Are We Moving Yet? Ireland & Rome, Part 1: Dublin & Knock
“Dad, are we moving yet?”
“Not yet. When we move, you’ll feel it.”
That was the child’s voice behind me on the plane to Dublin, pestering his father with the same question every few minutes as we sat idle on the tarmac. At first, I laughed quietly to myself—classic impatient kid energy. But then, almost immediately, I thought: that’s me with God.
How often do I ask: Is this the plan? Is it happening now? Am I supposed to move? And the divine response might not be so different from that dad’s patient chuckle: Not yet. Trust me. When it’s time, you’ll know.
It was a thought that set the tone for the whole trip, because again and again in Ireland—and later in Rome—we started off in what looked like the wrong direction, only to end up exactly where we needed to be. Sometimes it was a wild goose chase for a café in Roscommon that didn’t exist. Sometimes it was a bus in Rome that carried us opposite of where we wanted to go. And yet each misstep carried its own hidden gift.
Sitting on that plane, engines still silent, I laughed at the metaphor already writing itself: God’s timing is like liftoff. You won’t miss it when it comes.
Learning to Drive in Dublin
By the time I landed in Dublin, anticipation gave way to cautious focus. I had reserved the cheapest rental car I could find: a manual. And not just a manual—this was Ireland. Which meant sitting on the right side of the car, driving on the left side of the road, and shifting with my left hand.
I climbed into the driver’s seat in the rental lot and just sat there. Adjusted mirrors. Adjusted the seat. Rain spat against the windshield. I wasn’t frozen in fear—I just knew the smarter move was to get familiar with the controls before pulling into traffic. If something odd happened down the road and I didn’t know what switch or lever did what, that’s when trouble would hit.
After a good pause, I circled the parking lot once to reacquaint myself with the stick shift. Then out onto the road. It wasn’t graceful, but it wasn’t clumsy either—solid enough for a first outing. Later in the trip, I’d have my tourist-struggles-in-a-manual moment, like when I tried to back up a cobblestone hill on the Ring of Kerry with a row of horse riders watching me. But that first drive into Dublin? It was steady.
Somehow I even found cheap street parking near St. Peter’s Church.
Susan and the Smoke
The first thing I saw at the wide open doors of St. Peter’s wasn’t what I expected.
Susan, a homeless woman, stood just inside with two of her friends, smoking a cigarette. It startled me. I wasn’t pleased to see smoke hanging in the air of a church entrance. But before I could say anything, she made a small effort to apologize. And she and the others were genuinely kind—when I asked about a bathroom, they offered directions and said sometimes a parishioner might let me use one inside.
So I wandered. No luck. Talked with a couple workers nearby, and found myself back at the church again. By then, Susan and her friends had gone, and the pews were filling with parishioners as Mass was about to begin. I got access to a bathroom, then joined the congregation.
Coffee After Mass
Mass itself gave me another of those “wrong direction, right time” lessons.
During the homily I decided I would get coffee after Mass. At the end, the priest announced there would be coffee and tea in the parish hall. It made me laugh—like God chuckling: Already taken care of.
That’s where I met two parishioners who left a mark on my journey. One asked me to pray for her friend Mary on canonization day in Rome. Another introduced herself and mentioned being a cousin of a family I grew up with in my childhood parish back in Virginia. Small world. Across the ocean, in a Dublin parish hall, I was suddenly linked right back to home.
The prayer request and the hometown connection gave my first day shape. My hunt for a bathroom had turned into a chance to carry someone else’s intention all the way to Rome, and to bump into someone who reminded me of my roots. Grace tucked into the detours.
Picking Up Patrick
The next morning I returned to the airport to pick up Patrick. That, too, came with its own little comedy. I tried parking in the arrivals loop and immediately got booted by an officer. So I regrouped, found a McDonald’s nearby, and parked there. Free, legal, and close enough for Patrick to walk over with his luggage. We got breakfast inside, caught up a bit, and then packed the car for the drive west.
From there, the pilgrimage truly began. Our first heading: Knock.
Roscommon and Rock Walls
The drive west carried us into narrower and narrower roads. Rock walls lined each side, some of them softened by years of grass growing over the stones. At times I edged too close to give space for oncoming cars, and I found myself bouncing against those grassy mounds like I was off-roading in an ATV.
We paused in Roscommon, where a church steeple—Sacred Heart—rose up out of the town and caught our eyes. Patrick and I wandered in. It became his first church visit in Ireland. We tried to follow directions to a café that turned out not to exist, but a kind woman at a desk set us straight. The café we did find had not only the coffee and hot chocolate we were seeking, but a bathroom too. Another detour, another grace.
Knock: Peace in the Rain
By the time we reached Knock, the rain had eased and the air was damp, the sky a gray-white wash. The shrine itself was peaceful, quieter than I’d imagined. No crowds, no chaos. Just space.
Inside the adoration chapel, we slid into a pew midway down the left side. The space was bright—white walls, wide windows, steady light from above. Designed for hundreds, but only a dozen or so scattered in quiet prayer. Jackets rustled in the background, the faint shuffle of damp fabric against wooden pews. That was the soundtrack: the sound of pilgrims still drying off, settling in.
I fixed my gaze on the monstrance. At one point, I noticed something—just enough to make me wonder. Near the base of the Eucharist, there seemed to be a flicker, like heat waves rising from a candle flame. The candles themselves stood still, their flames neat, their height unchanging. The angles didn’t line up. And it wasn’t constant—only enough to tease the imagination, or perhaps to open the eyes of faith.
Maybe it was in my head. Maybe it was a glimpse of a deeper reality, the Sacred Heart burning quietly through the ordinary appearance of the Eucharist. I didn’t need certainty. The moment was enough: a shimmer in the silence, pilgrims rustling in their raincoats, and visible or not—the real presence of Jesus Christ, the Host of all hosts, waiting in the center of the room.
Patrick and I prayed the rosary there. Beads in hand, others praying on their own whispered in rhythm, a steady hum beneath the silence. It felt fitting to start our pilgrimage that way—asking Mary to guide us deeper into her Son’s mysteries, to steady our steps as we went further west.
“Travel Everywhere”
Afterward, we stepped back out into the damp air and met an Ugandan priest. He carried himself with a joy that cut through the rain. When he heard we were traveling, he laughed and told us simply: “Travel everywhere.”
Simple advice, but it stuck. Travel isn’t just a logistical choice; it’s a way to stretch the soul, to see God’s handiwork beyond your own patch of earth. His words felt like a small blessing over the road still ahead.
Lunch and Tea
We found a café nearby for lunch, where the sandwiches were nothing fancy but hit the spot. I had my first Irish tea with milk, and it tasted like a small initiation ritual. Simple, warm, grounding. The kind of ordinary meal that stitches a journey together.
A Burning Heart, a Gentle Start
Looking back, Knock set the tone. It wasn’t loud, it wasn’t dramatic. It was a place where silence itself carried the weight of faith. Where a shimmer might mean everything, or nothing—but the point was prayer, presence, and the Eucharist at the center.
It was a gentle start for us, one that gave us a foothold before the more dramatic hikes and encounters of the days ahead. If Dublin had taught me to pay attention to the detours, Knock reminded me why I was traveling at all: to draw closer to God in the quiet heart of the pilgrimage.
It was also in Knock that Patrick spotted the Holy Mountain on a map—Croagh Patrick, the traditional site of St. Patrick’s 40 day fast. On the spot, we added it to our route. It wasn’t part of our original plan, but it became one of the defining moments of the trip.
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