What was I thinking of? One day to see Dublin? Yes, I had been there before and had been to the National Museum and the National Gallery and to Christ Church Cathedral and St Patrick’s Cathedral and every site associated with James Joyce, one of my favorite authors. And I had eaten fish and chips and fed some to the seagulls, and I had been to Bewley’s, a fancy tea shop, on Grafton Street. And I had seen and wandered through the floors of the large mall which seemed to be  made mostly of glass. So, yes, I had seen Dublin, but Jim hadn’t. And I had no idea what we would do in our one short day there. Since I knew his interests are quite different from mine, most of the places that I had visited were not places he would necessarily want to see.

So we began our day in Dublin, after we had battled downtown traffic and detours, by parking in a car park that should be the closest one to Trinity College, where we had booked reservations to see the Book of Kells. After passing through security and asking directions two or three times, we crossed the end of the open quad surrounded by great stone buildings and found the entrance to the exhibit.

As usual, we were asked to stay going one direction only and to allow space between ourselves and others. Neither of these was easy to do. The exhibit was not set up linearly, but laterally, with several free-standing walls which were supposed to be read on both sides. But there were also readings and pictures to be viewed on the perimeter walls. What to do? We did the best we could, occasionally skipping something in the timeline, then circling back to it. The exhibit was fascinating. I knew nothing about the Book of Kells beyond the fact that It is one of the top tourist sites to visit in Dublin.

The Book of Kells is a highly colorful and highly illustrated compilations of the four gospels. Some put the earliest date of the copies of the gospels at 800 A. D. Most legends associated with the history of Christianity in Ireland say that St. Patrick, who brought the gospel to the island in the fourth century, also established monasteries both on the island of Ireland and on the island of Britain in areas of Scotland and northern England. These monastic sites would have been places where the gospels was copied by scribes. The Book of Kells purportedly was begun on the island of Iona. But the book ended up in Ireland after Vikings attacked Iona and the book was in danger of destruction. The book was, indeed, kept in the village of Kells at the abbey.  By the early eleventh century, the Book of Kells had been moved to Trinity College, Dublin, where it has been housed and protected ever since.

The exhibit panels showed facsimiles of various illustrated leaves of the book, along with explanations of the elaborate script and symbolic painting. One that puzzled me was a leaf that was said to have Jesus’ head in the very middle of a maze-like painting. I finally asked Jim, “Where’s Jesus?” He pointed him out: his head was lying sideways in the picture and, therefore, rather obscured by the surrounding curlicues.

I also enjoyed the facsimiles of the frontispieces for the four gospels, with full-leaf illustrations of each gospel writer: all four have halos and wings, all of which look quite similar. It is there the similarities end: Matthew is portrayed as a man; Mark, a lion; John, an eagle; Luke, a calf. The symbolic representations were fascinating, even if inscrutable at times.

My favorite panels in the exhibit were those devoted to scribes who had left their mark, so to speak, by creating poems in the margins of the leaves. One young scribe wrote about the similarities between his cat’s work and his: “I and Pangur Ban my cat/’Tis a like task we are at:/Hunting mice is his delight,/Hunting words I sit all night.” He ends with “Practice every day has made/Pangur perfect in his trade;/I get wisdom day and night/Turning darkness into light.”

After an hour of reading panels and scrutinizing small features of this or that letter or symbol, Jim and I were more than ready to view the two real pages of the Book of Kells that are displayed in a climate-controlled, dimly lit room. We waited our turn to walk to the illuminated pages which were encased in a heavy Plexiglass case. How disappointing! Yes, two leaves were on display, but neither was heavily illustrated. Instead, the leaves had minimal illustration at the beginning of a section by the insertion of a highly ornamented letter. Still, it was the book of John in a very early Latin translation, and it has been cherished and treasured through the years so that it remains for us in the 21^st century to view.

The visit would not have been complete without a walk through the Long Room  of the Trinity College Library. Three tall floors of books—old books—towered over us with white marble busts of famous Irish scientists and politicians guarding each entrance to a stack. Those more than 200,000 books that have been housed in that space since the Long Room was completed in the mid-1700s are just amazing to contemplate. My fingers tingled with the desire to touch just one cover—but I didn’t.

Out on the street, we re-connected with my friend Ruth who directed Jim in the direction of the car park, since he was to take the rental car back to the airport, and who took me with her to souvenir shop on the main cobblestone street called Grafton. With Ruth and Rachel to help me, we accomplished the task of buying souvenirs for children and grandchildren in record time. Then we retired to the lovely St. Stephen’s Green, a park right in the center of downtown Dublin. It is so green and peaceful, filled with people lazing on park benches, ducks in ponds, and large geese wherever they happened to want to be.

When Jim returned, we all tramped down that main street again so that we could have tea and scones at Bewley’s, which has been totally renovated, being more opulent than it had been in its earlier iteration. But the surroundings fled away when I bit into the scone which was lathered with cream and fruit jam. I wish I had been able to purchase some of the deep purple jam which was called a “seasonal” jam. Whatever kinds of berries it contained, it was both sweet and tart, the perfect combination with a huge, fluffy scone and a great cup of Earl Grey tea.

Being renewed in spirit and in body, Jim and I followed Ruth the blocks across mid-town to Christ Church Cathedral, the oldest stone building in Dublin. Although it has suffered through the years since its beginnings in the 12^th century, it stands today as a thriving protestant church in this predominantly Roman Catholic country. How can I describe a cathedral? It soars towards the heavens; its mass is so great that a regular photo can’t capture it in its entirety; its accoutrements are lavish with bright colors and unique symbolic designs. But above all else, it is the house of God. I never fail to feel hushed and reverent when I enter the space of a cathedral or, for that matter, the sanctuary of any church. God is still meeting people in that space. He is still answering prayers. He is still making himself known as Lord of the universe and redeemer of our souls.

Our visit to Christ Church was a fitting way to end our sightseeing tour of Dublin.

Works Consulted

The Book of Kells: Official Guide. Thames and Hudson 2018.

“Christ Cathedral.” The AA Pocket Guide to Dublin. Automobile Association Developments Limited 2008.

“The Long Room.” Trinity College Dublin. https://www.tcd.ie/library/old-library/long-room/ Updated Apr 21, 2017.

Sunshine at 8:00 in the morning on our sixth day in Ireland. This was no watery, misty sunshine; this was honest-to-goodness sunshine that looked like it would last for a while. Our friend Jeff had told us just the night before that if we had sunshine in the morning, we should plan to go over one of the mountain passes into Wicklow National Park and then down into the valley that enclosed the Glendalough area with its ancient Christian monastery.

