July 15, 2026
We won’t hide them from their descendants; we’ll tell the next generation all about the praise due the Lord and his strength – the wondrous works God has done. ~ Psalm 78:4 CEB
The afternoon I arrived on Iona was very rainy. The last thing I felt like doing was walking up the hill from the pier to the Columba Hotel, our quarters for the pilgrimage. I was wet, tired from all the travel, and jetlagged. It was 4 pm in Iona, but 11 pm at home. What in the world had I gotten myself into? Tears flowed during our opening circle, like they had when I made it to the top of Mt. Sinai, like they had when I’d passed through the tunnel and entered the square in front of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela at the end of the Camino, to the accompaniment of a bagpiper playing Amazing Grace. As I looked past the many-chimneyed Bishops’ House to the Isle of Mull. I longed to share this moment with my parents, my sisters, and my Scottish grandparents, immigrants a century ago, who died before I could meet them. I was here – at the place my soul had yearned for decades, perhaps my entire life.
That night, we shared our first dinner together, then walked to the Abbey church for evening worship focused on healing. It was sublimely simple and profound. As I walked back to the hotel, the sun was finally setting at 9:45 pm, glowing yellow against clouds of purple, red, and orange. Birdsong seemed to be a lullaby for my first night on Iona. As I crawled into bed, I prayed that I would find a connection to my Scottish ancestry. Little did I know what would happen the next day.
After a wonderful full Scottish Breakfast, a surprisingly moving morning worship in the ancient Abbey Church, and our first session together as a group, I decided to walk to White Strand of the Monks beach with Lisa, a new friend. It was a glorious walk along the one-lane road, with green fields full of sheep on both sides of the road, and stone crofter houses.
We came to the end of the road and a metal gate that blocked our way in and the sheep’s way out. We passed through, feeling a bit like trespassers, locked the gate behind us, followed a path, avoiding the presents the sheep had left, and finally reached the beach. We discovered a plethora of snails, seashells, and stones.
On the way back, we encountered Kevin, tall and lean, and Valerie Anne, both in their eighties, standing on the other side of the gate. We offered to open the gate for them, but they said this was as far as they could go. They’d come to see the water crashing on the rocks, something Valerie was fond of painting. Valerie was a live wire on a crutch, with sparkling blue eyes and a welcoming smile. I mentioned that I had never met my dad’s parents, who had immigrated from Scotland in 1910. She said, “You have great taste in colors, the face of a Scot, and you are feisty.” She pretty much nailed me, aside from the color thing! I mentioned that they were from Glasgow and their family names were Findlay and Reid. She told me she had Findlay and Reid, neighbors. She gave me a great big hug that felt like a welcome, acceptance, and blessing from my ancestors.
They got back in their car, and Lisa and I began the walk back to the hotel, talking about the remarkable encounter we’d just had. It was then that I remembered my prayer of the night before. Then I remembered my prayer and shared how “it just so happened” that I had prayed for a connection to my Scottish heritage. Wow!
It was enough. I sensed something shifting in me, as if an empty space had been filled. If the Pilgrimage ended then, it would have been more than I had imagined.
With thanks. ~ Anne
Wayfinding 