Monday of the Second Week in Lent
“We, your people and the sheep of your pasture, will give thanks for you forever; through all generations we will declare your praise.” - Psalm 79:13
The above verse from today’s Psalm is appropriate for the feast day of Ireland’s apostle. Although bonds of affection have strained in recent years, few countries have been as loyal to the Chair of Peter. (Winston Churchill once said, “The problem with the Irish is that they refuse to be English!”)
In The Confessions of St. Patrick, he came from a Christian family at the edge of the Roman empire (Britain). Seized into slavery by Irish pirates, he came to appreciate his faith. Once he escaped he embraced the vocation of a monk, bishop and apostle.
Back home in Britain, he dreamt of the Irish beaconing him to return and to bring them the Gospel. Mistreated by these terrible Celts, Patrick had to let go of his thirst for revenge against those who abused him. This didn’t happen in an instant anymore for him than it does for us.
Because my name is Cronin (O’Croinin or O’Croneen in Gaelic), people have assumed that March 17 was a big deal in our family. Yes and no. My grandmother made sure that we wore “a bit of the green” to school, usually a shamrock. There were times that my mother served corn beef and cabbage. But then there was my father.
Jack Cronin, according to AncestryDNA, was 99% Irish. All four of his grandparents came from places such as Ballinlough and Kerry. But he never said a kind word about the emerald isle. Dad suffered PTSD from World War II. A wall collapsed on him in Italy (think Bing Crosby in White Christmas) and he’d been left for dead. And that was just for starters The Irish Republic was neutral through it all. I told him that England’s loss was always Ireland’s gain, but to no avail.
My maternal grandmother, who shared our home, was born in the rough Irish sections of Glasgow, Scotland. She told tales of encounters with banshees as well using fist-to-cuffs against Protestant kids who would attack the Irish kids on the 12th of July (the orange victory at the infamous Battle of the Boyne). She was a bit of a shaman herself, could see spirits and had dreams that came true. She was devoted to the faith, praying many rosaries a day, never missing one for the mafia family that lived next door (it was Youngstown, after all).
There’s little question that Irish Catholicism permeates my blood and bone. Today’s psalm response “all generations will declare your praise” fits well. My faith, and that of my late wife Mary Tighe, can be traced to the saints and scholars of centuries past. My Irishry hasn’t given me a greater gift.
Set aside time today to contemplate your own ancestors who passed down the faith to you. Think of all the sacrifices they made to hold on to their faith. And give thanks. (And don’t forget to wear a bit o’ green.)
—Timothy J. Cronin
+ Stained glass above from my boyhood parish Saint Angela Merici Parish/ Sacred Heart Church in Youngstown.