Erin Go Bragh

(Ireland Forever)

Mary Patricia Trainor

It’s Saint Patrick’s Day, March 17, a time for celebration.

We drink green beer, eat corned beef and cabbage, and offer a shamrock for good luck.

Nothing’s too much for the man who chased snakes out of Ireland. Right? I agree, but let’s clear up a few things first.

The man we call Patrick was a slave who returned to be among his former captors.

This is the core of the man, and it’s an exceptional response. Here’s some more.

At the age of 16, Patrick was taken prisoner by Irish raiders and taken to Ireland. There, he spent around six years, enslaved as a shepherd — lonely and afraid, turning to religion for solace. 

Most people, once they escape their “prison,” never look back. Patrick did the opposite. He felt there was work there to be done.

After six years of captivity, Patrick heard a voice telling him his ship was ready to take him home.

He traveled 200 miles to the nearest port and managed to persuade a captain to let him stow away. He made it back to Britain and his family.

A nice enough story if it ended there.

But it doesn’t.

After years of study, he returned to Ireland — his mission twofold: to minister to Christians already in Ireland, and to convert the non-believers. 

He wasn’t responding to an obligation. He was responding to “a calling.”

And he wasn’t even Irish. He was born in either Scotland or northern England and described himself as a Roman and a Briton. 

“Patrick” was not his birth name. When the Pope authorized him to evangelize Ireland, he was prophetically named Patricius, meaning “father of citizens.” 

Because of his enslavement, Patrick missed out on formal education. His education was limited to religious teachings, and he apparently taught himself to read and write beyond basic Latin.

Most of us would applaud these results. But the lack of formal schooling embarrassed him — yet his success as a missionary is attributed to tenacity and “dogged determination,” even in the face of doubts about his own self-worth.

He actually wrote about this insecurity in his autobiography, Confessio — one of the oldest personal spiritual memoirs.

Here’s a surprising twist: Patrick was never canonized by the Catholic Church — simply because he lived before there was a formal canonization process.

He was proclaimed a saint by the people of Ireland His feast day wasn’t even added to the universal Church calendar until the 1600s.

Oh, and the snake stories are not real. Ireland has no snakes, then or now. The legend is regarded as a metaphor for Patrick’s Christianizing efforts, perhaps drawing on the Judeo-Christian tradition of snakes as symbols of evil.

In other words, he wasn’t driving out reptiles — he was driving out paganism. 

Patrick’s story is about  a traumatized teen-ager who became a willing exile for the sake of the very people who had enslaved him.

That’s not a story about green beer, corned beef and cabbage, or even the noble shamrock.

That’s a story about forgiveness, resilience, and radical purpose.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Nobody is just one thing.

The sentence above proved to be an important lesson in my life, courtesy of a dear friend long since gone. 

She’d catch me off guard in the middle of a rant (for want of a better word.) I might be speaking of a family member or friend—someone I knew pretty well. I was frustrated that they were not showing their “true” colors. Maybe I had them pegged as hard-hearted, and they just did a loving thing. Or maybe I thought they were tough, but then saw them well up with tears upon seeing a fragile sparrow deceased on the ground.

I could go on, but I hope I have made the point of my friend Martha Petrey. “MT (what she called me), nobody is just one thing. You miss out on lots of wonderful surprises by confining them to a single definition.”

I know that is true, but I also know that “categorizing” brings some control to an otherwise uncontrollable world. Hence, it makes me feel safe. It’s hard to give up those two assurances.

This week I encountered her wisdom once again.

My brother Jim texted me a long poem written by our paternal grandfather. I once had possession of it, and how it ended up in his home in Milwaukee is a mystery to us both.

Titled “Prodigal Girl,” the poem takes Luke 15:11-32 as its inspiration, only it flips the script. Ask yourself this, Ben Trainor seems to pose, would the story even appeal to Luke’s readers if the wayward offspring were a girl?

Jim and I never knew GrandpaTrainor since he died before we were born. All we had to go on were other people’s memories or opinions. 

Most of them never knew Martha Petrey, or someone like her who understands that nobody is just one thing.

By most accounts that we ever heard, Ben was characterized as a stern, punitive, by-the-book man, and a staunch Roman Catholic who believed no one other than RCs would cross the threshold of heaven.

He was a railroad engineer, which means he was gone from home a lot, so we think Grandma probably filled in many blanks for her children and their children 

Our mother, who somehow “got him” better than his own kids did, told us there was much more depth to the man than was ever revealed to his children. 

She also shared that he loved to write, and was frequently published in Railroad Magazine. 

Perhaps “Prodigal Girl” graced its pages.

