The Pilgrim's Spirit

A Story of Faith, Falls, and Finding the Real Holy Water

As he steps under the Gothic revival doorway of St. Patrick's Cathedral, I watch Mike make the sign of the cross with practiced ease. First day of a new tour had me in full people-watching mode---that delicate dance of matching names to faces. I'd mostly gotten everyone sorted from last night's dinner, except for yer man in the baseball cap---who, I could've sworn, had been both hatless and accompanying an entirely different woman the evening before.

Mike was built like John Wayne but sporting khaki shorts and a grin that could charm the saints right off their stained-glass perches. As our guide led us through the cathedral's echoing spaces, Mike hung on every word, his face lighting up near the altar as he reminisced of his altar boy days back in New Jersey. "All us boys served," he said, pride warming his voice. "Proper Irish-American family, we were."

I commiserated. "My little brother Leo and I were altar boys back in Naas---that's in County Kildare, about an hour outside Dublin. Stuck with it right up until I was sixteen. But this one morning..." I paused, remembering.

Mike's face lit up like a child at Christmas. "Well, don't keep me in suspense," he grinned, adjusting his Arizona Cardinals cap.

"Picture this," I began, lowering my voice as we moved away from the main group. "It's pitch dark outside, six in the morning, and Leo and I are dragging ourselves out of bed. We're wearing our black and whites with the smell of starch in our noses. The white surplice, the outer layer, starched stiff as a sandwich board."

Mike chuckled, nodding as memories surfaced in his eyes.

"Mass was usually a two-man job," I continued, watching his nod of recognition, "unless someone had died or there was a christening. You know how it is---dividing up all these little jobs, getting the timing right. If you're ringing the bells, you have to stay alert. No falling asleep during Father Connell's sermons."

"Oh man, do I ever," Mike interjected. "Our priest used to clear his throat exactly three times before starting the sermon. It was like a warning bell."

"Leo always loved bringing up the water and wine---still loves his red wine today. So there's Leo, walking up to the altar like he's carrying the Crown Jewels, all solemn and serious. Father Connell---picture your typical Irish priest, gray hair, stern face---takes them for blessing. Then..." Mike leaned in.

"Then Leo starts down those steps. I watched his foot slip---imagine a tipsy uncle at a wedding reception. Bump, bump, bump. My little brother went down those stone steps on his arse, like something out of a Charlie Chaplin film."

Mike winced sympathetically. "Please tell me he didn't---"

"That's the miracle though---and I swear it's true---he didn't spill a single drop. Not one. The noise, though..." I winched at the memory.

Mike was properly laughing now, trying to keep it respectfully quiet in the cathedral. "What happened to your brother?"

"Leo was grand---just a bit shell-shocked with a bruised backside. We laugh about it constantly now. The old sacristan came running in like someone had robbed the collection box. The look on his face was classic."

Mike wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, his shoulders still shaking with suppressed laughter. "You know," he said, glancing around the cathedral's vast space, "we need to exchange more altar boy war stories."

Later that tour, Mike decided to explore his heritage through Irish whiskey, struggling with the pronunciation of uisce beatha---the Irish term for whiskey (literally “water of life”). I joined him for one as he shared hilarious family stories, but Mike was just getting warmed up.

"I can handle my whiskey!" Mike declared, swaying slightly as he raised his glass. Despite being a big fella, he could not, in fact, handle his whiskey. His attempts at pronouncing 'uisce beatha' grew more creative with each sip.

The next morning, while Mike was sleeping off his cultural exploration in the back of the coach, I explained about póitín, our illegal Irish moonshine, a clear spirit that's been distilled in hidden countryside stills since before anyone can remember. The quality depends entirely on knowing your supplier.

"If you're interested, sometimes you'll spot vendors at our stops. Just ask for the holy water," I told the group with a wink, not realizing Mike had chosen that exact moment to rejoin the land of the living, catching only those fateful words.

At our next photo stop---one of those postcard-perfect spots complete with the requisite Kerry donkey---Mike ambled over to a table laden with local crafts and religious items. Hungover but earnest, he requested holy water from a man in a flat cap whose eyes sparkled with barely contained mischief.

"Would you like to try some, sir?" the vendor asked, maintaining a poker face worthy of Las Vegas.

Mike---bless his jet-lagged, still-slightly-pickled heart---looked puzzled but game.

The vendor reached under his table and produced a repurposed wine bottle. He unscrewed the cap and filled it with crystal-clear liquid. Mike, ever reverent, dipped his finger in and crossed himself, dabbing his forehead, heart, and shoulders. The vendor's eyebrows shot upward as a grin split his weathered face.

Realizing he'd missed something crucial, Mike caught the vendor's gesture to taste it. A bit odd for holy water, he thought, but harmless enough. He took a healthy swig of what was essentially rocket fuel in disguise. He made a sound like a banshee wail.

He spluttered, the earthy liquid spattering his shirt like holy water gone rogue. His eyes widened in recognition---first shock, then delight---and he laughed so hard he had to brace himself against the vendor's table, the bottle of "holy water" clutched safely to his chest. The Kerry man was in stitches while the rest of us looked on quizzically.

But here's the kicker---Mike bought the bottle. An entire repurposed wine bottle of "holy water" that he swore would "put hair on your chest." He stored it carefully in his suitcase, promising to share it with his brothers back home. As our bus pulled away, I caught him patting his bag with satisfaction. Somehow, I doubt that's what the Vatican had in mind for sacramental purposes, but then again, we all have our own interpretation of religious spirits.