We had already made arrangements to pick up our friend Ruth and her friend and traveling companion Rachel so that they could accompany us on this very special day of our sightseeing excursions. The sunshine should make the day perfect! Off we went, south out of the Dublin suburbs and through some little villages on the roads that wound around hills. Less than 30 minutes on the road and we found the signs for Sally Gap, one of the two mountain passes Jeff had mentioned. The road, curving gently around the hills that would become higher as we drove the gentle ascent, led us to beautiful sites. Soon we were doing what all the other tourists were doing: pulling off into the parking areas and getting out to see the sites.

And what sites they were! The first was a beautifully dark, deep lake that is commonly called Guinness Lake, because it resembles the shape of the Guinness harp, but, in reality, is Lough Tay on a private estate that belonged to the Guinness family. A ring of mountains surrounded it. We stood on one side to look down into the lake and to look across to the other purple and green mountains. Driving on, we came to another great site: a gurgling creek far below us was tumbling down into a large green valley. The place was a perfect photo op, with a low wall of stones that one could sit on and look out across a vast valley before glancing up at the mountains beyond. And with the sunshine, the colors were spectacular—deep blues and purples, brilliant greens, sparkling white water. And all was made more perfect by the fact that sheep were roaming the steep hill behind the roadway, unfazed by the cars and human voices.

And we weren’t even to Sally Gap yet. We knew we were getting closer because the ascent became steeper, and the road became narrower. More than once either we had to back up to let someone pass or the other car had to back up to do the same. Narrow roads with sheer drop-offs call for careful driving. As Ruth and Rachel and I were commenting on this or that view that just begged to be looked at, I kept repeating to Jim, “You don’t need to look. You just need to keep your eyes on the road!” Finally, we came to the four-way intersection that was Sally Gap. We had reached the top of the pass and could see down in all directions. Signs pointed to Dublin and to a military camp and to Glendalough Monastic Site, our destination.

We turned left onto a road that hardly seemed to be a road, not totally paved and even narrower than the road we had just turned from. This road seemed to have more bends and turns that the others we had been on, but the road was not long, and, soon, we arrived at the car park and visitor center for the Glendalough site. It was still high in the mountains, but it was fairly flat, a perfect little valley for the monks who had first inhabited this area in the 600s when St. Kevin founded the monastery. As usual, we trekked to the visitors’ center, hoping for information and a map that would guide us as we wandered the area. And, as usual, the visitor’s center was closed. Fortunately, a guide was inside, opened the door to us and, in answer to our request for materials, told us, “Wait here.” He came back with both literature and maps and pointed us down the path to a bridge that would cross yet another babbling brook and lead us to the path into the ruins.

Just a minute or two of walking brought us to the entrance of the monastic site. We walked straight to a most impressive building: it was small, but it was totally intact—walks, roof, and chimney, all made of rough, overlapping stones of shale and limestone. This was designated St. Kevin’s church, although it wasn’t constructed till almost 600 years after St. Kevin had died. And in walking so deliberately to this building, we had missed the first of the monastic churches: St. Kiernan’s Church, which, to be honest, wasn’t very impressive since only one or two layers of stones outlined the perimeter of the building. As we wandered on the path, we came to many gravesites in the cemetery. Some of the stones were so old that you could barely tell a design or printing, but some of them, covered in artificial flowers, were current to the 2000s. Jim and I were impressed, not for the first time, that cemeteries continue to be used, even if the abbey or the monastery has been in ruins for a long time.

We walked on, marveling at the round tower, about 98 feet high, which was totally constructed from rough stones of varying sizes. A person has to wonder how the monks kept those rocks in place and who built the walls so high. The cathedral came next with impressive walls, arches, carvings, and accoutrements you might find in a church or cathedral. I’m always amazed when we travel to other countries and are allowed to climb all over historic sites. Here, we usually are kept away from ruins with ropes and barriers. And, of course, one exception to the open sites in the UK is Stone Henge, which is, indeed, roped off from people getting too close. On the other hand, there are several other stone circles where a person can walk right up to a stone and touch it. After all, the weight of the stone is such that one or two people are not going to be able to topple it. Here, at Glendalough, people have respect, even reverence, for the ruins and are not about to cause damage to the remains of the buildings, most of which date from the 11^th and 12^th centuries.

Having tired ourselves out and finding ourselves hungry, we reluctantly left the ruins behind us and took the “easy” road toward Bray, looking for the Avoca Handweavers Village, which, according to our friend Wanda, Jeff’s wife, had a lovely restaurant with lovely food.  Wanda was so right! The Fern House Restaurant was lovely; three of the four walls were high arched windows with views of nothing but lush green trees and bushes. A kale/quinoa salad for two of us, a smoked salmon for another, and red curry for another, satisfied all of us. And then it was time to shop the huge store that lay beyond the restaurant, conveniently in the same building. Jim, no shopper, retired to the car for a nap; we three women ran the gamut of the store, looking at all kinds of items, but particularly drawn to the various soft wool plaid and striped scarves and throws. Alas, none of were willing to pay the price to walk out with one of those items. My big purchase was a lovely iris-scented soap for six euros.

Back to Dublin to drop off Ruth and Rachel at the Dart station, where the above ground train would whisk them back to their temporary home in Howth, and to find ourselves back at our lovely Victorian room at Claremont Bed and Breakfast, where we would reminisce on a totally lovely day, full of sunshine.

Works Consulted

“Glendalough.” Monastic Ireland. http://monastic.ie/history/glendalough/ copyrighted 2014.

“Glendalough.” Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glendalough  Last updated Aug 6, 2021.

Ireland 2021 Day 5: September 13

Bright red meat—lots of it—slab upon slab of what looked to be lamb chops ready to be individually cut, sides of beef that were waiting to be cut into steaks and roasts; in other displays fat, linked sausages spilled out over the sides of their trays. The displays of meat for sale went on and on. At one point I said to Jim, those huge cuts of meat look like they should be delivered to a restaurant (and I found out later, through a Wikipedia site, that some of them probably were). We had already noticed some vendors selling prepared food: a café with all kinds of lovely scones and pastries (but no empty seats where we might sit to enjoy their wares), a long buffet supervised by employees who were helping customers with purchases of spicy green and red curries and other Indian-inspired luncheon items. We walked on down the aisle of the market and walked into the produce section. Fruits and vegetables alike looked polished and bright, ready to eat. The smells from dark sweet cherries, and red and black small plums and bright yellow peaches with beautiful pink “cheeks” finally overwhelmed me. Two of those peaches would be mine! I could just imagine the luscious juice when I bit into them.

