IT was a freezing cold day, with that February rain and sleet. My first son was six weeks old, lying in his moses basket beside the blazing fire and the eldest daughter, turned four, was just home from nursery. The door knocked and in he came. “Buíochas le Dia!” He threw off his soaking coat and hat on to the sofa beside the four-year-old, and moved his head with his beautiful white curly hair toward the fireplace. “Would you have any tea in the pot? Anything at all."

Monsignor Raymond Murray didn’t take time to foster a friendship – he was your friend. Instantly. On the day of Harry Burns’ funeral he had said the last spiritual goodbyes for his lifelong friend, Clara’s brother. And of course he did. But with the family departed from the graveside he was wet and cold and there was no time for standing on ceremony that some British colonialist probably invented. He turned around to the shocked four-year-old, saw Bunscoil na bhFál on her jersey and started to chat to her as Gaeilge and sing funny songs. She instantly loved him. Of course she did. Like all of us.

To write a tribute to Monsignor Raymond Murray will be to miss out so much. It is impossible to capture a life led in service of our country and its people. But for me the biggest tributes will be the shared messages on the former prisoners’ WhatsApp groups, where women who were subjected to heinous brutality and systemic sexual abuses by the state will grieve for the priest in whom they confided and trusted so much.

When he would celebrate the big anniversaries of his vocation they would come in cars and buses, his “girls” from Armagh, decades later, showering him in gifts and love. He was there while others turned their faces away.

And in the Facebook messages from bereaved families, sharing how the media and most others ignored their experience but Raymond, often with Clara Reilly, was at their door, documenting what had happened, ensuring that they would never be forgotten. Many of the parents they supported in those days have now passed, but the surviving children of those killed will share vivid memories of the priest who cared and continued to care.

There are few who will live a life where we touch so many in their most vulnerable of times and begin a lifetime of dedicated journeys to redress harm and injustice. That was Raymond’s vocation and he never once wavered. Some of that was very public, but the immensity of the private support and care he gave to thousands will always be remembered too.

Any of us lucky to visit him in his homes filled with books, paintings and fun will also remember his dear sister Theresa. She taught in St Dominic's and loved her time there, and she loved her brother and everyone he brought to meet her. She loved to cook for her new friends and he loved to show off her hospitality. And we all loved them back.

He was a towering intellectual and teacher, with no ego, only a burning passion for change. But my abiding memory will be him giggling at jokes and fun, and insisting that we take the time to watch Armagh play one more time.