St. Patrick’s Day
Most years, not every year, but most, on St. Patrick’s Day, I bake my grandma’s soda bread recipe. As an Irish American, I feel compelled to celebrate the feast day, but I’ve never been one for drunken revelry, so I find baking to be preferable. My grandma’s soda bread recipe is sweet, dense, and buttery, dotted with juicy raisins. When I was growing up, she’d make it for every family party, my cousins’ birthdays, New Year’s, Easter. There would always be a loaf or two on the counter with a stick of butter beside it. For me, St. Patrick’s Day is more reflective than rowdy, a quiet celebration of the faith of the Irish people, particularly those in my own family.
My grandma emigrated from Ireland alone in the early 1950s when she was barely a legal adult. Like many third-generation Americans, I frequently take for granted the amount of faith, courage, and sacrifice it must have taken for her to get on a boat and sail to a foreign land in a time without emails and FaceTime, completely alone. However, my grandma had some serious grit, which shaped her character. She was tenacious, productive, and never afraid to speak her mind, even if she offended you a bit (or a lot.) She was a life force, always moving, always talking, always telling everyone what to do. Honestly, my sister, my cousins, and I were afraid of her.
Regardless, when it came time for me to make my confirmation in the eighth grade, I chose my grandma as my sponsor. I suppose I chose her because I couldn’t choose my parents, so closing a grandparent seemed like the next obvious choice. However, I believe I chose her because of how dedicated she was to the faith and how fiercely she took on life.
For several months, my grandma and I worked on the confirmation coursework together. I would scribble my reflections in a tiny little notebook and call her afterward to discuss my answers. On the day of my confirmation, I arrived at my childhood parish early, pacing around and practicing reading the Prayer of the Faithful in my stole. Sponsors were also asked to arrive early for the Mass. My grandma, who usually arrived an hour early when she was asked to arrive on time, was strangely not there. After a few calls, my mom finally got a hold of her. My grandma had written down a different date for the confirmation. She’d been napping.
Fortunately, I was allowed to be confirmed with my mother acting as a substitute sponsor, but I often remember how out of character it seemed for my devout grandmother to miss standing by me in the sacrament. A few short years later, my grandma was diagnosed with dementia, and my mom always says she remembers my confirmation as the first sign that something was wrong. My grandma never missed Mass. Years later, when my grandma’s condition declined, she forgot almost everyone’s name (except my grandpa’s) but she never forgot her prayers. She would call out to Christ, asking Him to please take her home.
On this St. Patrick’s Day, I choose to remember the faith that the great saint instilled in the Irish people, passed down for generations, echoing onward today in families of the diaspora like mine around the world. My grandma’s faith inspires me still, a reminder to be strong, relentless, and fearless, and to occasionally share a loaf of soda bread.
Claire Zajdel is a Catholic playwright and creative writer from Chicago.
You can learn more about her here.