You have all very likely heard the saying, "Luck of the Irish.

" But there was once a time in that Emerald Isle when people didn't seem so lucky. And yet they were, for a reason yet to be discovered by all, as Fiona was soon to learn.

"What are you thinking about, my dear?" Fiona, young and fair, sat gazing down over the rolling hills. From atop the hill she had chosen to recline upon, it was obvious to her that her beloved Ireland had not been named the "Emerald Isle" for no reason. Soft breezes swept the fields of sweet-smelling shamrocks, and the sun's evening glow changed the green into gold. The ten-year-old girl hardly heard the question of the frail, ancient figure beside her. Had she not been blind, the old woman might have seen the far-off glance in the girl's brown eyes. Yet sometimes Fiona couldn't help but doubt if the woman were blind at all, so acute was the touch of her fingers. Though often forgetful, her wisdom was rarely questioned. When the woman repeated herself, the child stirred, then shook her head vigorously. "Oh... yes, Grandmother?" "Did you not hear me, child?" "I... I'm sorry. I guess my mind is wandering again." Grandmother reached out and gently touched the girl's face. "You are anxious about something, aren't you?" The woman felt the warmth of the smile that played itself over Fiona's face. "Oh, Grandmother, you can always read my mind!" She grasped the elderly hand in affection, then sighed. "Tell me, Grandmother," she continued softly. "When, if ever, will we return home?" Grandmother's sightless eyes moved toward the source of the young voice. Her brittle teeth bit her lower lip. This dear girl before her had known shock and pain beyond language's grasp. Presently, Fiona recalled the days of her earliest childhood. Happy, playful, always welcome to joy, she could have cared less for what happened in the world around her. She remembered how,

when she had been laid to sleep upon her straw-filled mattress, she had often dreamt of being the daughter of a noble prince, or one of the Celtic kings she had often heard tales about. Her mind used to race along with the galloping unicorns she would delight in riding, her crown never falling from its place on her head. When she had opened her eyes, however, all they had met was the low roof of her family's surf's cottage, not the high-ceilinged castle that she had half expected to see. But she had never regretted this reality, for she had always preferred her own father's hands, strong and calloused from years of labor, to those of any nobleman. Surely her mother's beauty could surpass that of any queen. "Those days were only the calm before the storm," she smiled sadly to herself. "Those dreams seem so absurd now. First I had wished to have a king for a father, but now I have no father at all." Her grandmother, sensing the child had again fallen into one of her daydreams, now answered her nearly forgotten question. "God will do with us what He knows best, my darling. You mustn't forget that His ways are not always the same as ours." "Mama used to always tell me that God is the source of our joy. Is He also, then, the source of our sorrow?" "God sometimes allows these things to happen for our own good, Fiona." For their own good? Fiona could hardly believe her own ears. How could being driven from their beloved home all the way to Connaught by the English possibly be 'for their own good'? "Are you sure, Grandmother? Sometimes I tend to feel as though God does not care much for what happens to us anymore." "Child!" Grandmother pronounced the words firmly but gently. "Do not speak so. Do you not know that God is everywhere, and that He never stops caring for us? Why, then, should He have ever begun if He has stopped now? Learn to count your blessings, for your mother, and I, and especially you are still alive, thanks only to God's Providence. Many others were killed on the spot they were found. We are not starving, like so many others around us in this time of famine. You are luckier, child, then many of your countrymen." "Those people were killed because, like us, they loved a faith that the English despise," Fiona retorted with a boldness she rarely showed. "You say I am 'lucky,' Grandmother. But what has luck done for Dadder? My father was killed for standing up for his rights, my home plundered because of what I believe!" The girl was choking on her words by now. "Even all the

shamrocks in these hills could not give me luck enough to accept that!" Grandmother heaved a sigh. The poor dear was close to crying. She could hardly blame her. Had she not undergone these many hardships without so much as shedding a tear? "Fiona, luck is not precisely what you think it is. It is something entirely different." Fiona rubbed her eyes dry. "How is that?" Grandmother, with her sensitive fingers, found a spot free from the many shamrocks. Almost as if she had never lost her sight, she carefully wrote in the soft soil: Love Unto Christ the King "You see, darling," she said soothingly. "I have used each letter in the word 'luck' to form a word. Let us love and trust God. Is God not here now, watching as we speak? He is our good fortune in times of need. He knows our wants and needs and knows what is best to allow us to have and what not to have." Fiona listened intently to her grandmother's words, which always seemed to touch her heart in a way she could not express. She watched as the old woman reached down to pluck a shamrock, then lifted the little leaf up for her to see. "God often speaks to us through nature, Fiona. Do you not remember St. Patrick, the saint of our country? Did he not use a shamrock to explain to our ancestors how God is three in one?" For a moment, her face turned toward the sunset. Fiona could see its soft glow illuminating her grandmother's face. "I'd advise you to return to this very spot everyday, at this same hour. Open your heart, look at the shamrocks. Watch the sun sink to its rest. Maybe you will feel a sense of peace when you learn to communicate with God in this way. Perhaps, in all good time, you will come to see what I mean when I say 'God is everywhere, and our good fortune.'" Fiona took the shamrock, then led her grandmother down the hill toward their small run-down cottage, still pondering on the woman's words.

The next day, at that same time, Fiona returned to that spot, still holding the shamrock her grandmother had picked the day before. She let her eyes roam over the scene before her, just like yesterday. But this time she tried to see it not only in the light of the setting sun, but also in the light of her heart. For as far as she could see, there were the hills, lush with the plentiful shamrocks, going on and on until they seemed to reach the horizon. Suddenly, a smile crossed the girl's face. For once it was a smile of joy, not sorrow. It was a smile of understanding which lit her young features. Yes, God seemed to live in the fields that lay before her, in the hills, and in her hand, which she opened to see the little green shamrock she held. For an instant, she almost thought she looked into a mirror of God's face---her true Father, King of all. Yes, to her, God seemed to live in these hills, in the shamrocks. The tension in her heart slowly melted away as she began to see what her grandmother had meant. It didn't matter what tomorrow would bring. For just like those shamrocks, God would always be there. Just like those shamrocks, God is everywhere.