Time for a water break.
I pull my mountain bike
over to the side
of the road
and set it down.
For my first time
on one of these,
I must admit
that I'm not doing so bad.
I look around
and admire
the ancient beauty
of the forest
that surrounds me.
The sound of a
rushing river
adds to its enchantment.
These are obviously
the forests from which
the legends of the
fairies and leprechauns
were born.
I can't resist
taking a few photos.
Despite the beauty,
this hilly road
makes for a torturous
bike ride.
So far,
it has been
almost entirely uphill
with only a few
downhill runs.
At least it won't
be quite so bad
on the way back.
Thirteen kilometers...,
I guess that would be
about nine miles
or so.
I can't have gone
any more than
three of those yet.
I take another sip
as I walk up the hill
into the woods
to observe.
I couldn't have picked
a better way
to travel this road.
It's nice to see the scenery
firsthand for a change.
No bus window
to block out the smells,
or schedule to prevent
me from seeing the details.
I take one last
look around
and ponder how easy
it would be
to walk into these woods
and disappear
into obscurity,
to live a simple life
hidden from the rest
of the world.
This temptation
passes, however,
as I remember
that my pack is back
at the rental place.
-------
"Hey Mom,
how are you doing?"
"Well, it's our long lost son.
You finally decided to call, huh?"
Mom asks
with a bit of mirth
in her voice.
"Yeah, I actually tried
calling before,
but there was no answer.
It's hard to work out
a time to call
with the time difference."
"Oh yeah,
I didn't think about that.
Hey Peter,
get on the other phone,
it's Todd."
"Hey son,
how’s it going?"
"Pretty good.
I'm about halfway
between Rathdrum
and Glendalough
on a mountain bike.
I saw a payphone
on the side of the road
in this little town
and decided to try
calling again."
"So, how's Ireland,"
Mom asks.
"It's awesome.
So far, the best places
have been
the Aran Islands,
the Cliffs of Moher,
Knock,
and Charlestown.
Knock was absolutely
wonderful.
I have an awesome story
to tell you
about my time there,
but I'll wait
'til I get home."
"So, you're not going
to stay forever
like you thought,
huh?" Mom asks.
"Nah. Don't get me wrong,
I love it here,
but I know now
that God has more
He wants me to do
back home."
"Good,"
Dad interjects.
"I didn't figure
that you'd end up
staying."
"Yeah, who knows, though
I may come back here
later in the future.
I know I'm supposed
to come home for now,
though."
"When are you coming home?"
Mom asks.
"I'm not sure yet.
I probably won't
be here much longer
than two more weeks
at the most.
It's starting to get
a little lonely
now that I'm
mostly just sight-seeing."
"Well, it's good
to hear from you
and know that
you're still alive,"
Mom continues.
"We'd love
to keep on talking,
but we'll let you
get back to your travels.
We love you
and we look forward
to seeing you
when you get home."
"Yeah, take care, son."
"I love ya'll too.
I'll see you soon."
"Okay, we're praying
for you."
"Thanks. Take care.
Goodbye."
"Bye."
"Bye, son."
I can just hear Mom
sighing in relief
right now.
I imagine she feels
a bit like
the Blessed Mother did
when she found Jesus
in the temple.
Her anxieties can pass,
her boy is coming home.
-------
As I crest this last,
torturous hill,
I see the tower
of Glendalough
pointing to Heaven.
I forget my exhaustion
and begin to pedal
a bit faster.
I fly past
a tourist resort
and follow the road
up to the entry gate.
It only takes a moment
to lock the bike up.
I put the key
back into my pocket,
retrieve my camera
from my small army pack,
and begin a fast walk
up the steps.
There it is again:
that feeling
from having arrived
at another of the world's
revered places.
I gaze out
over a graveyard
that surrounds the tower.
Another of the false ideals
is achieved.
The disappointment
is not so pronounced,
however,
as this is more
than just another place.
This holy ground
was traversed
by one who is now
caught up in
the eternal wedding feast.
St. Kevin,
pray for me.
I know the name
and the years
of your life,
but the name and the dates
tell me nothing
about you.
Who were you?
Who are you?
Did you walk these
very same footsteps
up to the tower
at the end of the day?
Did you look over
to the open field
and up at the mountain
with the same feelings
of wonder towards
God's creation?
What miracles
did God work
through you?
Can you obtain one
for me now?
Pray that my heart
may be healed,
that I may again
learn to love.
Did you build
this tower,
or is it the work
of those who came
after you?
"Excuse me."
My conversation
with my older brother
in Christ
is interrupted
as the tour group
comes bumbling by.
"Could you take
a picture of us?"
"Sure...
1...2...3...."
"Thank you
young man."
"You're welcome."
I now turn my attention
to the tower.
How do I get in?
I walk all around
the base
only to find
that there's no door.
That's odd.
I step back
to get a better view
for a picture.
Oh, I get it now.
What I had
originally thought
to be a window
must actually be
the entrance.
I suppose the monks
must have climbed up
a rope ladder
and pulled it in
with them
whenever barbarian raids
would sweep past.
What a great defense:
assuming that's the way
they did it.
Satisfied, I stroll over
to the old Church.
Like others,
it has gravestones inside.
I walk up
to where the altar
must have stood.
Those holy monks stood
in this spot
and became the instruments
by which Christ
rips apart
the curtain of time,
making Himself present
to every age
in that very same sacrifice
that occurred only once,
yet is present to all.
The God who created time
will not be bound by it,
and here I stand,
in the place where time
ceased to exist
on a daily basis.
How ironic it is
that so many of us
spend our lives
trying to escape
the past,
while God is ever
bringing the past
forward to meet us
in each and every Mass.
Perhaps this, then,
would be the place
to let Him bring
my own past forward
so that I can face it
once and for all.
No.
I'm not ready yet.