I was born in northern England in the later half of the fourth century AD.  I was the son of Calpurnius, a wealthy army officer for the Romans that occupied Britain at the time.  One day a band of pirates landed in south Wales and kidnapped me along with many other children.  My father tried to track the pirates down, but I was sold as a slave in Ireland before he could find me.

I was taken to Antrim where a local landowner, Meliuc, put me to work as a shepherd.  I lived on Slemish Mountain for six long years with only sheep to keep me company.  I coped with the bleak landscape and harsh conditions by rekindling the faith my countrymen had abandoned under Roman rule.  I prayed constantly to my Christian God, which gave me strength and hope during those dark days.

One night I heard a voice whisper to me, saying the time had come to escape that place.  It told me, "Your ship is ready." I travelled two hundred miles south until I came to Wexford where, sure enough, a boat heading for Britain was docked.

I approached the captain, who at once denied me passage. I turned and walked away, then kneeled by the shore and prayed for God's guidance. Before I had finished the prayer, a member of the crew called for me to come with them; they had changed their mind and decided to provide me with a safe passage home.

I reached Britain and journeyed a few days inland, only to be captured by bandits and returned to slavery once again. But God's voice reassured me as it had back in Antrim, telling me I would be free in two months. When exactly sixty days had passed, a nasty flu epidemic consumed the bandit camp, yet strangely I was the only one not infected. The sick captors made no effort to stop me as I walked away in broad daylight.

I spent seven years travelling throughout Europe, trying to determine my purpose on this earth. I finally decided that I should study to become a true servant of God and deliver His message to as many towns as possible. I studied at the Lerin Monastery, situated on an island off the Cote d' Azur in France. When I had completing my education in divinity, I returned to Britain, this time as a qualified priest.

I stayed in Britain until a voice came to me in a dream one night. The pleading voice was clearly Irish, and asked of me, "We beseech thee, holy youth, to come and walk once more amongst us." My life's purpose suddenly became clear in that short moment: I would convert the Irish people to Christianity.

I had very little practical education, my schooling having been cut short by slavery at such a young age. I travelled to the Monastery of Auxerre in France, where I dedicated myself to learning more of the world and how it worked. The enthusiasm I had for both my studies and faith quickly earned respect from the monks at the monastery. I was extremely disappointed, and surprised, when my request to lead the first planned mission to Ireland was denied.

I watched from my window as Auxerre gave Palladius, the monk chosen to lead the crusade, a loud and cheerful farewell as he and his men left for Ireland by horse. For the first time, I doubted God's intentions for me, but I shrugged it off and continued with my studies with more determination than ever.

A year later, news that Palladius had died in Ireland reached the monastery. Another mission was immediately organized, and I was chosen to lead it. I was summoned to Rome first, however; Pope Celestine made me a Bishop, and gave me his blessing for the upcoming journey.

I arrived in Ireland with twenty-five fellow missionaries in the winter of 432. My band of religious crusaders were given shelter by a kind landowner named Dichiu, who became one of the first Irish converts to Christianity. When the spring finally came, I decided to seek approval from the High King of Tara, the most powerful man in Ireland. By gaining his support, I could spread God's message to all the people of Ireland without worrying about being attacked or confronted. I knew it would take something extraordinary to get King Laoghaire's attention, however.

My supporters and I built a huge fire on March 25, which was strictly forbidden by the King. Traditional celebrations marking the beginning of spring were always started by King Laoghaire by lighting a massive fire near his castle. No fire was to be lit before the king's, and when he saw the flames of my own fire on the horizon, he gathered the princes of Ireland and left to find out who dared challenge the High King's authority.

When our two groups came face to face, I stepped forward and spoke to the king and his well-dressed horsemen. I explained who we were and that our only intention was to spread the Gospel throughout his land. The king took me aside and said he admired my composure and quiet confidence, then invited me to visit the Royal Court at Tara the following day.

While I led my procession toward Tara the next morning bearing a massive cross, we sang hymns I had written over the years at Auxerre. We were shocked by the loud greeting we received after entering the hall at Tara, accustomed to the formal way Roman ceremonies took place back in Britain. I approached King Laoghaire and said, " Here I am." He took my hands in his and kissed me on the cheek.

The druids were outraged by this. They would all be out of a job if the King accepted my new religion, so they demanded to know whether my God could create snow. I avoided their trap by replying that God determined the weather, not myself. Moments later, the hall fell silent as the the sunny countryside became shaded by clouds that dropped large snowflakes on the spring fields.

Everyone looked out the windows for a few minutes, then turned their gazes to me. I was at a loss for words, and simply made the sign of the cross with my hand. It stopped snowing just as I finished the gesture, and I dropped to my knees and prayed out loud before the baffled audience.

King Laoghaire walked forward and asked me the nature of this religion I wished Ireland to be part of. I explained to him that, unlike the Gaels, Christians worshipped only one God, and this God had three personalities: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The druids all began laughing at what seemed a ridiculous concept to them. Everyone filed out of the hall and chatted loudly in groups in the courtyard.

Frustrated, I prayed to God for inspiration. When I opened my eyes, my downward gaze spotted a patch of shamrock. I plucked one of the stems from the ground and held it above my head. "Here," I said loudly, and everyone stopped talking to look. "There is only one stem, but there are three leaves. So it is with the Blessed Trinity. There is one God, with three persons stemming from the same divinity."

King Laoghaire nodded thoughtfully, then announced his blessing for me to preach the Gospel throughout Ireland. The king refused to accept Christianity himself, fearing doing so betrayed his ancestors who had entrusted him with the land and its traditions. Although he wouldn't stop me from preaching my religion, he said he wouldn't actively promote my effort, either.

Now that I was free to travel where I liked, flocks of people listened to my sermons and began converting. Gradually, Ireland became a Christian land from coast to coast. At the age of fifty, I made a pilgrimage to Croagh. There, the devil came to me on several occassions while I prayed, but each time I resisted. God sent an angel to reward me for my courage in denying the devil, and whatever request I made of Him would be granted. I asked that the Irish keep the Christian faith for all time, and that they be spared the horrors of the Day of Judgement.

When that Day came, He declared that I could judge my beloved Irish people myself. When I finished this devine duty, Ireland would be drowned under a sea of water seven years before the Last Day began. This meant all my Irish countrymen, regardless of faith, would not have to endure the terrible events that consume the Earth during its end.

By the spring of 461, at the age of seventy-six, I felt my end was near. I died peacefully on March 17th, proud to have delivered His word to thousands of faithless souls who could now inspire others for generations to come. The clans of Ireland bickered over who should receive the honour of having my final resting place on their land. To avoid this sacrilegious end to my life, some friends secretly stole my body and buried it on a rolling hill, and its location still remains a mystery.

My name is St. Patrick, and the date of my death is recognized each year with parades and green ale. Mythical tales about leprechauns and snakes have become part of this holiday over the centuries, slowly pushing my Christian legacy aside. I'm alright with that, however, and offer this toast of my own with a raised glass:

"To faith...you can do very little with it, but you can do nothing without it!"