AN APPRECIATION: 'A quiet saint among us' – Offaly's Sr. Immaculata Barrett

THERE are some souls who walk so gently among us that we almost mistake their holiness for ordinariness. They do not seek attention. They do not raise their voices. They do not ask to be seen. And yet, when they leave this earth, the silence they leave behind feels sacred and unbearable all at once.

Such is the passing of Sr. Immaculata Barrett, our beloved Sr. Mac, a Sister of Mercy in the style of the founder of the Sisters of Mercy, Sr Catherine McAuley, a neighbour, teacher, cook, card-player, spiritual guide, prayer warrior, shepherdess of hearts, and one of the most beautiful quiet saints of our times.

Her death feels like the turning of a holy page in the story of Clara. Truly, it is the end of an era. And yet, even through tears, gratitude rises. Because what a privilege it was to have known her. What a grace it was to have been loved by her. What a blessing it was to walk even a little of life’s journey beside her. Originally from Lettermullen in Co. Galway, she gave almost her entire life, over seventy years to Clara, to Lettermullen, to the Diocese of Meath, and to every soul placed along her path. Over seventy years as a faithful Sister of Mercy.

Over seventy years of hidden prayer. Over seventy years of steady service. Over seventy years of keeping her beloved Irish language Gaeilge alive. Over seventy years of love poured out quietly, patiently, faithfully. Kind. Caring. Hardworking. Prayerful. A rare, rare gem.

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Sr. Immaculata was not only a parish Sister of Mercy and religious, she was a shepherdess in the truest sense. For over seventy years, she devoted her life to walking with others through every moment imaginable such as births and baptisms, weddings and funerals, tears of sorrow and tears of joy. She quietly walked among us, never seeking the spotlight, always stepping gently into the shadows where comfort was needed most.

In times of celebration, she rejoiced with us. In times of sorrow, she held our pain with tenderness. Her ministry was a quiet sanctuary. A steady refuge. A holy presence. A place where mercy was not spoken about but given.

She was a spiritual director to me personally over many years, encouraging, nurturing, guiding - especially in my work in Africa. She understood mission deeply, because she herself belonged to a congregation whose sisters have served for decades on the mission fields of Africa and around the world. She believed that love must travel. That mercy must move. That faith must become action.,

And so she baked.

Oh how she baked. Apple tarts, cakes, buns, Christmas cakes, plum puddings, especially when my beautiful mother was unwell. She quietly took on the baking so others would not feel burdened. For countless coffee mornings I organised for the charity Self Help Africa, Sr. Mac appeared with trays of goodness, not for recognition, but for love and to help support the poorest of the poor in our world. She didn’t just talk about love. She lived it. Patiently. Fully. Faithfully. Her hands blessed the sick. Her words comforted the broken.

Her prayers lifted countless hearts. Truly, she lived those words of Christ: “I am among you as one who serves.” (Luke 22:27). She lived not for applause. Not for recognition. But for love, the real love of God and the real love of people. In her humble, gentle way, she poured out her one and only life in total service, especially to the people of Clara and Lettermullen, and quietly across the wider Diocese of Meath. She understood something many of us only glimpse, that to be a Sister of Mercy is one of the most beautiful, sacred, and self-giving ways to spend the gift of life.

After the convent closed and nearly all the sisters left, Sr. Immaculata remained, a faithful presence in Charlestown, Clara, beside my parents’ home. Her house became a quiet sanctuary. It reflected its shepherdess, gentle, holy, fun, always welcoming. A better neighbour it would be difficult to find. If a child arrived at school without lunch, she fed them. If someone came to the convent with a gallon can for buttermilk in the 60s or 70s, she filled it, often with eggs to spare. If you cut the lawns or cleaned the windows, she fed you like a king. If you struggled, she prayed for you. She had time for everyone. Truly everyone. In a world moving too fast, she slowed down. For the lonely. For the struggling. For the doubting.

Her kindness was never performative, it was always profound. She made you feel seen not just as a churchgoer, but as a beloved child of God. She had a special place in her heart for children. She often said their presence at Mass, even in noisy moments brought her hope and joy. She understood what many forget: faith begins in the messy, beautiful reality of ordinary life. She reminded us that the Church is not a museum for saints, but a home for the living Body of Christ. She believed deeply in a Church that serves the poor, the sick, the homeless, the forgotten. Her gentle words and steadfast prayers grounded us in the Gospel call to justice: “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.” (Matthew 25:40)

From the very first production of Clara Musical Society in 1971, she worked in the interval tea room, feeding travelling cast members and orchestras, making tea during tech week, never missing a show even after retiring from kitchen duties. She nourished joy. She loved her card games too, her great card-playing team won a four in a row competition in the community awhile back and that twinkle in her eye. That gentle competitiveness. That laughter. Holiness in her was joyful, never heavy.

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When she celebrated her 70 years of sisterhood recently, we sat over a cup of tea and she said so simply, so sincerely, “My whole life Ronan, was about people and community, and meeting and caring for people. The faith of people gives me strength.” What a legacy. To find strength not in accolades, but in the faith of others and then to reflect that strength back to them through decades of tireless service. Even as her body grew weaker in her later months and years, her spirit remained unshaken even attending a Foster and Allen concert recently with some of more cherished friends. She had fought the good fight. She had finished the race. She had kept the faith. And she helped so many of us find ours.

The world needs love more than ever right now. Not love that is packaged or performed. Not love that seeks approval. But real love. Living love. Embodied love. Sr. Immaculata embodied love. Love was her presence. Love was her kindness in ordinary moments. Love was her apple tarts and plum puddings. Love was her listening ear. Love was her faithful prayer. Love was her steady neighbourliness. Love was her laughter at a card table. Now Clara feels quieter. Kitchens feel emptier. The pews feel heavier.

The sanctuary of her home in Charlestown holds memories like incense rising gently to Heaven. But Heaven is brighter. We imagine her stepping into eternity with flour-dusted hands and a gentle smile, greeted by the One she served in every hungry child, every grieving family, every struggling soul.

Surely the words awaited her: “Well done, good and faithful servant… enter into the joy of your Lord.” Sr. Immaculata, you kept the faith. And you helped so many of us keep ours.

If we truly want to honour Sr. Immaculata, then let us become what she was. Send love quietly. Bake for someone who is weary or alone. Pray for someone who is struggling or unwell or in need of a prayer. Visit a neighbour or a loved one. Slow down for a lonely person. Serve without seeking praise. Let us consciously send love into this world, the kind Sr. Immaculata lived. To the people we know. To the people we don’t. To the poor. To the sick. To the forgotten. To our families. To ourselves. This is the kind of love that heals. This is the kind of love that sustains communities. This is the kind of love that makes saints. Sr. Immaculata, thank you. For feeding us. For guiding us. For praying for us. For looking after our parents and our children. For shaping our parish. For strengthening our faith. For over seventy years of Mercy lived out before our eyes. Slán abhaile, a chroí uasail. Codladh sámh i ngrá Dé. May the light of Heaven shine forever upon your gentle, generous, prayerful soul. And may we, moved to tears by your hidden holiness, rise from our grief into compassionate prayer and loving action, becoming the mercy we have received. To her sister Nora Folan, Sisters of Mercy Tullamore and Northern Branch, nephews, nieces, grand-nephews, grand-nieces, relatives, neighbours, Fr. Joe and Fr. Luke, the parishes of Clara and Lettermullen, the diocese of Meath and many friends. Ar dheis Dé go raibh a hanam dílis.