Chapter 3: Encounter with God. Sid couldn't help smiling as he grabbed hold of Patrick's arm. "Don't worry, you won't sink deeper than a foot. It's just water and peat. Besides, we're not too far from home." "Your home, maybe, but not mine," Patrick shot back irritably as he freed himself with Sid's help. That afternoon, the party walked through ghostly gray-white expanses of naked limestone. "Where are we? The end of the Earth?" Patrick asked in a frightened tone.
"Well, we may be close to it," Sid answered thoughtfully, stroking his beard. "All I know is that our master lives just over the next hill." When they reached the summit of the hill, Patrick saw what was to become his new home. He stared down in disgust at the simple round dwelling made of rough-hewn timber with its straw roof. "Nobody's going to make me live in a pig pen like that," Patrick announced brusquely, folding his arms defiantly across his chest. "That's the master's house," Sid replied, somewhat bemused.
"What? Back in Britain, our servants live better than that?" Patrick complained in disbelief. He kicked a large pebble futilely as he reluctantly dragged himself toward the house. As they came near the dwelling, Milchu came out to greet them, followed by a great shaggy hound that jumped up and licked Donovan's face. Milchu warmly embraced his son and chatted with him for a few minutes. Finally, he spoke to Sid and had a look at his new slave.
Patrick didn't know what was being said, but the master looked pleased enough. Milchu and Donovan went inside the house, and Sid led Patrick to one of the slave's quarters. This was a wattle and daub hut with one small window that let in air and light. "I'm afraid there'll be no tile floors here, Patrick, and no soft couches to sleep on," Sid warned in an understanding voice. "But you're going to have to make the best of it." "Where—where am I supposed to sleep?" Patrick scowled.
Sid pointed to a pile of filthy straw scattered on the dirt floor. "Never," Patrick retorted. "I'll never sleep there." "All right, stand up all night if you like," Sid replied matter-of-factly. "I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. The cook has a meal ready, so I say let's eat and then worry about the bedding." After supper, Patrick soon fell into a deep sleep despite his earlier protests. In fact, it was the best sleep he had had since his kidnapping.
He dreamt that he was back in his father's villa in Britain, enjoying happy times again with his parents. He slept until the earliest sunbeams found their way through the small window. When he awoke, he was disheartened to find he was still in his cramped, damp cell. However, Sid soon appeared in the doorway. With a warm smile, he handed Patrick a chunk of bread and a water bottle. "For a fellow who said he would never sleep on a pile of straw, you seem to have done quite well," he teased Patrick good-naturedly.
"Oh, I guess I was more tired than I realized," Patrick replied between yawns. Soon he was following Sid through the outer gate of the courtyard into the meadow that stretched beyond. They chatted the whole way as they walked through grassy fields dotted with the gentle yellow of buttercups. "I've learned that the master wants to make a shepherd out of you," Sid informed Patrick. "Well, I don't want to be a shepherd," Patrick replied glumly.
"Hey, you ought to be excited," Sid prodded Patrick, his hazel eyes sparkling. "It means you'll get to be out in the fresh air. Even better, the two of us will get to work together much of the time." The two men trudged along with Patrick's sulking the entire way until they reached one of the master's sheep herds on a hillside. A boy about Patrick's age was watching over them. Sid and the youth talked for a few moments, then the young man headed back to the house.
"That's Cillian," Sid explained to Patrick as he watched the young shepherd disappear over a hill. "He's a nice lad." Patrick only shrugged his shoulders. "Surveying the flock of sheep," Sid explained. "Now, the first thing we need to do, Patrick, is to herd these sheep to a fresh pasture." Spying a long stick, Sid picked it up and continued, "Here, use this to help you." Patrick folded his arms and refused to take it. When Sid persisted, Patrick reluctantly held out his hand.