We finally reached an area of the market that clearly was not open for business, but, instead, was being used as storage for more produce. As we turned to walk back through the aisles, we entered the fish market. Oh, my, if a person likes fish, this place would be a paradise of sights and smells, but for the visitor who doesn’t necessarily like “fishy” smells, it was a place to hurry through. We came to a branch that veered off to the right: it was the poultry section; chicken, duck, and turkey were displayed in all their naked skin. Such sights are not my favorite, just like the fish didn’t seem too attractive to me. Closer to the entrance, we found a sundries store, just the kind of place that I wanted to browse. It seemed that if I could name it, I could find it: soaps, boxes of tea, decorative home items, tins of biscuits (cookies), candles, spices, dried pastas and legumes. I lingered long over some gift-boxed handmade soaps, but finally decided against them—Jim was impatiently waiting outside the entrance for me.

This was day 5 of our Ireland experience. We had set out that morning from our B & B in the Killarney area and had traveled just about due east for almost two hours to the city of Cork. We saw the signs for Blarney Castle but had already decided that that particular tourist attraction was not for us. We were more interested in the countryside and the villages that the Castle where you pay to kiss the Blarney stone. When we had arrived in Cork and had found a car park close to the downtown area, we discovered we were only a few blocks from the English market, which was out destination. That’s where we had been to see all the meats, produce, and sundries. A local had told us how to get to the market: “Cross this street; to the left of the store directly across from here, go through the alley. When you are through it, cross the street and almost directly across from the first alley, enter a second alley. When you see the sign for the Swarovski store, turn into the arched doorway right before it—that’s the entrance to the market.” And what an entrance it was: the beautiful arched ceiling was at least three stories high and seemed much too elegant for butchers’ shops, produce vendors, and a fish market.

An amusing event occurred while we were in the market: needing to find a “toilet,” as the English, Scottish, and Irish call their restrooms, we inquired and were pointed to a sign that led to a small, rather dimly lighted hallway. A gentleman was waiting at a single door, doing little hopping steps as a person might who really needed to use the restroom. He engaged Jim in a little masculine humor about the needs of men who were a little older than some and who might need a restroom urgently. Finally, a person came out of the door and the man went in. When he came out, Jim went in (the older gentleman syndrome applied). When he came out, I went in, thinking that the door was automatically locking as it closed. I was too caught up in trying to see in an extremely dark blue ultraviolet light that was the only illumination in the room and seemed to serve the purpose of disinfecting the place to notice the lock. Suddenly the door opened, and a young man walked halfway through the door before he noticed that I was standing there. Embarrassed, he apologized and hurried left, and Jim yelled at me to find the lock, which I did. Everyone needs a toilet, and to have only one unisex toilet for the whole market seemed totally inadequate, but such was the case.

Walking back through the alleys, which were really brick-paved narrow streets with shops ranged all along both sides, we found a little café that served wonderful fruit scones and hot black tea. Since the weather was clearing and the wait person had dried both tables and chairs, we decided to sit outside. Another amusing incident occurred when I bobbled my knife and dropped it. It fell right through a narrow grate into a storm drain! When we were finished, I said to Jim that I would go inside and explain what had happened to the knife and offer to pay for it. But as we stood up, we both noticed the knife had fallen upright into the shallow drain, easily retrievable. A good end to a good respite from our walks of the morning.

Our next stop was the Cork Airport, which we had targeted ahead of time as a place where we would be able to get the Covid test that we needed to clear US security on our way out of the country in just three days. All the online sites had warned US passengers to get the test 72 hours of departure. We were doing our due diligence. It would take several more paragraphs to explain our hour-long ordeal of filling out forms on our phone to “book” an appointment at the very place we were sitting in our car. A wonderful Irish health worker helped us so much; he kept saying, “Take your time; don’t panic; you’re in Ireland.” A wonderful reminder to us. An hour of booking, five minutes of another health worker’s prepping to swab up, a minute for each of us to “give” the throat and nose swab, and we were on our way, having decided that we needed to hit the road for the three-hour trip to Dublin and our final B & B destination in Dun Laoghaire (pronounced something like “dunlarry”). And even though the location was down a very narrow street that sometimes required the driver to back out to the end of the block, we were glad to arrive at the late Victorian rowhouse that would be our home for the next three days.

Work Consulted

“English Market.” Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_Market

Last updated July 11, 2021.

“How to Pronounce Dun Laoghaire (Correctly).” YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9PGFoDQ-U38

Last updated July 29, 2021.

Lush greenness everywhere—isn’t that the first description that you always hear for Ireland? We had already seen evidence of this description. The Kilkenny Castle grounds were green and still producing late blooms on the flowers. We had seen green fields of crops to be harvested, although, to be sure, we also saw some yellow stubble in fields where hay or straw had been cut and baled already. Today, we were traveling between Limerick and Killarney and would have a chance to see some cross-country vistas—surely it would not disappoint us.

On the two-hour southern journey, the first town I took note of was Adare. As we came towards it, I first saw an Adare Manor, which appeared to house a golf course. Then I saw signs for racing, since discovering online that the Limerick Horseracing Track is in Adare. Then as we approached the village proper, I saw at least two old castles (the Desmond Castle, looking to be in fine shape, and the Adare Castle, looking a little less so), and at least two churches, one of which was the Holy Trinity Abbey Church, and the other, the old Augustinian Friary. At that point, I wished I had done more research before we visited; I definitely would have found time for us to explore this elegant, history-filled town.

After all the bustle of Adare, the countryside through which we drove was relaxing. We hit some patches of rain and had some areas of two-lane roads where it appeared some people were out for a Sunday morning “stroll.,” but, for the most part, we enjoyed seeing the agricultural setting with some purple-hazed mountains off to the south. Knowing that the Killarney National Park is in a mountainous region, I thought we would be headed straight towards those faraway peaks. Instead, we curved to the left and saw rolling hills for quite a while as we passed innumerable villages and headed, once again, towards the peaks to our right.

Passing through the city of Killarney, we headed further south to the entrance of the park. We soon passed a sign for Muckross, recognizing the name of one of the attractions of the park. Leaving the parking area, we walked to what appeared to be the ticketing area for the Muckross House: everything was closed. Having spotted a visitor’s center on the way into the car park, we headed towards it, thinking that we would be able to gain some information. What we found was a self-serve cafeteria area that said only outside seating was available. It was not a warm day, but a tent had been provided for visitors, so we purchased a pastry and pot of tea and headed for the tent. As we sat there, sipping our strong, hot tea, we debated what to do. No information concerning the park seemed to be available; both of us were thinking, “This is going to be a bust.” We had been tempted to think that the day before in Galway when we were rudderless till we spotted the outside information desk in Eyre Square. We didn’t see any “I” for information signs here.