Commentary by Mary Trainer about Prodigal Girl

Narrative reading of Prodigal Girl Poem

Prodigal Girl

By Benjamin Trainor (1923)

Historical Context

Written in 1923, ‘Prodigal Girl’ reflects a period in American society when moral expectations for women were rigid and public judgment could be swift and unforgiving. The 1920s were a time of social change—women had recently gained the right to vote, and cultural norms were shifting—yet traditional standards of virtue remained deeply entrenched. In this poem, Benjamin Trainor challenges the double standard that celebrated the return of the ‘prodigal son’ while condemning the ‘prodigal girl.’ His words offer a compassionate critique of societal hypocrisy and advocate for mercy, dignity, and fairness.

Prodigal Girl

I’ve read of the lives of the martyrs —

The story of Peter and Paul;

The story of Joseph and Mary —

I respect and honor them all.

I’ve read of St. Thomas and Stephen;

Honest and faithful men.

I’ve read the sweet story of Jesus

and expect to read it again.

I’ve read of the Good Samaritan,

Of Charity’s lesson begun,

And my heart goes out with great pity

To the wayward prodigal son.

They’re always glad to welcome him back;

So quick to forget and forgive;

It makes no difference what he’s done

If he’ll only come back to live.

They have always talked of the prodigal boy

Since ever the world begun;

The joy, the glory, forgiveness, of the

Returning wayward son.

But poets, it seems, have forgotten to write

Of the saddest thing in the world:

They’re not so eager to welcome back

The poor little prodigal girl.

Just why has she turned out crooked?

She happened to meet the right one,

Who had the slick tongue of a Judas,

And that was your prodigal son.

And though he is upheld and forgiven,

It’s common all over the world

That they scornfully point out for gossip

The poor little prodigal girl.

There is nothing quite so pathetic

As the lives of the maidens who fall;

And if you’ll go down to the bottom

A man is the cause of it all.

But he is led back in society,

Nursed with the tenderest care,

Held up to the world as a hero,

Mentioned in fervent prayer,

While she is cast out from her loved ones,

Out in the cold cruel world;

And they always point out and condemn her:

The poor little prodigal girl.

It’s a story that’s often been written

But I’ll repeat it again,

That “the lowest of fallen women

Is better than most of the men”.

Tender Mercies

By Mary Patricia Trainor

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Your lovingkindness; According to the multitude of Your tender mercies, blot out my transgressions. Psalm 51:1

If a movie stars Robert Duvall it is already a winner in my eyes. I don’t believe I am alone in that estimation.

Mr. Duvall departed this world on Sunday, February 15, at age 95, headed to his best yet, and final role.

If I had a list of twenty-five favorites, you’d find Duvall’s 1983 movie Tender Mercies at or near the top. If you haven’t seen the movie, you might wonder at this assessment. But I am not alone in my praise. After all, he was awarded Best Actor Academy Award for this film.

In remembering Mr. Duvall, we remember more than an extraordinary actor; we remember a storyteller who understood that the most powerful performances are often the quietest. In Tender Mercies, he gave us a portrait of brokenness without despair and faith without spectacle. He reminded us that redemption rarely arrives with applause — it comes in small choices, steady steps, and undeserved grace. His performance endures because it tells the truth: the way home is seldom dramatic, but it is always possible.

The movie borrows its title from scripture, namely Psalm 51, which is featured in Ash Wednesday services in many Christian churches. David is said to be the author of this psalm, written following his greatest moral breaches: He slept with Bathsheba, another man’s wife, and she became pregnant. In desperation, David sunk lower and  arranged for the other man, Uriah, to be killed. David tried to cover up his sins, but was outed by the prophet Nathan.

There he stood. An adulterer, a murderer, and a liar. Finally, he was at the bottom. The psalm is his appeal to God, an appeal which most–if not all–of us can recognize. Our sins may not be on the same scale as David’s, but I know–at least for me–the need of his prayer: According to the multitude of Your tender mercies, blot out my transgressions…

Check out the streaming options here: https://www.justwatch.com/us/movie/tender-mercies

Keep an eye out

By Mary Patricia Trainor

In various ways throughout his teachings, Jesus talks about the value of being awake.
Staying alert, being watchful.
With my natural need to worry, my first reaction to such warnings is to be cautious. Look out for the bad guy. The thief. The one who intends harm.
As I’ve gotten old, it becomes clearer each passing hour that I am to be watchful for the presence of God, of goodness, of direction for my life. The bad stuff, sure, it’s there. I don’t want to step off a curb, and into the path of a car. But such reality feeds my
cautious nature a little too much, I believe.
Instead, I’m trying to focus more on what God wants from my life, the help that is needed in this hornet’s nest that is our current life.
And then I meet Rosalva Parada, featured on this week’s podcast, The Wonder Files
(link below.)
There, you will see and hear a person who is always open to God’s direction for her life in the moment.
She listens and watches intensely, incorporating unusual dreams or unlikely events into her plans for serving God. And  she is open to where these clues lead her.