He warily took hold of the staff as though it were a snake. "Well, it's not going to bite you," Sid chided him, shaking his head. "Now, help me prod these sheep so we can start them moving." Patrick watched Sid as he worked the sheep, and he reluctantly began to imitate him. When they finally reached the new pasture, the two men sprawled out on a grassy hillside and rested while the sheep grazed. "Really, you couldn't ask for a better job," Sid reflected. "It's so peaceful and beautiful out here.
I have to admit, it's not so great in the winter, and it does get lonely at times. But for now, we'll get to work together, so we won't have to worry about loneliness, will we?" Patrick didn't answer. He just gazed into the distance. "Thinking about home, are you?" Sid asked sympathetically. Patrick nodded wistfully. "Yes. I'm thinking about my father's country villa with its soft couches and warm baths. I'm thinking about my friends back in the village. They'll be starting their formal education soon, you know.
How I wish I could be with them once more, chasing each other, skipping stones across the creek that runs through our village, and playing catch with a ball." "That does sound grand." "But most of all, I'm thinking about my parents. Sid, right now I would give anything to look once more upon my mother's gentle face and enjoy her loving embrace.
I can't tell you what I would give to walk hand in hand again with my father, strolling through the streets of Bannavem or the fields of our farm." Patrick blinked back tears. "Bannavem? That's your hometown? I don't think I've ever heard of it." "Yes, it's where I'm from," Patrick replied, quickly wiping away a tear. "The full name is Bannavem Taburniae, but I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it. It's just a small village, but it's not too far from Corinium.
Have you heard of that?" "Yes, I'm familiar with Corinium. I understand it's quite a prosperous city." The two men chatted for a while, watching the sheep. Finally, Sid took some food from his pouch and suggested that Patrick do the same. "I won't be here forever, will I?" Patrick asked apprehensively, tearing off a chunk of bread from his loaf. "Surely the legions will come over and rescue me or something." Sid gave Patrick an understanding smile.
"Patrick, I wish I could give you hope that they would, but I would only be deceiving you. I've been here twenty years, and the Roman soldiers have never landed in Ireland. Your only hope now is God." "Don't talk to me about God," Patrick shouted testily, standing up and pacing. "Where was God when the Irish raided our farm? Where was God when we were all on the beach praying to him?
I cried out to him until I was hoarse, but nothing, just a cold, dark sky." "And what have you ever done for him?" Sid retorted, raising his own voice. Patrick stood there silently, unable to answer. "Well, er, nothing," he finally admitted, sheepishly. Then, raising his voice, he added forcefully, "And I'm glad of it." "Yet you expect him to be at your beck and call the minute you're in trouble, is that it?" Sid looked Patrick squarely in the eye.
Patrick thought for a moment, running his fingers nervously through his unkempt blonde hair. "Well, you were a deacon, weren't you? But look at you. God didn't help you either, did He?" "God never promised us that He will deliver us from every calamity. I don't serve Him because of what I think He'll do for me in this life. I serve Him because I love Him." "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe God has allowed you to be captured because He loves you?" "Because He loves me?
Don't make me laugh," Patrick sneered, his blue eyes flashing. "No, I'm serious," Sid persisted, standing up and joining Patrick. "I think that God often uses calamity to bring people to Him." "Well, if that's what He's trying to do, He's using the wrong method. This whole thing has turned me against Him." "Sometimes that happens," Sid responded, fingering his staff thoughtfully. "You see, calamity is like the heat of the sun. The sun's warmth hardens moist clay, causing it to become brittle.
In fact, it can turn wet clay into bricks. Yet the very same heat softens a lump of wax. Similarly, when God permits calamity to befall mankind, some hearts will be hardened, and others will be softened. The choice lies with the one experiencing the calamity. Patrick, you can choose to be hardened by what has befallen you, or you can choose to be softened by it. The decision is yours." Patrick thought about Sid's words, but he said nothing in reply.