We realized, though, that we were in the walled garden area of the park, a beautiful spot to wander. Laid out as a formal garden, both internal paths and outside perimeter paths allowed us to get close to every kind of flower you can imagine. We kept discovering blooms that we did not recognize, some of which had identification, some that did not. We took pictures of everything, hoping perhaps that we could later put names to the flowers we had seen. As we turned to go from the gardens, Jim took an outside path that was headed the long way around the visitor’s center. Rather unwillingly, I followed, thinking that this path would take us farther away from our car.

Just as we turned around the last bend to get beyond the center, Jim spotted it—the information center. More than likely, if we had gone the other way, we would have missed it. The most lovely, gracious guide was more than willing to help us. Jim asked for directions to some easy walking paths (I was still limping because of my hip and my blisters!). She had three great suggestions, all a brief driving distance from this Muckross area: a five-minute-walk to the Torc Waterfall, a 20-minute walk to the Dinis tea cottage and the edge of Muckross (or Middle) Lake, and an eight-minute walk to the ruins of the Muckross Abbey, a fifteenth century building.

The visitor’s Center had been shady with lots of huge-trunked trees, but as we drove towards the waterfall site, the forest enveloped us, the dark luscious green we had expected. Walking toward the waterfall, we noticed that all the vegetation, as well as the rocks and gravel underfoot, were dripping with moisture. A small stream, racing over rocks, babbled beside us as we wended our way to the observation site. The waterfall was not extremely high nor wide, but the beauty of the serene scene calmed us: this definitely was not a “bust” of a day.

Next, we drove on the narrow tree-lined road to the small carved-out car park closest to the cottage/lake walk. The first incline took our breath, but the path leveled out to almost flat blacktop for part of the way. Here the trees were not as dark and heavy: the vegetation was almost meadow-like. Stopping along the way, we took pictures of odd looking trees and wildflowers of all kinds and colors—pinks, yellows, purples, and whites—and greeted other hikers who were returning from the lake front. As the path ascended and descended many times, but gradually led downward toward the lake, we let the 20-minute walk turn into a 35-minute walk, enjoying views of the deep blue lake from various vistas. “Gorgeous” describes the lake, surrounded by rocky hills and marsh vegetation. Never mind the late 19^th century cottage, which was less interesting, having been turned into a little packaged snack shop.

Up and down the trail from the lake to the car park and a welcome bottle of water (we had traveled light on the trail, with only cameras to hold), we turned back toward the waterfall road and beyond it, almost to the edge of the national park. Here we found the small car park for the abbey. Two men with broad brogues tried their best to convince us that we needed to take a seat in their buggies pulled by single horses (here the carriages were called “jaunting cars”}, but we could see that the path was flat and fair—and offered more pictures of cows in pastures and interesting trees—and turned them down.  An easy walk brought us to the Abbey, which was really in quite good shape, with only the roof missing. We clamored around on the stone ground floor before finding steps to the proper first floor where we saw a variety of rooms. Jim walked one level higher than I and saw the inner courtyard with the cloisters surrounding it. As we made our way towards a different staircase than the one by which we had come, we also came to the hall of the inner courtyard, where we noticed a large tree growing inside. Groves of Yew trees were part of the native verdure of the area.

Having thoroughly enjoyed our “bust” day that definitely was anything but that with all the lush greenness we could have wanted, we plugged in the address for our next B &B, less than two miles away, registered, relaxed with a cup of tea, and participated in our own church service online (10:30 a.m. in Bourbonnais and 4:30 p.m. in Killarney) to end a wonderful day.

Rain plagued us on the way to the coastal town of Galway, but by the time we arrived, about 1 ½ hours after we left our Bunratty B & B, the sun, still a little watery, was beginning to show through the clouds with promise of a finer day than we had encountered yesterday at the Cliffs of Moher, just a few miles down the coast. Having found a car park near the Eyre Square, along with the requisite restroom, the requisite cup of tea, and the requisite visitor’s guide to help us, we were ready to face the grand old town.

I had been in Galway when I had traveled to Ireland with my friend Ruth in 2009 and had such pleasant memories of it that I wanted to share the town with Jim, hoping he would like it, too. On my previous visit, Ruth and I had started out at Eyre Square, a large open public park at the city’s center. Half of it is paved and the other half is grassy. The paved part has some monuments and statues, concrete benches, and pots filled with blooming flowers. Merchants set up outside booths with all kinds of merchandise available for purchase. Buskers sat here and there, hoping for the odd coin to drop in their music cases as they played everything from contemporary music to traditional Irish folk tunes. The place bustled with the crowd’s enthusiasm. That was Eyre Square in 2009.

Not so now. Of course, the set pieces—monuments, flowerpots, seats—were still there, but booths and buskers had disappeared, the flowers, because of the time of year, were waning in their beauty, and the crowds were sparse. Jim kept asking me what I had seen before and what we were to see this time. I had no good answer. Galway is a seaport, not extremely large, with not much national history to display. It is a university town, and, as our B & B proprietor Barry had said, students come for university and find that they like the atmosphere so much, they stay on, settling in the charm of the old town. He jokingly told the story of a man who frequented a bar, always scribbling away; when asked what he did for a living, he said, “I write poetry.” For twenty years he had been writing poetry. What he did to earn his keep was not certain.

In 2009, Ruth and I had wandered down the main cobblestone street, which has been turned into a pedestrian walkway from the town center to the River Corrib which leads out to Galway Bay. After consulting with the visitor’s map the guide had provided, we decided to do the same. I had remembered visiting St. Nicholas’ Collegiate Church, dating from the 14^th century, and thought Jim and I could do so. We found the church, and here, too, we found an outdoor market—here was produce, takeaway food, items of clothing, New Age jewelry, and a host of other things for sale, all crammed into the small cobble stone streets that surrounded two sides of the church. We found a sign that said the church was open daily, so we went through the old iron gate into the church yard and up to the red door (St. Nicholas’ Church is Church of Ireland, not Roman Catholic). The red door was definitely not open. Thinking perhaps another entrance would lead us in, we kept walking as far as we could around the building: not a welcoming door anywhere. Obviously, COVID had changed “open” to  “closed,” not an uncommon occurrence.

After that disappointing experience, we wandered aimlessly down the cobblestone street all the way to the river, glanced around to get our bearings and decided to enter the city museum. At first Jim thought it was closed, since we saw no foot traffic. It was, indeed, open, but here again, COVID had changed protocols. We were told at what time this particular “tour” of the museum would end, so that not too many people would be in the exhibit at one time. And, as in the other attractions we had visited, we were instructed to follow the one-way footsteps on the floor.

