Saint Patrick’s Day happens to fall on a Friday this year, so I’ll have a beer with my beloved bride of 15 years. Maybe we’ll even get a babysitter and go out for a proper date (as opposed to sitting in the backyard while our three kids watch a movie). Saint Patrick’s Day is close to our hearts because we went to Ireland for our honeymoon and hiked Croagh Patrick, the holy mountain.
Located in County Mayo, Croagh Patrick is the site of a legend about its namesake’s 40-day fast on the summit during which Patrick vanquished “demonic birds” (probably seagulls, right?) and cast serpents into the waters below.
But the mountain was a sacred site long before Patrick or Christianity itself. Pilgrims have trekked to the summit for millennia. There are etchings in the stone outcroppings dated thousands of years before Jesus of Nazareth. Archaeologists have discovered the remains of a temple from the Bronze Age.
My wife and I made our pilgrimage on a sunny afternoon when all the Irish eyes were smiling. There was a bubbling brook opposite the ambling trail. Purple and golden wildflowers waved in the gentle breeze. Perfect for lovebirds.
About halfway up, the trail became rocky and ramped sharply upwards like it was giving us the middle finger. Even the weather turned offensive. Dark clouds blotted the sun and a cold wind raked us with invisible fingernails. These changes struck me as a metaphor for the unexpected on life’s journey, if not the challenge of marriage — I am prone to wax poetically. My wife told me to keep walking, which I did with my mouth shut, for though I may be a poet, I am no fool.
She and I reached the summit and the little chapel constructed in the early 20th century. I rested against a sign stating that each stone in the building had been hauled by hand up the same middle-finger-waving path. I stared at the stone church. Its construction seemed more of a miracle to me than casting snakes into the sea.
Throughout history, peoples of different and wondrous faiths have ascribed spiritual significance to mountaintops. That afternoon on Croagh Patrick, the clouds parted to reveal Clew Bay sparkling in the distance. And though I don’t know your religious background, you too might have whispered “Amen” in awe.
I know this: a marriage is like building that chapel on the summit. You keep walking through all types of challenges. You carry burdens with the goal of contributing to something greater than yourself. Piece-by-piece, day-by-day, you try to build something that lasts. It’s hard work, as most pilgrimages are. Not for mere tourists.
Yet, it’s all worth it. Along the way, you can rest and raise a glass of green beer. Even vanquish a few seagulls, drive out the snakes!
Through every journey — then, now and always — I would follow her sparkling smile to the ends of the Earth.
Andrew Taylor-Troutman has a new book coming out about playful and poignant moments in family life titled “Little Big Moments.” He lives in Chapel Hill and occasionally stumbles upon the wondrous while in search of his next cup of coffee.
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