Youtube Podcast link

This little light of mine

Light has sprung up for the righteous, and joyful gladness for those who are truehearted. Psalm 97:12

Today, the Church remembers St. Ninian, bishop of Galloway.

Trained in Rome and inspired by St. Martin of Tours, Ninian left home to share the Gospel with people who had never heard it.

He built the Candida Casa—the “White House” of Whithorn—as a center of Christian worship. His story reminds us that evangelism begins in obedience to God’s call, even when the task seems daunting.

No one ever promised it would be easy, especially in difficult times such as we find ourselves now.

But just imagine if we weren’t overwhelmed by the enormity of the big picture, and focused instead on what we might do to make the world a bit better in our own limited sphere of influence.

Let us pray that, like Ninian, we can be bearers of light in dark places, not necessarily by traveling to distant lands, but by embodying Christ’s love in our daily lives—through kindness, truth, and courage.

Special Notice: My new podcast debuts one week from today, on September 23. The Wonder Files can be found wherever podcasts are published. Check it out and offer your feedback to wonderfiles01@gmail.com

Saluting fidelity

On September 9, 1878, an Episcopal nun named Constance died in Memphis, Tennessee.

Years later, she and a small cohort of similarly devoted people of faith would be lifted up as saints of the church.

The group is often described as Constance and Her Companions, or the Martyrs of Memphis.

When yellow fever swept through Memphis, many others fled the city in fear. But Constance, a nun of the Sisters of St. Mary, and her companions (Thecla, Ruth, Frances, Charles Parsons, and Louis Schuyler) remained to serve the sick, bury the dead, and comfort the orphaned.

Sister Constance declared, “It is a privilege to minister to the sick, and we are not afraid to die.

Her words were not bravado, but a quiet testimony of love stronger than fear.

Their lives are reminders that holiness is often found not in grand gestures, but in daily faithfulness, staying when others leave, serving when others retreat, loving when others despair.

The story of Constance and her companions is not only a page of history. It is also a summons:

When crisis comes, when fear tempts me to flee, may I pause long enough to heed Christ’s call to remain in love, and serve.

Footnote: Yellow fever is a viral disease spread through mosquito bites. Nowadays, it can be prevented through vaccination, and proper mosquito abatement strategies.

Mark 14:66-72

And [Peter] broke down and wept.

Dear friend,
I’d bet most of us know our own weak spots. Despite bravado that may suggest otherwise, we not only know our weak spot(s), we also may live in fear of being exposed. Heaven forbid that the world see us as we are. One coping skill that many of
us may wield in our own defense is “denial.”

Peter, you’re going to deny me three times before a rooster announces daybreak tomorrow.

Peter’s “no” was emphatic. Not me. I wouldn’t do that. You got this wrong.

But Jesus knew his friend well. He understood that Peter meant what he said about not betraying him. But after the crucifixion, followers hid in fear. “Knows Jesus” was being erased quickly from resumes throughout Jerusalem.
—
We live now in fearful times. We live among those who think separation of church and state is not necessary. Some live in fear they’ll be snatched off a street and, without due process, be locked in some hellhole by dinner.

We’re revisiting battles already won but now being questioned again.

We have federally mobilized troops in our cities.

It’s difficult to just keep going when we fear that we’re not going somewhere good.

It’s a test of faith, isn’t it, whatever our faith might be.

I mean, we have responsibilities for our neighbor—which means we can’t just walk on while they are in danger. Or hungry. Or naked. Or unhoused.

Falling to our knees and weeping may seem an appropriate response to an overwhelming need. But it doesn’t erase the need itself, and it doesn’t get our work done.

So, pardon me while I stand up, brush off my knees, dab my tears with Kleenex. I believe I am late for work.

Matthew 25:31-46
The Lady With The Lamp

Florence Nightingale.
I remember learning about her in elementary school.
She is considered to be the founder of modern nursing, improving survival chances from illness and injury through introduction of and insistence upon sanitation practices.
In her day, nursing was not a revered service. In fact, people usually enrolled in that work were impoverished, sometimes criminal. The elite family from whom Florence sprung not only thought the work beneath someone of their daughter’s station, they also found it to be unsavory.