What a rich history of the early forest people of Ireland, those that we would call Celts that speak the Gaelic language! Following the footsteps, we moved from one age to another, even as the ancient people had developed from one age to another. The blocks of reading (ever present at these exhibits) was broken up with displays of the ancient times or with contemporary artwork that reflected the history of the place. The largest display was a boat, hanging from the third floor in the center hall. It was called a Galway Hooker, not a name I probably would have chosen for any boat, but that is the name given to this particular style of boat.

Back on the cobblestone streets, we found a small café with outside tables where we could eat lunch, soaking in the bustling atmosphere of the shop-lined street, before heading back to the carpark. I did not have the same experience as I had had in 2009, but I still think that Galway is a unique town to visit. Jim? I’m not sure it would make his top five list.

Since the day had, indeed, turned out to be fair, we drove back into the little village of Bunratty to a small shopping area, perhaps the only one, that was just across the street from the little square castle. We discovered that all the takeaway food places—coffee shop, sandwiches, soft serve ice cream—all had the same name—Jilly and Joe’s. The same was true of the two shops. They appeared to be two separate shops, but really were just different sections of the same proprietor. I wandered through the aisles, while Jim found “neighbors” who were also guests at our B & B. Then we sat down with ice cream and called our sightseeing day at its end.

The weather wasn’t promising; it was misty, cloudy, and cool. Our appointment to see the Cliffs of Moher wasn’t until 4 p.m., so we were hoping that the weather would clear before then. Meanwhile, we drove from our B & B in Bun Ratty, a small village with a small castle, to Limerick, a large town to visit King John’s Castle, a “largish” castle. After a few wrong turns and a tour of a private car park for the castle, we finally located the visitor’s parking lot, the entrance for ticket holders, and the way into the exhibits. The Irish sites seem to be intent on giving the visitor the historical background of a place by writing panels of words—with some accompanying illustration.

As we wended our way through the one-way exhibit area, we found out that the old castle, from the 13^th century, had been the scene of many battles for control between warring groups of Irish and warring groups of English and Irish people. King John, apparently a rather cruel, but savvy, ruler of England, the first to speak English, instead of French, after the Norman Conquest in 1066, was intent on solidifying English rule across the western island of Ireland, and Limerick, already a thriving city, was quite important because of its central location.

I must admit, though, that by the end of close to an hour of one-way aisles and printed materials, I was ready for the real castle. And the first site was amazing: we were able to view walls of the very earliest fortress on the site, followed by other walls that were more ancient that those of the existing castle. The walls showed that the “castle” dated back to Viking times.  We were “dumped out” of our one-way excursion into the central courtyard where exhibits of the life of the early times, including one with a hanged man, entertained us, despite the mist. Then we were on to the far walls of the castle where we could climb up the towers to view the town from above. We saw, of course, that the castle was surrounded by the old town—businesses and houses side by side in an almost crazy quilt pattern of streets. The castle had four stout, square towers at the four corners of the courtyard. Obviously, the living quarters were now incorporated into the exhibit area.

Leaving the castle behind, we walked to the Milk Market, an old traditional market where a person can buy meats and produce, flowers and clothing, drinks and food. Much of it was closed because of COVID, but a few brave places were open, including the creperie where I decided to purchase a cinnamon and sugar crepe for lunch. The sole worker at the outside shop said that business was better that day than it had been any time since they had opened again from the pandemic shutdown.

After a brief stop at our B & B, we headed west towards the Cliffs of Moher. Rain came and went during the hour-long drive, but the further we drove, the smaller the roads and the heavier the rain. We wondered, “Would we be able to see the cliffs at all?” From the car park, we walked to the visitor center to get our bearings and to check out the exhibits: a short film that showed the beauty of the various areas we would see on our walk encouraged us; here, more visuals than words told the story. Map in hand, we headed out towards the south end, which includes the ruins of a small fort at Hog’s Head (elevation 390 ft). The inclined path was not steep, but it was long enough to wind us a bit. But the views were worth it. The surf pounded the shore at the bottom of the steep rock cliffs. As we looked west to the Atlantic Ocean, the sky occasionally cleared, allowing a bit of sunlight to shine straight down on the water, a thin, silver line of liquid light illuminating the otherwise steel-blue water.

We got to the point that said the visitor’s path ended, but we could see that the path continued, and, despite the posted warning of danger, we clamored on over the wet, rocky path towards Hog’s Head. The way was steeper, narrower, and rougher. Finally, I gave in—getting to Hog’s Head was not in our future. Retracing our steps, we crossed to another path that led up to O’Brien’s Tower, a tower built specifically by an early 19^th century Clare County parliamentarian to show his guests the beauty of the cliffs. Although higher in altitude (beyond O’Brien’s tower the cliffs are about 700 feet high), the steps and inclines were gradual enough that the climb did not seem too daunting, and the view at the top was spectacular. We could see standalone rock formations called “stacks”that millennia of years had carved out by waters receding gradually from the land. By this time, after two fairly long climbs, we were ready for the downward path that gradually led us back to the visitors’ center, which itself was nestled into the rock face.

I had always heard that the Cliffs of Moher were a “must-see” when visiting Ireland; now I knew the hype was true: the stark beauty of the shale and sandstone cliffs, the vastness of the ocean, the quiet of nothing but natural sounds (occasionally broken by the human voice), and the refreshing wind and mist against the face would surely impress even the most stoic soul amongst us.

Two good visits, totally different, from the human construction to the natural construction, made a complete day for us. Of course, after finding a place to eat close to Shannon Town, it was dark. We missed our turn onto our Bun Ratty road twice before we found the little road, totally dark with no good illuminated sign, that would take us to our little B & B and our beds!

Works Consulted

“Cliffs of Moher.” Wikipedia. Last updated Sept 1, 2021. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cliffs_of_Moher

King John’s Castle. “King John’s Castle.” Last update 2021. https://www.kingjohnscastle.com/histor

Arriving in pitch black sky at 5:40 a.m. with misty rain is not perhaps a fortuitous beginning to a trip, but one advantage to an early arrival is that not many other people are going through the lines of immigration and customs. In no time, Jim and I were walking through the arrivals area to the rental car services to pick up the car he had selected.  Driving on the “wrong” side of the road is not new to Jim, but it had been at least two years since he had done so, and, to my surprise, he had gotten a five speed. He told me later it was all that was available when he selected the rental.

