It Takes More Than Seven Angels

6-4-2018 AD

Donnard Manor B&B

Craughwell Co Galway Ireland

Out of the country and in a small village next to a pub that hosts live music all night, went to bed listening to an Irish band covering Ray Charles and Willie Nelson’s Seven Spanish Angels (one of my favorites) and at some time during the night I woke up and some lonesome bloke was singing a sorrowful ballad that I couldn’t make out but might as well of been a mourning dove.  God is so good.

Left early yesterday and continued our trek northward along The Wild Atlantic Way, the costal road around Ireland, up to The Cliffs of Moher and then inland a bit to our digs for the next two nights.  The Cliffs, considered an Ireland national treasure, lived up to its title.  Very touristy around the front but if you continuing hiking the convenience runs out and you are left with an old cow path often taking you precariously close, a couple of feet, to the 1000 foot drop to the sea below.  Betty and I hiked northward and eventually left the crowds and were mostly alone but for a few young people from all over the planet based on all the languages I didn’t understand.  One thing about young people, they are universally immortal as they proved time and time again by hanging over the cliffs in all ways to get that selfie.  Two young girls, eastern Europeans, came right up in front of us, stood with their backs to the cliff three feet from the edge jumping up in the air so the other could get that perfect selfie.  I had to look down the whole time because it made me so nervous.  If 60 has taught me anything it is tragedy happens and never just after you expect it. 

Side Notes:

Yesterday was The Sabbath and as is our habit we stopped at the first church we came to at the 11 o’clock hour to worship.  It was a small Catholic church in some small village along the way.  We were just a couple of minutes late.  I do not understand most of the liturgy, Betty being raised Catholic still has most of it, and we both followed along as best we could.  The sermon was mostly reading scripture by a dear sweet priest with a thick Irish accent but when he began to read the story of the last supper I began to weep.  I often do this during The Lord’s Supper service.  I have never gotten over what Christ had to endure to spare a wretch like me.  I was so long, during my youth, utterly disparaging of His sacrifice, a prodigal in a far off land.  I was like a young eastern European dancing a jig over the pit of my own destruction.   But He, He Who Is Ultimately Able And Willing was ultimately longing, willing and wanting to save me… “God demonstrated his love for me in this, while I was yet a sinner Christ died for me…” and That God and That Savior was again brought to me by That Holy Spirit in this tiny church in this tiny corner of the world to remind me again of That Love. 

It takes more than seven angels to watch over the mortality of us all!!!

We picnicked and the girls "selfied" about half way
across that middle cliff.