Born: 04 May 1921, Shanaclough, Oola, County Limerick
Entered: 14 August 1950, St Mary's, Emo, County Laois
Final Vows: 15 August 1960, St Mary's, Emo, County Laois
Died: 08 September 1995, Cherryfield Lodge, Dublin

Part of the Clongowes Wood College, Naas, Co Kildare community at the time of death.

◆ Interfuse
Interfuse No 92 : August 1996

Obituary
Br William (Willie) Fitzgerald (1921-1995)

4th May 1921: Born in Shanaclough, Oola, Co. Limerick
Education: Oola NS, Co. Limerick
Employment: 10 years farming
14th Aug. 1950: Entered the Society at Emo
8th Sept. 1952: First Vows at Emo
1952 - 1959: Emo, Farm Steward Tertianship,
1959 - 1960: Roehampton, England
15th Aug. 1960: Final Vows, Emo
1960 - 1967: Emo, Farm Steward
1967 - 1995: Clongowes - Plant maintenance, House and College
1st June 1995: Admitted to Naas Hospital. Convalescence in Cherryfield Lodge
8th Sept. 1995: Died at Cherryfield Lodge

There is a tradition in the neighbourhood around Clongowes that there is always a “holy Jesuit” at the College. In recent years the pupils at the school would have had no doubt about who the “holy Jesuit” was. Br. Willie Fitzgerald was their idea of a holy man. They have their own stringent criteria for assessing holiness. And according to their criteria he never failed: he was invariably helpful and he repaired the same window they had broken yet again with the same patient good humour. He never gave out to them. Maybe his reputation said more about his fellow Jesuits in Clongowes than about Willie, but the reputation stood the test of time.

In a college where Fr. John Sullivan had set the standard, his fellow Jesuits noticed the similarities: Willie had a most extraordinarily cheerful willingness to help, no matter what time it was, no matter how inconvenient it was, and no matter how often he had had to do it even that very day. And that same cheerfulness survived nearly thirty years of breakages, broken windows, missing slates, clogged drains and blown bulbs. He often uncomplainingly repaired the same window twice in the same day.

For him love was found in deeds not in words. As with John Sullivan he knew when he was being taken advantage of, yet neither of them lost their temper, neither used recrimination even when they knew the damage was malicious. When you come across that kind of thing you know you are dealing with something special. As the boys in Clongowes knew in both cases, for nothing fake could take that much.

Br. Willie was hard to find, except twice a day, in the chapel. No matter what had disturbed his sleep during the night he was up and in the chapel as usual at 5,10 the next morning. In this too he was like John Sullivan. It was quietly done, but he was never late, never absent. He was there unobtrusively at different hours when nobody else was around. And we knew we were blessed; he prayed for us, the community, the boys.

Like John Sullivan too he suffered and always in silence. He suffered much from arthritis and was nearly crippled before he underwent the hip-operation, Afterwards there were strict injunctions that there was to be no climbing of roofs, no lifting of ladders. There was no stopping him. There was work to be done, and he did it. In his final illness there were long periods of pain, sleeplessness, but as always it was borne without complaint.

Vocation - that mysterious calling to imitate Christ - for Br. Willie it was not to imitate him in his teaching ministry but in his serving ministry. “I have come not to be served but to serve". For Willie it was a pouring out of self, without question, without complaint, AND doing it willingly, doing it cheerfully.

I think for the pupils of the school it was a choice they found difficult to envisage. With their young talents they dream of taking a place in life commensurate with their gifts. His vocation was challenging, all the more challenging because it was free. Willie Fitzgerald had talents that few guessed at. He had been best in his class at school, he had been a talented actor as a young man, and a keen sportsman. He would cycle to Carlow of a Sunday for a GAA match. Gerard Manley Hopkins was his favourite poet, and he could recite whole poems of his by heart. He had many talents but he chose a life of service as his way of imitating Christ.

I entered the noviciate in 1950, the same year as Willie Fitzgerald; we took our vows on the same day. I heard him make his dedication of himself; I saw him over more than forty years live out that dedication, not as a burden but cheerfully and willingly - just like his warm salute every time you met him.

Willie had a hermit streak, but he was a vital member of his community because he prayed for us. It was typical of him that when he was in Naas hospital during his final illness other patients and their visitors gravitated towards him and asked for his prayers. In his final days in Cherryfield I visited him and before taking my final leave of him I made sure to add my request to that of others, pray for me”. I know a good thing when I see it. The Community miss all the things he did around the place, but we feel sure of his prayers. Willie Fitzgerald died on 8th September 1995.