Driving on the “wrong” side of the road in a five-speed with no sleep was, perhaps, also not fortuitous. But with the trusty navigation systems on our phones and both of us keeping our eyes peeled, we made it out of Dublin south to Kilkenny, the first stop we had selected to visit. On the way, the most unusual sight we saw was a large herd of cattle crossing from one side of a meadow to another via an overpass that looked like it was meant for cars. Arriving in Kilkenny a little after 8:30, we knew we were going to have to wait for all the attractions to open and selected a little coffee shop called “Kafe Katz” close to the car park that seemed centrally located. Since we didn’t see any cats, I’m not sure about the significance of the name, but it served the full Irish breakfast of egg, rashers, sausage, and “baked beans” (similar to our canned pork and beans but with much more of a ketchup-y flavor)—minus the black pudding, thank goodness. The spot was warm and dry and empty. All the regulars were outside at the sidewalk tables, having their morning coffee. 

We set out to find the Kilkenny Castle and St. Canice Cathedral, which marked the beginning and end of the Medieval Mile, not to be confused or compared to Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. Indeed, the distance was a good mile, even though a helpful gentleman told Jim the distance to the church was only twice the distance from where we were standing; it was probably five times that amount—mostly uphill. Having finally arrived at the church, we found that the online information we had about the hours the church could be visited was 10, instead of 9. We read on an outside sign that the really old original Norman-built church had been replaced by a much newer Medieval structure, about 1300! Many of the tombs looked to be at least that old, perhaps older: they were so old that the names and dates had been almost totally erased by wind and rain and many were leaning drunkenly against one another.

With nothing to do but wait (and walk the mile back to the castle for our 11:00 admittance), we decided to pop in to see the Black Abby, which was, perhaps a third of the way down the street from St. Canice’s. As we approached the door, an older gentleman walked past us, proudly saying, “She’s a good old church, just 800 years old.” He quickly took a seat within the sanctuary, and so did we, thinking that we could sit for a few minutes to take in the atmosphere. Besides the stained-glass windows that portrayed traditional Bible images in a side transept, there was a beautiful contemporary window of bright red, gold, green, and blue leaded glass in some sort of symbolic figure that I could not decipher. A woman who was sitting in the very front row, about four rows ahead of us, suddenly looked around (there were four or five other people in the sanctuary, as I thought, for morning private prayers) and began praying what apparently were traditional Roman Catholic phrases that were either repeated or answered by the others in attendance. If we heard it once, we heard it at least 30 times: “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” At some point, I figured out that all of them were following the rosary beads for prayer, but, not being familiar with such prayers, I had no idea how long these prayers would go on. We, too, sat in an attitude of prayer, but finally after about 15 minutes or so, we quietly slipped out so that we wouldn’t miss our appointment with the castle.

Castles—they can be ruins or working castles or recreated scenes of yesteryear or   a type of museum, showing the rooms as they would have been used during a particular time period by the owners. This castle was of the latter kind. We wound our way through the various rooms, following the big footsteps stuck on the floor to show us the direction to follow (thanks to COVID protocols). We saw drawing rooms, a library, a nursery, several bedrooms, and even a bathroom from the early 20^th century. The family had remained in the home until the mid-20^th century before they had given it to the government to use for the public good.

The most unique items we saw in the museum were not original to the castle nor were they antiques: they were tapestries which told the history of the area during the 13^th century. Begun in 1998 and completed sometime after 2009, the 15 tapestries show battles, lighthouses, storms, and the commingling of Norman and Celtic inhabitants at a local fair among other things.

Leaving the castle, we traveled cross country to the village of Bunratty, close to Limerick where we were booked at a bed and breakfast for three nights. More on that in an upcoming blog—if I have time after putting in full days of sightseeing.

Work Consulted

“Ros Tapestry: a Tale Told in Thread.“ https://www.rostapestry.ie/the-story/

A loud thud. “Oh-h-h-h,” a high-pitched voice that dwindled down to a whisper. The creak of the door as it opened.

“What in the world has happened?” Jim and I both thought as we rushed through the crowded living room and dining room to the front door. We were having a Christmas season open house for friends and neighbors, but none had arrived in such a way till now.

There she was, my friend and colleague Shirlee, standing inside the foyer door holding her head. She had not seen that Jim had opened the paned front door so that only the single glass storm door was closed. She had walked—hard—right into that storm door, giving her forehead quite the crack.

We wanted to seat her somewhere, but there is only a small child’s chair in the foyer. She got as far as the stairway and collapsed on the third step. “I’ll get some ice,” I said and rushed to the kitchen and back in less than two minutes with a baggie of ice cubes wrapped in a kitchen towel.

“Don’t you have any peas?” Shirlee queried. I must have looked confused, because she explained that a bag of frozen peas works much better on a bump on the forehead. I raced back to the kitchen only to find that we, indeed, did not have a frozen bag of peas to ease her pain.

Both of us kept apologizing profusely, trying to minister to Shirlee’s needs while not ignoring our rooms-full of guests. After a few minutes, Shirlee was able to rise, take off her coat, and join in the festivities of the evening.  And Jim and I were heaving sighs of relief that nothing worse than a bump occurred that evening.

The fact that Shirlee rose and joined the crowded space to chat with other friends in the room was a testament to her graciousness. She could have walked straight out the front door (she had been perturbed enough to do so), but, instead, she made us feel better by becoming “just another” guest in the crowded scene.

“Gracious,” then, is one word to describe Dr. Shirlee Ann McGuire, who passed away recently. But, oh, so many other words could be used to describe this wonderfully complex, talented individual. “Dramatic” is another word that described Shirlee: she had a master’s that included reader’s theater. When she was the sponsor of our chapter of the Sigma Tau Delta International English Honor Society, she coached all the officers on how to read their various parts of the induction ceremony.  When she taught an upper division literature course on Charles Dickens, she made her students the detectives when they read the unfinished novel The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Notebooks and pencils, caps and fake pipes were used to spur the students into thinking what the ending might be.

“Scholarly” is another word which described Shirlee. Not only was she excellent teacher of her subject matter, which included English literature and folklore, but she was also a lover of the material, memorizing poems, prose passages, and the “Our Father” in the Old English which she then taught to students. And not only was she a scholar-teacher at Olivet, but also at a Japanese university for a semester.

Another word that fit Shirlee was “adventurous.” Some would probably disagree with such a description, because Shirlee was a person with a routine, a schedule, a discipline. But she also was adventurous in the sense that this woman, always single, would go anywhere to participate in something she felt was worthwhile and educational. Of course, she took in musical and theatrical events in Chicago all the time, but she also booked travels to far-flung places such as the tour that covered Paul’s missionary journeys and the one that took her to the original land of Anne of Green Gables fame.

