A Touch of the Unexplained

​St. Patrick’s Day rolls around this weekend and thoughts of all things Irish reminds me of an inexplicable event that occurred when I was in Ireland. My daughter was heading into college that fall, and our summer trip was her reward for graduating with honors and celebrating her acceptance into a stellar women’s college.

It was our first trip abroad. I was driving on the opposite side of rural roads that held no signage whatsoever while she was relying on a wonky GPS unit that failed more than it succeeded. We were often lost, always happy, and overwhelmed with a mixture of excitement and stress. Fans of all things ancient, we decided to find the oldest ringed high crosses in Ireland located outside of Ahenny, County Tipperary. The 8th century crosses are beautifully carved with geometric shapes; stunning relics standing within a tiny cemetery surrounded by cow pastures and farm fields.

We waved to the cows as we crossed the open meadow, dropped a donation into a tiny collection box posted on the cemetery gate, and spent the next hour spellbound by history. What I hadn’t told my daughter was that I slipped when leaving our B&B that morning and had somehow injured my knee. I hid my limp from her because it was only the second day of a two-week vacation. We were in trouble. I was the only licensed driver and pressing the gas/brake pedals was cringeworthy. Walking was riddled with pain.
 
While she took photos -- including the one posted below -- I leaned my hand against a high cross to get weight off my screaming knee, wondering how we could possibly continue our journey without a miracle in hand. And it happened: A miracle that is. When I stood upright and stepped away from the capped cross, there was absolutely no pain in my knee joint. I was perfectly fine. I spent the next twelve days climbing over stone stacked walls, hiking out to megalithic burial sites, hopping up spiral stone steps to reach the top of castle spires, and trekking down steep footpaths to the coast in search of selkies. Always perfectly fine.
 
On St. Patrick’s Day, I urge you to raise a glass (preferably of Guinness) and toast this miracle of Ireland’s high cross. A touch of the unexplained, but some things in life should remain a mystery.