Eighteen months have passed since Taylor’s and Maddie’s wedding—and seventeen months since my own. Patrick and I were married at a tiny church in Borrisokane, only a few miles from Ballyshannon. After the wedding, we settled straightaway into the front rooms of the main house, knowing Ballyshannon would never again serve as a bed-and-breakfast. With Patrick’s freelance computer work, my writing, and a new approach to the business of dairy farming, we’re bringing in enough income to take the pressure off Fiona.

Besides, we needed the space. We’re using one of the bedrooms as a nursery.

James was able to hold our son, James Patrick O’Neil, before he died. The baby came in December, and James went to be with Jesus three weeks later. I know he’s with the Lord, for as he studied the changes in Patrick, he came to see that salvation was not a matter of belonging to a church, but of surrendering to Christ. He placed his trust in the work of Jesus alone, and he died in peace.

We hear from Taylor and Maddie fairly often. They have no children yet, nor plans for any, but Taylor has his doctorate and a wonderful position at New York City College. Occasionally Maddie sends clippings from the Times society section, and their names always seem to figure prominently in descriptions of receptions for the intellectual glitterati. They seem happy and content, which is all I ever wanted them to be.

Really.

As for me, I feel like a toddler who was led kicking and screaming to the table where a loving parent had spread the most delicious, nutritious, wonderful meal imaginable. (Sorry for the analogy, but my thoughts keep revolving around babies.) Through Patrick and the O’Neils, the Lord has taught me that the depth of joy I experience is in direct proportion to the pain I’m willing to bear. In giving up my predictable and ordered existence in New York, I am embracing all the pleasure and pain life can bring. I remember what Aunt Kizzie said: When we’re walking close to the Savior, he demands more and more until our lives are given over. But with each burden he lifts from me, he bestows a blessing.

I’m not merely existing anymore—I’m living.

Ireland, this beautiful emerald island, is my birthright and my destiny. I came here as an embarrassed believer, rather like Peter just after he had denied the Lord three times, but the Savior still had a purpose for me. Despite my shortcomings, I was able to fan the flame of salvation in Patrick, whose faith glowed bright enough to attract his father, whose changed life influenced the entire community of Ballinderry. James’s confident belief touched everyone who came to see him in his last days, including the priest who showed up to administer the last rites.

“Thanks for the effort, Father, but I’ll not be placing me faith in your words or the extreme unction,” James told the priest, his eyes shining with steadfast serenity. “My faith stands on nothing less than my precious Savior’s righteousness.”

And so he slipped away from us and into the arms of the Savior. In that moment, Patrick stood by his side, as did Fiona. Little James and I sat in a corner chair, while a snippet of Scripture kept running through my mind: “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”

I know the Lord has a perfect plan for each of his children, and I know I’ve found his will for me. The Cahira stories were published, and nearly every week I receive letters from women who see a reflection of themselves in one of Cahira’s heirs. I hope those books touch lives, and I know they touched mine.

I have to laugh when I remember the night Taylor taunted me by predicting that I’d end up getting married, driving a station wagon, shopping for groceries, and raising children. “Every night you’ll fall into bed too tired from doing the little things to even dream about the big things,” he’d said. “Is that any kind of life for an heir of Cahira O’Connor?”

I wish he could see—really see me now. Every night I fall into bed with a man who adores me, and I’m so thrilled by the big things that I don’t even think about the little things I might miss from home. A miracle sleeps in the room next to ours, and an exceptional man lies next to me. Words can’t describe the beauty of my home or the people who fill my life.

Oh yes—Aunt Kizzie came for the wedding and never went back to the States. She now lives in the little house, and she and Fiona are like sisters. They’ve become prayer partners, and I am constantly challenged by their example.

There is much work to be done at Ballyshannon, but I’m working among lovely people who have warmed my heart with their goodness and charm. And though this isn’t a battlefield or an uncharted territory, I’ve encountered many occasions where I needed to call on Anika’s spiritual strength, Aidan’s creative joy, and Flanna’s raw courage. Being a good wife is a challenge, and motherhood is a daunting task. I pray daily for guidance so I can demonstrate the Truth.

Spring has come again, and as the pastures and hills around me grow lush and green, I find myself counting colors. I think I’ve learned to recognize twenty different shades of green. In a year or two, as my eye grows sharper and these hills more beloved, I’m sure I shall see all forty.