“Kind” has to be another word included in the list of Shirlee’s descriptors. She was always so kind to my sons and me. She grew to know all three sons well enough to ask about them and to plan to visit when the two older ones were home for holidays. When my two oldest grandchildren were born, she gave them gifts and later brought her favorite children’s book to them: Pokey Little Puppy. It quickly became one of our favorites, too. My son Geoffrey always listed her as a reference on his resume because he knew she was willing to give an honest assessment of his character.

Besides my personal experiences of Shirlee’s kindness, I was privy to a kindness she did for a student. Now retired from his work in research, this former student of Shirlee’s came to an ONU homecoming reception for Phi Delta Lambda Honor Society members a few years ago. I happened to be substituting as host for the first hour of the event and, thus, happened to meet this gentleman. He almost immediately asked about Dr. McGuire. Upon learning of her retirement, he seemed to regret that he would not be seeing her at the reception; I became the recipient of a great story.

The man had been an adult student with a wife and a full-time job when he decided to pursue his college education. Shirlee—Dr. McGuire to him—was his general education literature professor. Gen ed lit is the bane of most undergraduates’ lives. It requires a massive amount of reading and the ability to retain details about those readings. Although he had tried to complete all the readings, even asking his wife to tape oral readings of the stories for him to listen to while going to and from his job, he fell woefully behind. When the second test was given, he had failed to complete the whole test. Instead of giving him a failing grade, Shirlee had called him into her office and asked him about his problem. Then she gave him a grace period before she allowed him to come in and finish the test. She did this with all the rest of the semester’s assignments. He was able to pass with a good grade, and, obviously, went on to get such remarkable grades in his major field that he had been inducted into the honor society whose members almost always have average GPAs of 3.75 or above. Shirlee’s kindness set him on the right path for the rest of his courses.

The last word that describes Shirlee McGuire to me is not an adjective, but a noun—the simple word “friend.” I treasured her friendship. Sometimes she would invite me to her home for teatime or a special lunch. The table was always set with her pretty blue and white china plates and her teapot was always hot under its cosy. We might take a walk through her yard to look at her flowers or we might sit and chat about Pendleton wool clothing, her favorite clothes to wear. She shared recipes of her delicious plain cake and her pecan miniature muffins, even giving me a tin in which to make mine. Sometimes we talked about family; other times, about spiritual things.

Just a few months before she became so ill that she had to give up her house, I had accompanied her to a women’s banquet at her church. She was to play the cello that evening, and I was able to get several snapshots of her playing. She introduced me to many of her church friends, all of whom seemed to appreciate her as much as I did. But what I remember most about that evening is that Shirlee showed me the Sunday School room where she taught a primary class of boys and girls. I could tell she loved the work—and the children. She named them by name and described their attendance in the class, which, for most of them, was a new kind of event in their lives.

Physically, Shirlee was a tall, thin woman with a ramrod straight back. I always envied her posture, whether she was standing or sitting. And she could sit so still when she was listening to a person: one knew that she was paying attention. Sometimes, when she was frustrated or thought something was silly, she would get a rather stern look on her face and say the single French word, “Bon,” as in “Good” or, more probably in this case, an exasperated, “Well!”

But when she was happy or pleased, her delight filled her face with joy. Her smile was sparkling to match her voice. I’ll miss that smile and that voice, portents of the warm welcome into her loving circle, one of which I was privileged to be a part.  And we are never without a bag of peas in our freezer—Shirlee, master teacher, taught us that lesson!

I bit into the kernels and first heard the crunch and then the pop of the juices bursting forth. My mouth was filled with the luscious, sweet flavor, and I could feel butter dripping on my lip as I smiled broadly. I was immediately taken back to my childhood summer days with their fresh flavorful treats from the garden, not the least of which was the corn that seemed to fill half the length of the garden plot.

It would be difficult to say which garden produce was my favorite—the tomato or the corn. And since the two complement each other, I really didn’t have to choose—both would sit atop the supper table. I liked everything else: green beans, the early peas, the sweet, dark beets, the young carrots. Even the onions and potatoes were good, especially the green onions early in the season. Lettuce, cucumbers, and cabbages were never my favorites, but I ate my share of whatever Mother prepared, whether it was during the summer season or part of what she canned, pickled, and fermented.

The garden, a thing of wonder, was a family affair. Mother and Dad did the bulk of the work, but all of us pitched in. From plowing the ground to running the straight lines for the little seeds and meticulously spacing them correctly to weeding to harvesting each vegetable or fruit at the right time, we all had jobs to perform. And, of course, that was the perfect buy-in. How could we not eat the produce that we had helped bring to the table in so many different ways?

Later, when Grandpa came to live with us, he took over some of the tasks because he had such a love for gardening. I can see him yet in his old straw hat, his blue chambray work shirt, his scruffy old jeans, and his scuffed-up, wrinkled boots, plodding behind our old hand plow, pushing it with strength and accuracy to get between the rows of new vegetables. And I much preferred his gardening to his hunting. If he came home from the woods behind us with a squirrel or a rabbit, I knew I would have to suffer through a meal that was not to my liking.

But, oh, the meals from the garden were another thing. They were bounteous—our table literally could have groaned under the weight of sliced tomatoes, cucumbers and onions in a vinegar dressing, and three kinds of corn. That’s right, three kinds of corn. At the height of corn season, Mother would sometimes take young ears and stew the kernels in their own juices, take old ears and fry the kernels where there was very little juice left, and boil or steam cobs that were in their prime. Was there meat to eat? Probably. My dad thought a meal was not a meal without meat. But who needs meat when you have three kinds of corn to eat? And you could eat all three—you didn’t have to choose just one or two.

As a young child, caught up in the bounty of the garden, I never thought beyond the fact that the delicious fresh food showed up on our table every night. Oh, yes, I had to help pick, shuck, clean, scrub—but not slice—whatever was to be served. But I never thought much about the work that went into creating the garden or about the work that had to be done to preserve the vegetables.

Mother literally slaved over a hot stove canning beans, peas, and tomatoes to last the winter. She hung the onions in our storeroom and placed potatoes in baskets to be used during the winter months. From the apple, pear, and peach trees, she canned jars of fruit, as well as canned and sealed jars of jellies and jams, both from the trees we had and from strawberries, cherries, and other assorted berries.