About mid-afternoon, the sheep began foraging again, and they grazed for several hours. "I need your help now, Patrick," Sid suddenly announced, arousing Patrick from his pensive mood. "We've got to find a safe bedding ground for the sheep tonight. Where we are now won't work. There's too much brush nearby. It may be hiding predators." "So what do you want me to do?" Patrick asked in a helpful tone. "I need you to scout the area to find a good bedding ground, one that's free of brush and large rocks.
I'll stay here and watch the sheep." Patrick quickly scrambled to his feet, glad to break the embarrassing silence. He jogged past the grazing sheep to the top of a nearby hill. From that vantage point, he didn't see any places that would be suitable for the night, so he jogged down that hill and climbed up the next one. From there, he spied a likely place. He walked over to it in order to examine it more carefully. "Yes, this should work splendidly," he said to himself.
He then scurried back and described the bedding place to Sid. "That sounds like a good spot. Let's begin moving the sheep so we'll reach it about the time we're ready to bed them down," Sid advised. Patrick and Sid slowly herded the sheep toward the bedding ground, reaching it at dusk. Once the flock settled in, Sid explained to Patrick that they now had to verify that the flock was intact. "How do we do that?" Patrick asked, with a wrinkled brow, scanning the flock.
"Well, in this particular flock, which I'm quite familiar with, there are eight marker sheep." "What are marker sheep?" "They are the sheep that are unusual in appearance, such as black sheep or ones with peculiar features, like that ram over there with a broken horn. If any of the marker sheep are missing, you can bet that thirty or forty other sheep are also missing." Sid identified the other marker sheep to Patrick, verifying that they were all present.
The men then quickly set to work, setting up a crude camp, gathering wood for a fire, and preparing food for supper. They then enjoyed a hearty soup of leeks, oatmeal, and milk. "How do you like the soup?" Sid asked between mouthfuls. "It's not bad at all. I'll try to get you a job at my father's villa as a cook," Patrick answered with a twinkle in his eye. The two men laughed as they ate and then prepared for bed. "You mean you're not going to tie me up?" Patrick asked in a surprised voice when they lay down.
"What for? Even you have enough sense not to try to run away. You'd never find your way back to the coast. Even if you did, you'd have no boat to take you back to Britain." "Yeah, I guess you're right," Patrick replied as he closed his eyes. He lay there in his bedding for about an hour, pretending to doze. Once he was satisfied that Sid was sound asleep, he quietly stole away. In the pale moonlight, he silently climbed a nearby hill and then stopped to rest.
He looked back at the campsite and confirmed that Sid was still sleeping. "I'm free, at last," Patrick now jogged down the far side of the hill and continued through the empty meadow below it. Finally, he sat down on a large rock to rest and catch his breath. "Where am I now?" Patrick wondered. He looked all around him and then up at the stars. "I wish I knew the constellations like the sailors, but I don't," he thought, biting his lip. He walked aimlessly a little farther and then stopped.
"Sid was right," he finally told himself, fighting back tears. "I'm here to stay. I'll never be able to run away. There's no hope for me now." As Patrick slowly walked back to camp, he thought about their conversation that morning about the workings of God. In fact, the conversation had been on his mind all day. Patrick stared for a while at the moonlit sky and then dropped to his knees. "Father, please forgive me. I know I have no right to ask anything of you.
I'm really sorry for the way I've ignored your word, and I know I've ignored the things my parents tried to teach me. But please, please forgive me. I don't want to be a slave here in Ireland." Patrick fell prostrate, his face buried in the damp, cool grass. He lay there for what seemed like an hour, anguishing over his foolish life. Finally, he felt a new stirring in his heart. "Father," he continued his prayer, "if I have to be a slave, let me be your slave.
Please take away this heart of unbelief and give me more faith. Please, Father, I want to serve you." Patrick lay there a while longer, sensing that God was accepting his repentance. He felt a new love for God stirring in his heart. "I've got to get back before Sid finds that I'm gone," he suddenly remembered. With God's help, he managed to find his way back to the hill, overlooking the camp. When he reached the summit of the hill, he paused to rest. He could see that Sid was still asleep in the camp.
