Many people know the legend of how St. Patrick drove away all of the snakes of Ireland. Others may also know the story of how St. Patrick used the shamrock – the now national symbol of Ireland – to explain the concept of the Holy Trinity: three leaves on one stem symbolizing the three persons in one God. And nearly everyone knows that St. Patrick is the primary patron saint of Ireland, there are parades for him on his feast day of March 17th every year, and everyone is supposed to wear green. But not many know the story of how and why Patrick returned to Ireland to help spread Catholicism. I know for a fact that at least I didn’t know the story until last year when I learned it to prepare for a St. Patrick’s Day trivia game against my community members (not to brag or anything but I won). The story goes like this:
Patrick was born in Britain to an already Roman Catholic family. At age 16 he was captured, torn away from his family, and forced into slavery in Ireland. He spent six years in slavery where he turned heavily to his faith, which was all he had to be able to turn to. Eventually, he had a dream where a nearby boat was ready for him to find and escape on. He did so, and was able to flee from slavery back to Britain.
This is when the real story starts. After he was reunited with his family, he received an image in another dream: a Saint named Victoricus delivered Patrick a letter entitled “The Voice of the Irish.” It was a letter from a group of Irish people begging him to return to Ireland to help them out of their suffering and towards Christ. It took awhile for Patrick to work up the courage to head back to the country that held him captive for six years. He felt that he was not educated enough to be able to embark on such a difficult and important journey. He doubted his physical strength and abilities to be able to make the long and arduous journey which the task would entail. And I’m sure the trauma of having to return to the place that he longed to escape from for so long was not necessarily encouraging either. But when he finally did get back to Ireland, he had full confidence in God, and therefore full confidence in himself to do whatever tasks he was asked to do.
I personally love hearing stories of how saints were called into their vocation. Sometimes it’s frustrating, because I so badly wish that St. Victoricus would come to me in a dream with a letter telling me what to do. The calls to vocations that you and I receive rarely seem as obvious and straightforward as St. Patrick’s. And many times, even if that call is more obvious, we often let our doubts and fears stop us from going through with it, unlike the ultimate decision of Patrick to have faith and trust in what he could not know. I’ve certainly experienced uncertainty and confusion in my life – as I’m sure all of you have too. Many times I have been looking for a letter, a clue, a sign of any magnitude. And to no avail. But over the past few days, I, like Patrick, do feel that I was also able to hear the Voice of the Irish.
Last year when I was living in Dublin and we had a 5k lockdown for most of the year, preventing us from going anywhere outside of the seemingly-abandoned city, I longed to be able to see the beauty that this country offered. I wanted to go on hikes. I wanted to hear live traditional Irish music. I wanted to have a pint or two at a real pub, not just in our living room. So now this year in Wexford I am so grateful to be able to have those opportunities. And what better weekend to perfectly encapsulate it all than this past one – the weekend celebrating St. Patrick’s Day.
I was able to hear live music, head back to Dublin to see the parade which took place for the first time in two years, and go to a pub afterwards. But it wasn’t until the day after St. Patrick’s Day where the Voice of the Irish seemed to speak to me the most. Myself and Emily left Dublin early Friday morning to meet our priests out in Glendalough – one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. We reached one point overlooking the entire area from above. Not only was it a spectacular view, but at that instant the mountains, air, trees, water, all seemed to come together for a moment of pure serenity. I attached a picture of it below, but it doesn’t even come close to doing it justice.
I didn’t hear any voices. I didn’t read any letter like Patrick was able to. But somehow, I was still being told something. It was at that moment where I felt that I was at the right place. Somehow, I ended up there the same time that the sun and the clouds came together to give the sky a perfectly blue appearance. I was there the same time the wind blew the trees ever so slightly and the water fell onto the rocks, making them shine and sparkle. I was there just as the wildflowers covered any bare patches in the nearby bushes. Like Patrick, I have no idea where my path will lead me, and what it will entail. But I felt at that moment, Ireland was telling me that, whatever my path is, I am on it.
I heard the Voice of the Irish. It wasn’t from someone on a float, or someone singing at a pub, but in the rolling hills and never ending green.
The Beautiful View of Glendalough