 And, of course, the business of making sauerkraut always fascinated me: shredding the large heads of cabbage, putting the cabbage, mixed with coarse salt, in the bottom of a crock, placing the white stoneware plate over the mixture, and then weighting the mixture and the plate down with a large rock, picked specifically for that purpose. Then, my mother picked the corner of our bathroom to store the mixture while it fermented. Day to day, the stone came off, the lid came off, and the mixture was inspected for the correct amount of juice to be formed. In less than two weeks, we had sauerkraut for the table and for canning.

As Mother got older, our family got smaller, and our budget got a little bigger, she stopped canning. Instead, she and Dad purchased a freezer to keep blanched vegetables and fruit fresh till they were needed during the winter. It also gave them a chance to store meat that they bought from a local farmer. Before that time, my mother had canned some meats for the winter, as well as the vegetables and fruit.

I’ve never canned anything, although I have made a few batches of jam and jellies and butters through the years. Most years, I freeze corn that I buy from local farm stands. On years when I get back to Indiana in July and snag some Transparent apples from our old home trees, I cook and freeze fresh applesauce—the best applesauce in the whole world—at least, that’s what I think of it. I have not, however, felt the urgency to create a garden so that my family would have food to eat during the cold months of late autumn, winter, and early spring. I’ve been fortunate to have enough money to buy whatever I need at the local supermarket where fresh fruits and vegetables are available year-round.

Looking back at my childhood years, I am grateful for parents and a grandparent who worked so hard to “set the table” for the family every night. The food, by contemporary standards, would be considered extremely plain and simple, but it was plentiful and flavorful—a good harvest from the family garden.

The first time I met her, I didn’t remember her for very long. I had finished my freshman year of high school; she, her second. We happened to be on a bus leaving from Columbus, Ohio, going to Estes Park, Colorado, for an event called “International Institute,” sponsored by the Church of the Nazarene (the event is now called Nazarene Youth Conference—NYC).

The bus was filled with high school students from all over the state of Ohio, which, for Nazarene purposes, was divided into four districts. We introverted persons among the students tended to sit with those whom we knew from our own district, rather than venture to a different part of the bus to meet new people. But we have proof that we were acquainted during that time—we had signed each other’s songbooks that we were given during the week-long event.

The second time I met her, she was a sophomore, and I was a freshman at Olivet Nazarene College. She was an RA, perhaps mine—I do not remember. The very fact that she was a resident assistant set her apart from us lowly freshmen. Plus she had a boyfriend and, together, they were a very exclusive couple. I always remember them as being together at every event—Prayer Band, Missionary Band, College Church services.

The third time I met her, I was a new professor at Olivet and she and her husband were also back at Olivet, where he was a professor, finishing a doctoral degree, and she had an important administrative role, working with international students. Even then, I didn’t know Donna Seeley Lovett that well. Just a year or two after I arrived at ONU, they left to do their second missionary stint, this time in Africa.

But the fourth time I met Donna, I really got to know her. She and Russ were attending College Church, just as I was. We went to the same Sunday School class, the one that Russ would later teach and that the two of them would shepherd so well. We sang in choir together, often sitting next to each other—short people in the front row on the alto side. We were both involved in the local missions program. Later, Donna became the church treasurer and I became the mission council president, another link that brought us together often.

What can I say about Donna as a person? She was one who was full of integrity. She was highly intelligent, gifted especially in languages and the intricacies of financial accounting. But she was not one who would flaunt her abilities. Instead, people observed her in various roles and could see the integrity, the intelligence, the giftedness shining through her rather reserved manner. She had a lovely open smile that lit up her eyes and a mellow voice that was easy to listen to. She seemed comfortable in her own skin, never putting on airs or using a strident tone. Yet, Donna had her firm convictions and was not afraid to state them objectively when necessary.

I was fortunate to know Donna as both colleague and my professor. Because of her almost perfect skill in French—and the certificates she had earned in her study of the language—she was asked to be an adjunct professor in the Department of English and Foreign Languages, the same department in which I served. At some point, I decided to bite the bullet and take French, the official language of Burkina Faso where I had served at the state university during the school year 2005-2006. Now, several years later, with a few short-term trips back to Burkina as a leader of student groups, I decided to really learn this language that I had heard so much.

Donna became my professor for French I. I found out that not only was she gifted in the language, but she was gifted in her teaching ability. She had great teaching techniques that helped us students learn more easily. She went beyond textbooks and tests to cultural activities, such as serving us crepes, and reading authentic French literature. Donna was so good at her job that I decided I wanted to take French II with her. I had to wait a whole year in between the two courses in order to sign up for her class. It was definitely worth the wait.

Some of my favorite memories of Donna center on the short-term mission trip that she and I co-led to Burkina Faso in 2014. She talked me into taking the students to Paris before we arrived for our work. With her knowledge of the city from having lived there much earlier as a missionary and my decent directional abilities, we had a great time touring some of the best sites a college student could ever wish to see.

Donne was a great co-leader because of those gifts I mentioned earlier—her language ability and her financial acumen. When we were having trouble communicating with a pastor or taxi driver or one of the entrepreneurs in the market, Donna jumped right in with her perfect French. I knew that everything would be fine when she spoke French to those whose English was as halting as my French. And at night, when I struggled with the trip budget, making sure that we would have enough money to last for our three-week tour, she would sit with me and give me pointers.

Best of all the memories from the trip to Burkina was one that occurred at “Cultural Night,” when Burkinabe students and US students would share their unique talents and abilities. I had seen enough cultural nights to warn my students that they would out rank us. From original plays to dance routines to vocal soloists, those students were superb. But the department chair knew of another kind of superb: he called Donna to the front and asked her to speak for a few minutes in French. At the end of her impromptu speech, the applause was hearty and long, but the greatest accolade came when he said: “You have heard perfect French spoken to you just now. How Professor Lovett spoke is the way you should speak when you are using French. This is true French!”

About a year ago, Donna asked me to have a pandemic brown bag lunch with her outside on the lawn of College Church under some big, shady trees. We chatted for a while and then she shared with me that she had just been diagnosed with multiple myeloma. She knew that my sister had myeloma and was interested in gathering information. I expressed my deep concern to her, because I knew the final outcome of that kind of cancer, not just because I had read up on it after my sister’s diagnosis, but also because I had a niece who had died much too young because of it and I had a friend whose husband had just died of it less than two years before.

I shared what I knew, most of which she also knew. Neither of us, then, of course, could know the path of her myeloma journey. I just knew that of the three people I had known with it, all three had different paths with different symptoms and different treatments. My sister, whose myeloma has not yet advanced to the “multiple” stage still lives. She is a fortunate one. Donna, on the other hand, suffered both from the cancer and from the treatments she was given. This gifted woman of more talents than I have named, with the strength to keep checking in on her church job till the day before she died, was another who died much too young.