JL

◆ The Clongownian, 1996

Obituary
Brother William Fitzgerald SJ

“Willie Fitz”, as we called him in the Jesuit community, died peacefully after an illness of some months on the morning of 8 September 1995 in Cherryfield Lodge, the same day as young Stephen Downes a few miles away in Beaumont Hospital.
Willie came from Oola, Co. Limerick, where he was born on 4 May 1921. He farmed there until joining the Jesuits on 14 August 1950, at the age of 29. Almost uniquely for a Jesuit, his whole life was lived in just two houses: St Mary's, Emo, where he entered and remained a member of the community until 1967, shortly before the house was closed, and then Clongowes. In Emo he looked after the farm; here he was part - or several parts - of the maintenance staff. As we discovered after his death, although we had suspected it long before, he did the work of three men and no neat description of his job or his duties could properly encompass all the labours with which he filled his days.

He was a skilful handyman in several departments, in addition to the mechanical jobs for which he was formally responsible. Much of the work he did was hard, physical labour. He worked with complete fidelity and reliability. Broken windows never remained broken for long. The boiler was switched on and off personally - Willie never had much time for mechanical devices and preferred personal supervision. But the hallmark of all his work and his personality was his unfailing cheerfulness. This, more than the work itself, was one of the clues that Brother Fitzgerald was an unusually holy man. He was impossible to put out of countenance. Whatever the demand, he responded without complaint.

The present writer remembers him being called from his bed (or at least from his bed room - he retired late and rose extremely early) long after the midnight hour to secure entry to the top floor of the infirmary for a lay teacher who had got locked out. This necessitated Fitz going down to his workshop, carrying a heavy ladder to the back of the building and climbing up outside and through a window on the back-stairs. We, who were waiting inside, knew he had arrived when we heard his characteristically jovial singing on the other side of the door. That small, but revealing, incident was repeated time after time and typified his complete availability to others, utterly unmindful of any cost to him self. This is surely one of the principal marks of sanctity in a human being.

He was physically very robust and agile, until the end of his life. The heavy ladder he hoisted on his shoulders that night was one of countless loads we saw him carrying round over the years. The sight of Fitz up a ladder erected against a precariously wavering flag pole on top of the “29 Building” to run up the flag for Union Day inspired severe misgivings in others but he clearly thought nothing of it himself When he travelled, his favoured mode of transport was the bicycle. He went for long trips when he was allowing himself a little time off and, when he went home on holidays once a year, he cycled to Oola and back. We had no evidence that he even broke the journey.

All the while, he was making a more important journey and scaling other heights. We knew that he prayed - not as so many of us pray, as if, in the words of the Curé of Ars, we were saying, “I am just going to say a couple of words, so I can get away quickly”, but more like John Sullivan (and the reminiscence is not by chance), about whom a fellow scholastic once marvelled: “Mr Sullivan actually talks to Jesus in the chapel”. We only caught glimpses of this in Fitz - from the nature of things and because much of it was in the early hours when no one else was about - but we were keenly aware of it.

He was, in any case, a deeply private man. He was not unfriendly or unsociable. He was anything but unapproachable. But you did not feel he needed conversation or recreation, In some ways, living his slightly reclusive life, he was almost more a Carthusian than a Jesuit. He kept a certain kind of reserve, always, for example, addressing the rest of us as “Father” or “Brother”, never by our first names. He lived in obscurity, unknown except by the small circle of his family, his fellow-Jesuits in the community and those he worked with or met through his work. That was the way he wanted it and it revealed another dimension of his profoundly Christian personality, a humility which had no false note.

He had a good, alert mind and he was a shrewd observer of what was going on around him. We remember the sight of him in the community library after tea (his taken early), studying the newspaper, always The Irish Independent. He was keenly interested in sport, especially hurling and football. He had a hearty sense of humour, which could be sharp but was never unkind. We were amused and touched to discover that he used to send jokes to Ireland's Own, in the hope of winning the small prizes offered. Whoever the money was for, if he did win, it was certainly not for himself.

There was a depth of goodness and humanity in Willie Fitzgerald, which touched every one and he was a completely real person. Although his contact with the boys was some what indirect, “Brother Fitz” was a very familiar figure, always working, always on the move, always good-humoured and cheerful, and many of them had a sense of his special quality.

The day he died was the 43rd anniversary of his First Vows as a Jesuit. Those of us who had the privilege of living with him know that few have lived those vows with such awe-inspiring goodness and commitment as Willie Fitzgerald did. We convey our deep sympathy to his family.