We woke to be reminded
We had not become divine
No matter how thin the Irish veil
We are branches, not the Vine
One more look at verdant shores
To breathe slow salty air
A morning tinged by packing up
And carefully prepare
Patience, joy, and peace abound
Where Spirit’s seed is growing
He is the living presence of
A faith beyond the knowing
Such fruit helps us greatly
When cramped in tight airplane
Or when even by family
Our ire may be enflamed
With hugs and blessing spoken
We said our last goodbyes
Then boarded fair Aer Lingus
As we leapt into the skies
We each have had experiences
Not expressed here in word
To think all could be captured
Would be a bit absurd
The Land of Saints and Scholars
Or in Latin, “Hibernia”
Has much to offer travelers
Yet is not a panacea
We’re thankful whether Ireland
Kentucky, or at home
The full presence of Love divine
And flourishing shalom
Is not something we only find
By traveling great lengths
But comes as we receive Him
And for that, we close with thanks.
words from wick 