Societal norms for the time suggested that Florence should marry some nice young man of promise. But that was not Florence’s plan and, in fact, she never married.
As I freshened my memory of her contributions, I am reminded of the exceptional human being she was. As much as, maybe more than, her education, knowledge, and medical accomplishments during the Crimean War, Miss Nightingale should be honored
for so much more. Yes, she was the Lady of the Lamp, walking among her patients at night, checking on their care. But she also should be held high in our esteem for her never-ending and near-ruthless battle with bureaucracy. Perhaps it was her greatest
battle, to improve organizational deficiencies that severely limited access to medical supplies and such necessary personal items as clothing and even toothbrushes. 
She never gave up when the care of her wounded warriors was at stake.
Today, the Church lifts her up for special tribute, and the readings offered are well suited to the purpose, especially the Gospel. In Matthew 25 we are reminded that those tenacious in the care of “the least of these” have a special place in God’s kingdom.
Surely then, we can expect Miss Nightingale to be there.

---

I’ve always had a special place in my heart for nurses, which has much to do with the fact that my mother was a registered nurse.
Time and needs changed, though, and she gave up a profession she dearly loved to raise a family.

But in many ways she was always the nurse, tending to all manner of wounds, lifting
spirits as she went.
She had a knack for knowing the right thing to say to cheer someone on, or to motivate them to get up and try again. I don’t think she properly appreciated her gift, but I witnessed her doing this over and over. Saving lives, really, but without fanfare or
salute.
Like Florence Nightingale, she was a Matthew 25 person, serving “the least of these.”
In doing research for this piece, I just learned that Florence Nightingale lived to age 90,
despite battling poor health, both physical and mental. Weakened in perpetuity by a battlefield disease, many now say she also suffered from bipolar disorder, somehow managing the mood swings amidst helping others.
My mother’s own gifts played out from under a shroud of depression, though recipients of her loving wisdom likely did not know it.
They were wounded  healers, seldom aware of just how far and wide their gifts extend.
An excellent resource: Lytton Strachey, Eminent Victorians: Cardinal Manning, Florence Nightingale, Dr. Arnold, General Gordon. 1918.

Mark 8:22-38
Tree People

Every time I bump into today’s passage from Saint Mark, I encounter a bit of spiritual discomfort.

It’s a familiar account of Jesus using spit and dirt as salve for a blind man’s eyes.

When checking in with the patient, Jesus hears that full healing has not occurred.

“I can see people, but they look like trees, walking, ” the blind man tells Jesus.

This is where discomfort enters.

What is this? An incomplete miracle, requiring further action?
Even though a second “treatment” from Jesus is at hand, I am confused by the need for it. Jesus doesn’t need do-overs. What gives?

But maybe it’s similar for all of us. Maybe it’s why some go to church every Sunday: A maintenance check.

Why some listen to old-time Gospel music in the quiet of their home late at night, and let the tears fall without apology: A much-needed catharthis.

One night years ago I was part of a parking lot service, attempting to offer God’s healing in that place, the site of a recent brutal murder. As we began to sing Amazing Grace, a man lurched from the crowd now gathered. Ragged and dirty from years on the street, his perfect baritone voice joined with ours: “I was blind but now I see.”

I guess that’s how it can be in our relationship with God: Some days, when we’re trying to forge our own way, alone, maybe all we can see are “tree people.”

We need a refueling of the sort that can only come from above, before we can see things as they are.

In defense of Mary Magdalene

An old proverb comes to mind for me today. It is often attributed to the Irish, but also has been credited to Mark Twain. Also, to the American humorist, Will Rogers. Also,  Winston Churchill.

So, while it may be of questioned origin, its abiding truth shouts to us from across the centuries:

Get a reputation as an early riser and you can sleep until noon.

It works in reverse, too. Once saddled with a fabricated story, it’s often the fabricated story that is remembered.

Today, the Church celebrates the monumental contribution of Saint Mary Magdalene. The Apostle to the Apostle. At Jesus’ side. At the cross. At the tomb. In the garden. First to see the risen Jesus. Chosen to break the news to others.

The Bible says Jesus rid her of seven demons, without detail.

What the Bible does not say is that she was a prostitute. That lie about Mary is attributed to Pope Gregory’s sermon in 591AD, as he conflated several women into one person. In doing so, he created an error, which it took years for the Church to correct 

In 2016, Pope Francis elevated her feast day to the same status as that of the male apostles.

Further, it was Francis who bequeathed upon her the honorific, Apostle to the Apostles.

Why is it important to clear up such an old and perpetuated falsehood about Mary Magdalene?

One, simply to set that history straight, that a woman was a principal member, leader even, of Jesus’ A-Team.

Two, the error perpetuated the myth about women, sin, and sexuality.

Three, it obscured the chance to see a female as a strong leader in early Christianity.

So, please. Pass it along: Mary Magdalene was NOT a prostitute.