Grá and Gratitude: Ireland Changed Us (Part One)
A 25th anniversary trip, a fast-talking train station attendant, and the kindness of strangers.
In celebration of our 25th anniversary of our first date, Karen and I packed our bags and crossed the Atlantic for a trip we’ll never forget. We’d been talking about going to Ireland for years, something about the green hills, the history, and the roots of my family always tugged at us. This year, we finally made it happen.
We rented a car, said a prayer, and set off on a week-long road trip across nearly 800 miles of winding, narrow Irish roads. I drove on the left side for the first time in my life, with a steering wheel on the right, trying to convert kilometers to miles on the fly and adjusting my instincts at every intersection. But surprisingly, I caught on quickly. The tractors in the road, the livestock dotting the hillsides, the slow rhythm of country life—it all felt strangely familiar. Like Tennessee, just with a brogue.
We passed castle ruins, coastal cliffs, and more sheep than people on some stretches. But beyond the views, what struck us most was how friendly everyone was. People waved at us on back roads without knowing who we were, just like the folks I grew up around. It felt like stepping into a place that somehow already knew you.
On our final day, we walked from our hotel to the train station to catch a ride into Dublin for a day of sightseeing. I’d been driving all week, so it was a nice break to be on foot. We got to the station early, found our platform, and asked a man working there for a little help.
Now, let me say this: Irish people speak English, yes, but fast. And with that accent? It’s like trying to catch raindrops with a fork.
This man rattled off directions so quickly, I caught about every fourth word. I was listening for anchor points—“left,” “upstairs,” “follow the signs”—but it felt like decoding a riddle. Karen looked at him, then looked at me and said, “Are you getting any of this? Because I’m not.”
I just smiled. “Now you know how I feel when you’re speaking one of your other languages.”
We headed to the platform, half-confident in our destination, when a woman nearby overheard our conversation. She kindly leaned over and said, “If you’re going to Trinity College, I’d actually take a different route.”
I welcomed the advice, and before we knew it, the three of us had boarded the train together and launched into a thirty-minute conversation.
Her voice was kind. Her smile was easy. She talked to us like we were old friends. She asked about our trip—what we’d seen, what we loved most. I told her about my roots in Tennessee, how Ireland reminded me of home in a way I hadn’t expected. She nodded. “Oh yes, the waving, the pace of things. That’s Ireland,” she said.
I told her how friendly people had been, and how, for the first time ever, I’d actually thought about what it would be like to live in another country. “If I had to pick,” I told her, “this would be the place.”
She smiled and said something I won’t forget:
“You definitely have the grá for Ireland.”
I asked her what that meant, and she explained that grá is the Irish Gaelic word for love. Not just romantic love, but a deep affection. A soulful kind of love. A pull.
She said it softly, with warmth. And I sat there for a moment, feeling the truth of it settle in my chest.
We stepped off the train that day feeling lighter, like we’d just been handed a gift. Not just directions or travel tips, but something bigger. A reminder of how meaningful it can be to connect with a stranger. To be seen and welcomed without hesitation.
That train ride was supposed to be just transportation. A way to get from one point to another. But like so many moments in life, the real magic happened between the stops.
Karen and I had gone to Ireland to celebrate 25 years of being together, but somehow, we also rediscovered things we’d forgotten in the rush of everyday life: how it feels to slow down, to breathe in new air, to be reminded of home in a place we’d never been. And to be reminded of each other, too.
We boarded the train as tourists, but by the time we arrived in Dublin, we were just a little more Irish—maybe not by passport, but by grá.
And as I think back on that ride, I can’t help but wonder if it wasn’t just chance that placed that kind woman beside us. Maybe it was grace—with an accent. Because the same God who brought Karen and me together 25 years ago, who’s been faithful in the chaos and the calm, is the same God who whispers to us in the slower moments. Even on an Irish train.
Turns out, grá is more than just a lovely Gaelic word. It’s a glimpse of the kind of love God gives freely—a love that welcomes, guides, and reminds us who we are and who we belong to. Whether in Tennessee or Ireland, His love always finds a way to meet us between the stops.
Thanks for reading Part One of this two-part story.
Come back next week for Part Two, where we explore Dublin, take a few unexpected turns, and reflect on what Ireland taught us—not just about travel, but about life, marriage, and the joy of slowing down together.