeservedly attracted the ire of the Catholic Church hierarchy for complicated, unjust reasons, and was banished from Australia for three decades and forbidden to continue his involvement with Eileen and the Nurses. After this, he served as a chaplain in World War I, where his repeated bravery rescuing injured soldiers from No Man’s Land under fire, earned him a Military Cross. He was nominated for the Commonwealth’s highest medal for valour, the Victoria Cross, but the paperwork was lost when the vessel carrying it was sunk by enemy fire just before the end of the war. Father McGrath was not allowed back into Australia until 1941, but finally, in 1969 he was permitted to retire to Sydney, to live in the care of Our Lady’s Nurses until his death in 1977, aged ninety-six. After all the controversy he attracted early in his career, he was clearly back in favour by then. His funeral mass was officiated by an archbishop, two bishops, the Superior of the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart Kensington, and twenty-two other priests.

Where better to sit with Life, than in a graveyard? I didn’t sit, as it happened. I laid on the grass between the rows of graves and kept company with the sisters and the priest who were, in their turn, companions to saint-in-waiting, Eileen O’Connor. Eileen died in 1921, aged twenty-eight, her three-foot-ten body stunted, ravaged, and partially paralysed by tuberculosis, which had infected her spine by the time she was three. This precious soul, despite her terrible illness (or because of it) was so moved by the plight of the sick and destitute of Sydney’s slums, that she founded an order of nurses to care for them, in their own homes and at no charge. Esteemed as a saint in her own lifetime, the wheels of the church are slowly turning and the paperwork supporting her investigation for sainthood reached the Vatican last year. She needs a documented miracle for the Vatican to consider her cause has divine confirmation. So, if you’re after miracles, pray to her. Each year, a memorial Mass to commemorate Eileen’s life of service is held on the anniversary of her death, January 10th. I flew to Sydney to attend the service and spend three glorious days walking in the footsteps of Eileen and her nuns, on holy ground. A pilgrimage. But also a visit, because there were many thin places, where it was so easy to feel the presence of this amazing woman. Sitting in the quiet in her chapel, created in her old bedroom, kneeling at the foot of her tomb under the floorboards, which is opened for the occasion. That place pumps with grace. The first time I visited Eileen’s home, by serendipitous chance seven or eight years ago, I knew nothing about her. But sitting alone in that chapel, I knew beyond doubt that she was a bona fide saint. She changed me and led me down the path which eventually led to me writing her story. Walking from Eileen’s house to the nearby cemetery where she was first interred while her companions battled bureaucracy to get permission to follow her wishes and rebury her at home, I became aware of the footsteps of her sisters, who had made the same walk every morning for nearly sixteen years, to pray the rosary at her graveside. Now, many of her nuns, and the co-founder of Our Lady’s Nurses for the Poor, Father Ted McGrath, are buried in that cemetery, and it was to them I paid a visitation, lying on the grass. Communing in silence. When Eileen was exhumed, almost 16 years after her death, the sisters asked for the coffin to be opened. The presiding funeral director recalled: “After the exhumation at the cemetery, the unopened casket was taken to our Funeral Chapel at 347 Anzac Parade, Kingsford, where a large number of Our Lady’s Nurses for the Poor awaited us. The Nurses asked me to open the sealed lead casket and remove the inner pine lid. This was done, and I was startled to see Eileen O’Connor lying there as though asleep in her simple blue gown, her hair lying naturally down each side of her face, and her hands joined on her breast. The skin appeared slightly dark and the eyes seemed a little sunken, but, not having the good fortune to know her in life, I could not know if this was natural. Our Lady’s Nurses then gathered around the open casket and appeared not in the least surprised at seeing their ‘Little Mother’ (Eileen O’Connor) as they last saw her 16 years earlier.” One of the sisters exclaimed, “The little darling is perfect.” The quote from the undertaker comes from https://www.ourladysnurses.org.au/just-they-last-saw-her/