Maybe it’s in the green or the shamrocks or those cute – not so cute – leprechauns that run around creating mischieve and planting pots of gold. Maybe it is because I was born and raised in Dublin, Georgia, (not Ireland) but it might as well have been. Maybe it is because I won the Leprechaun Contest in the first grade. I don’t know, but I love St. Patrick’s Day.
Who was St. Patrick?
St. Patrick was the Patron Saint of Ireland who advanced Christianity. Interestingly, he wasn’t Irish because he was brought to Ireland as a slave. There are many legends about him: he drove the snakes out of Ireland; he used the shamrock as an example of the Trinity; his name wasn’t Patrick but Maewyn Succat; and he passed away on March 17th.
Why green?
We wear green to honor him. It’s all about the shamrocks. St. Patrick used shamrocks in his ministry to symbolize the Trinity – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Each leaf represents one of the Trinity on one plant. Many people wear shamrocks on St. Patrick’s Day in memory of the Patron Saint.
My best St. Patrick’s Day memory
I have so many memories of St. Patrick’s Day because I grew up in Dublin which celebrates St. Patrick’s Day in some ways as much as Christmas. Doors are decorated with wreaths of shamrocks. Green lights adorn trees and shrubbery. Leprechauns can be found any and everywhere. There are parades, parties, super Saturday, the crowning of Miss St. Patrick, green food and drinks, and so much more.
For anyone who lives in Dublin, it is our favorite time of year. The entire month of March is dedicated to events revolving around St. Patrick’s Day. Leprechaun traps are set. Rainbow watching comes to life. There’s music and munchies, balloon rides, a green golf tournament, and the annual Leprechaun 5k run. This year was the 47th Leprechaun Road Race. I ran in the very first one at the age of 11.
I’d love to tell you it was because I was an avid runner; maybe the thrill of the competition; the drive to win at all costs; but in actuality, it was this really cute senior football player, baseball player, basketball player, all around athlete and super nice guy who was running in the race. And in my 11-year-old mind, he and I were going to cross the finish line together and live happily ever after. I was quite the romantic – even at 11.
It didn’t matter that he didn’t know my name. I occasionally passed him in the hall at church as he walked with the other youth to their Secret Destinations or activities for teenagers, and I was heading to the children’s church activities. My 5th grade mind had determined we were destined to be together and somehow I had to run this race beside him.
Truth be known, I wrote his name on a piece of paper and put it in my shoe.
My dad brought me to the race. He was running as well.
And there he was.
I pushed my way through to get as close as I could to him. He wore a green shirt, gold athletic shorts, white socks, and dirty sneakers. His hair was sandy blonde and curly and blew in the slight breeze of the morning. My eyes fixed on his every move. In such a crowd of people, I couldn’t risk losing sight of him.
I knew my dad wouldn’t mind my running independently because my dad was an avid athlete himself. I was sure he was focused on stretching and breathing and that finish line.
They lined us up for a shotgun start. I felt very small in the front as one of the older guys told me I should probably go to the back or I’d get run over. And then he spoke, my dream guy, words came from his lips to my ears, “Leave her alone. She can run with us.”
My feet were supercharged. I’d actually heard his voice. And, he had somehow defended me which secured my mission to run and run and run and not lose sight of him.
The course was downhill from the start and even though I was a fast runner, nothing prepared me for the pounding of the feet, the closeness of elbows, and the breath of other runners on the back of my head. We were heading toward a curve and I could barely keep my eyes on him. Never had my legs moved as fast and never had I tried harder at anything.
And just as I entered the curve, my legs moving way too fast to control, I fell, taking down 4 other runners with me. The pavement stung my legs, my arms, my face. My shirt was torn and my dreams shattered. I crawled over to the nearby grass. The other runners continued despite my clumsiness. I sat…quiet and still…watching the feet of those who passed by…head to the finish line.
I knew a shortcut to find my dad who had probably finished the race by now and was looking for me. People were laughing, patting each other on the back, chatting about their run. Awards were being presented.
I just kept my head down, embarrassed by the turn of events that ended all hopes for me.
“Hey!” a voice called out to me, tossing a medal on a green ribbon.
It fell perfectly in my fingers.
“You’ll get it next time!” he winked throwing his towel over his shoulder and walking off with his group of friends.
I kept that medal for the longest time and then somehow lost it after several moves. I don’t think I ever saw him again. Someone said he was a minister in Alabama.
But for me, nothing compared to that moment of acknowledgment from a teenage boy who had a heart bigger than most and recognized a little girl who had a dream.
