Shamrocks

Droopy-looking three-leaved plants were heaped carefully in a basket at the foot of the altar. It was St. Patrick’s Day, an Irish holiday featuring parades, fireworks and the annual blessing of the shamrocks. The plant is said to have been used as a metaphor for the Holy Trinity by St. Patrick, the man credited with bringing Christianity to Ireland. Everyone in the jam-packed church would receive a sprig.
 
The Prior of the Carmelite Friary in Kinsale, Ireland told the story of St. Patrick—how at sixteen, he was kidnapped from his home in England by Irish pirates, taken to Ireland and sold as a slave. For six years he was imprisoned before he had a dream, urging him to escape. Slipping through the watchful eyes of his captors, he walked 200 kilometers to find a ship and return to England to become a priest. Another dream compelled him to return to the land of his captivity and share the message of Christ.   
 
Is that what it means to hear the voice of God? 
 
The voice of the Prior as he placed his hands over the shamrocks for the blessing was so gentle, so compassionate I could not prevent tears from dribbling down my cheeks. Surely God is reflected in voices of kindness like that of the Prior. But can it not also be heard in the wind whistling across the pastures? The cry of a newly-born lamb? The high-pitched chirp of a yellowhammer calling from a tree planted on a hilltop in Rin Finnan? The soothing song of a stream slipping across the limestone rocks alongside the Kerry Camino trail threading between Tralee and Dingle? 
 
When I retired after thirty years in corporate life, I hiked for two months through the sand dunes defining the eastern coast of Lake Michigan, searching for answers. What now? I asked God. Alone and cold in the early months of spring, I discovered wildflowers. They seemed to speak to me, urging me to open the long-shuttered door to the artistic side of my brain; to begin writing, to photograph nature’s treasures.  
 
Nearly twenty years later, I find myself in a similar conundrum. What is my purpose now that Mother has passed? Once again, I am walking. Blanketed in the misty fog of an Irish spring, I slog through mud and sheep droppings asking God, now what? In my remaining time on earth, what am I meant to do? 
 
Today I am meant to walk.