My name is Patrick. I am a sinner, a simple country person, and the least of all believers. These are the first words of the confession of St Patrick. It is the only document we have that is directly attributed to him, the bishop of all Ireland, the least of all believers.

My love said last night, there are parts of you that need to soften. It came after she had been on the phone with her cousin, who had recently lost his wife to cancer. They talked about regret. Regret that he had not fully opened to her; her to him. I remember hearing how he sobbed at the graveside, inconsolable, letting it all wash through him.

I am afraid of that river, the pull of that river of loss. How can we stand being in this world? Is there anyone whose heart doesn’t get broken? We all get to be by the gravestone. Sorry, so sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t hold you enough, that I didn’t open those inner doors to you, let you in all the way, past the grief, past the fears, past the crap, into the inner chamber, that place. The river pulls at the banks. I am the least of all believers – fear struck – frozen.

I worked in London in the early 1970s digging a new underground tunnel for the Queen’s Jubilee. I remember the smell – the changing air going down the shaft. They lost a man a mile building that line. It was a rush job. It had to be ready for Her Majesty’s birthday. They had to ease up on safety – prioritize. The Irish were at one end, the Africans at the other – competition – always fair game. I didn’t see anyone die; just a crushed leg – a few near misses. I was a visitor, summer work, not the real thing. I had read George Orwell and I wanted to see, get a glimpse of that river of suffering – the mines – the killing pits in Africa – South America. There is a mountain in Peru, the native people call “hungry mountain” so many people went in never to come back. There are stories that stop us in our tracks – freeze the blood.

Look into our eyes, yours, mine, theirs. Can we see past the suffering, the mirror wall, past the identity constructs? Can we see the hurt, the damage? How we can never measure the suffering or the joy – how they laugh and sing after work – how they go hungry – how they die young. How we will sob uncontrollably at the loss – the loss of our soft loving hearts – our ease and grace – our good fortune – our lives – our children. All gone – washed away.

Some streams dry up in the summer, they don’t make it to the river. The water stops flowing, runs out. The river Jordon is pretty small these days. The Rio Grande, nothing much as it runs through New Mexico. We divert water, put it to work. We forget the sacred – holy river, mighty river. We shed no tears. We dry up the valleys – take the water from the people – from the animals, from the plants – the clear holy water – the blessed gift of life water – we take ownership of what is no ours – we break the sacred covenant – we forget what is known – what we know.

We are the least of all believers.

But what if I held you in my arms? What if I loved you, loved you better than you have ever been loved? Looking in your eyes. What if I looked in and I could see you and I3 said, you are okay, You do not have to do anything. It is all done, What would you do with that? Would I reach you? Would I frighten you? Would the confusion fall away?  Would you drop your guard? What if I said, we are going home – we are all going home. What then?  Could you let it all go – everything go? All the evidence, all the suffering, all the cruelty, all the hardness and pride, all the heritage and privilege, all the times when you were bereft and broken, all your sins, your ambitions and failures, how they admire you, hold you in high esteem – all gone – letting it be gone. What about the faces of the miners, how they got drunk on Friday nights, talking about Ireland, washing it all away, all of it, all the money, their efforts to save and return to Ireland, afford a new life, all washed away. That circle of poverty and exploitation. No way back. Nose to the rock face, picking away, breathing in the foul air. – the stink of it – the weight heavy in their lungs. How they left the fresh air of the west of Ireland – the sea air. How word got passed along. The secret route whispered in a pub – inside information. Take the train to Dublin, then the Mail Boat overnight sleeping on the benches, then on to London and the address written on a scrap of paper. Ask for John Reilly, Peter’s brother from over the hill, ask for a start. More money in a week than you’ve seen your whole life. Magic stories. Human traffic. Keep them coming – those strong country boys – hungry mines – hungry mountains.

God they put their heart and soul into the work – their strong hearts, every Monday back at it. Another foot or two dug out, for herself, her Royal Highness. Putting their hearts into those shovel heads. Willing a way forward. The strong bodies given over, their brightness and their smarts circling between them.

How do we let it go? How do we look them in their eyes? How do we tell them it was a lie? That they have been betrayed? Will the river wash me, wash me clean away? Holy river, mighty river.

This is the life we have been given. Dig Paddy dig.