"Thank you, Father," he prayed silently as he descended toward camp. The next morning, Sid had to shake Patrick in order to wake him. As soon as he was up, Patrick suddenly blurted out, "Sid, I need to confess something to you." "Oh, what's that?" "Last night, I, er, tried to run away. But please don't be mad at me. It was just as you said. I soon realized that I couldn't possibly escape. In the dark, I couldn't even remember which way was east." Patrick paused for a moment to make certain that Sid wasn't angry.
When he saw that Sid was smiling, he continued, "But there's something more. I've been thinking a lot about the things you said yesterday. About God, I mean. I realize now how wrong I've been to turn my back on God. I probably deserve everything that has happened to me. I confessed to God last night. I've decided to serve Jesus Christ the rest of my life. From now on, I'm going to be His slave." Sid was beaming, and he came over and hugged Patrick. "I, too, have something to confess," he said.
"I was awake last night when you left. I was praying for you the whole time. Now I know God has answered my prayers." The two men prayed joyfully together and then went to work tending the sheep. In the weeks that followed, Patrick gradually accepted his new role in life as a slave in Ireland. He still complained, but not as often.
One day, he cheerfully asked Sid, "Did I tell you that my father has several herds of sheep at our country estate?" "No, I don't think you ever told me." "I never personally handled the sheep, of course. All the manual work on my father's estate is done by our servants." "So now you're getting to find out what life is like for those servants," Sid remarked with a grin. "That's for sure. I know one thing: when I get back home, I'll show the servants a bit more appreciation than I used to." "When you get home?
Don't you mean if you get home?" Sid corrected him. "No, I mean when," Patrick answered resolutely. "You see, I have prayed to God to rescue me from Ireland. You said He was my only hope." "Yes, I did say that," Sid agreed, putting his arm around Patrick in a fatherly way. Then, clearing his throat nervously, he continued, "However, as I also said, nowhere in Scripture does God promise to deliver us from all the calamities of life.
Remember, He allowed His own Son to be arrested, beaten, and crucified." "So God probably won't rescue me. Is that what you're saying?" Patrick retorted defensively. "Not necessarily. That's entirely up to Him. It certainly is in His power. I just don't want you to get your hopes up too high." "I see," Patrick answered disappointedly. "How soon will I know if God is going to grant my prayer?" "That's not an easy question to answer. But you mustn't think that you can just pray one time and expect to get an answer.
Sometimes it works that way, but not usually. Do you ever remember hearing the parable of the persistent widow when you were in church?" Patrick shook his head. "Well, the parable is about a poor widow who wanted an unrighteous judge to give her justice. However, he was reluctant to do so. So she kept persisting Him day and night until He finally granted her request. Jesus wants us to persist in prayer, just like that widow." Patrick's face lit up. "Then I'll be that widow.
I'll keep pounding on the gates of heaven until God is so tired of hearing me He'll grant my request just to have some peace and quiet." Sid chuckled. "Well, let's hope so. But we best be moving the flock now. If we leave the sheep at one place too long, they will overgraze the pasture, ruining it." The men worked together, herding the flock to a new pasture. When they reached their new site, they rested and ate their noon meal.
"Do you see this plant, Patrick?" Sid asked, holding up a broad-leaved plant in his hands. "This is poisonous to the sheep. Always keep a lookout for it. If you ever see one of the sheep eating it, chase them away from the plant." Patrick assured Sid that he would always keep a diligent eye for it. "By the way," he said, changing the subject, "I was wondering if you would teach me the language they speak here. I would love to be able to talk with Cillian and the other slaves." Sid beamed. "I'll be happy to do that.
I was wondering if you would ever ask. The language they speak here is called Gaelic. Point to something, and I will tell you the Gaelic word for it." Patrick pointed to one of the sheep, and Sid told him the Gaelic word for sheep. "How do you say 'sky' in Gaelic, and what's the word for 'God'?" As the days passed, Patrick learned more about shepherding and picked up more and more Gaelic words and phrases. Eventually, he was able to string together enough words to make simple sentences and halting broken Gaelic.
The work with the sheep and the new language helped to keep Patrick's mind off of home. Yet, he regularly prayed for deliverance throughout the day, and much of the night, too. Spring turned into summer. The meadows were aglow with yellow, white, and purple. The sun hung in the sky well into the evening. One morning, Cillian met Sid and Patrick. "Greetings! I'm glad I found you," Cillian announced with a big smile. "Milchu wants you to begin herding the sheep back to the corral.
It's time to shear them." Patrick could make out some of the words, but not everything. He then introduced himself to Cillian and practiced some of his Gaelic phrases on him. After Cillian left, Patrick told Sid, "I understood some of the things he was telling you, but I couldn't follow it all. I know it was something about the sheep, but what?" "Oh, he told us that it's time to bring the sheep back to the house for shearing." Patrick and Sid worked together, herding the sheep back to the main dwelling.
At Sid's request, Patrick then worked diligently to remove all weeds and other foreign matter from the fleeces. "Will you teach me how to shear the sheep?" he asked Sid. "Eventually. But for now, just watch and try to learn as much as you can from observing us. When we're finished, we'll watch the women dye the wool." "That sounds great." During the next few days, Patrick watched the other shepherds skillfully shear the sheep.
When the shearing was finished, Sid took Patrick over to an area where the women were soaking the wool in large vats. "Well, as I'm sure you've already noticed, the Irish love to wear bright colors," Sid mentioned as they were walking. "Stopping next to some large iron cauldrons," he explained. "To dye the wool, the women will soak it in these vats of dye overnight. Tomorrow, they'll set the colors with salt and vinegar." "But where do they get the colors?" "Oh, from various plants.
They get green from moss, red from hawthorn berries, purple from elderberries, and yellow from furze. They boil the vegetation for about a half an hour to get the dye from the plants." After spending another day around the homestead, it was time for Patrick and Sid to lead the sheep back up into the mountain pastures. As they made their way back up into the higher grounds, the mist hung like a veil over the countryside, gently blurring the hills and mountains.
"It was a foggy morning, just like this when the Irish warriors raided us and took me captive," Patrick commented. "Cloaked in the fog, they made it all the way to my father's villa without anyone noticing them." "Yes, fog is a raider's ally." "Oh, did I tell you that I decided to pray at least a hundred times every day and as much as I can through the night?" Patrick asked Sid excitedly.
"I started last week." "A hundred times a day?" "And as much as I can at night." "Patrick, you really have become the persistent widow. I'm afraid you put me to shame." "Well, at first it was really hard, but now I find it quite easy. Talking to God is just like talking to you. I'm guessing that by now, He's already tired of my pestering Him. But I'm going to keep right on until He finally grants my prayer." Having reached a good pasture, the men rested while the sheep grazed.
Patrick took a long drink from his water bottle. He studied the bottle for a moment. It was made from a sheep's stomach with an ox hide thong connecting the two ends. The strap made it easy for Patrick to carry the bottle around his shoulder as he moved about. He drew an iron dagger from his belt and cut a large hunk out of the round loaf of bread in his satchel. He gazed at the shamrock-green pasture before him, dotted with sheep like fluffs of cotton.
Everything was quiet, except for the bleating of the sheep and the occasional shrill cries of lambs separated from their mothers. The wind whispered mournfully through the mountains. Sid finally broke the silence. "How many people were taken captive with you? Do you have any idea?" "It seemed like thousands to me." "I doubt it was that many from one raid, but altogether there probably are thousands of British slaves in Ireland right now. After all, the raids have been going on for decades.
I wonder if God is preparing Ireland for something." "Whether He is or isn't, all I know is that I want out of here," Patrick responded with a laugh.