I stared at the steep and rocky landscape before me as my husband Dan and I stood at the bottom of Cross Mountain in Medjugorje in Bosnia-Herzegovina. It didn’t take long for me to size up the situation and announce my intentions.
“I can’t do this.”
Dan looked a little startled at first—maybe because there was no wavering in my statement. No room for talking me out of my decision. And we both knew it.
In that moment, I was filled with both loathing and self-pity—loathing because I’d quit before I’d even started, self-pity for my arthritic bone-on-bone knees that no longer bend well, often give out when I least expect it, and hurt like the dickens 90 percent of the time. After all, I reminded myself, only a couple of days prior I’d struggled to make it up Apparition Hill. Most of that trek was spent clinging to Dan for dear life. But this was no hill. It was a mountain. One that made the Hill look like child’s play. Though we never spoke the words, I think we both understood there was no way I’d make it 10 minutes, much less all the way to the top.
“Go on, honey,” I insisted. “I’ll be fine—I’ll be right here when you get back.”
After some hesitation, he agreed and took off up the mountain jumping from rock to rock to catch up with other friends who were making the hike.
I watched the relative ease and speed with which he made up for lost time.
On the other hand, the snail-like pace with which I’d surely have made the climb would’ve been a complete hindrance to him, not to mention the other members of our small group. I knew I’d made the right decision, even if it hurt.
The round-trip hike was likely going to take him about two hours, so with time on my hands and a journal in my backpack, I searched for a large boulder at the base of the mountain and scribbled down some thoughts, glancing up from time to time to take in all of the pilgrims who were heading to see the 10-ton cross at the top. Young parents carried their infants. Teenagers walked with friends. groups of pilgrims from around the world followed their guides. Older couples in their twilight years—plenty of whom were in their 80s and 90s—were carving their paths to the top, too. Some were carried up on stretchers while others made the journey on bare feet.
And then there was me. Poor. Pitiful. Me.
In my distress, I put away the journal and stood to make the very short walk to the bottom. But after spying the first Station of the Cross, The path to reach it was almost flat and
free of rocks to be dodged, so lacking a valid excuse, I had an unexpected change of heart and headed in its direction.
A few prayers later, I looked at the path that stood ahead of me, and debated with myself as to whether or not I should venture a little further. Trust me when I say even I was surprised by my decision to keep venturing. Who cared how far I went or how long it took me? There was no one waiting on me, no one to keep up with. Just me, myself and I—and some prayers to keep me going.
I stopped to rest on numerous occasions, which really means I stopped to consider just how crazy I was and just how far I intended to hike. Each time I stopped though, something spurred me on. That, coupled with the thought of Dan and I meeting up with each other as he came back down added a little excitement, regardless if I only made it to the second or third Station.
“I’ll just go a little bit further,” I thought.
I’d made it all the way to the fourth Station with my negotiations with God began in earnest. If I was going to make it any further, I’d need a cane, which of course I didn’t have.
Until a stranger changed that only moments later.
“Here,” she said handing off her cane to me. “I don’t need it any more.”
After thanking her, I looked up at the sky and muttered to God.
“I suppose this is your way of saying, ‘keep going’.”
So I did. Little by little, Hail Mary by Hail Mary, I took my sweet time, making it onward and upward. The only thing I could be sure of was that Our Blessed Mother and more than a few saints were keeping me company. Otherwise, I’d never have made it on my own.
It didn’t take me long to come up with a plan by which I could navigate the rocks. Every step was intentional, and often made in trepidation, hoping my knees wouldn’t give out as my foot made contact with the earth. Every few yards, I surveyed my surroundings, sometimes watching others for ideas for maneuvering among the rocks and vegetation. I made use of branches within my reach and used them to pull myself up, and searched for the path of least resistance, which didn’t always exist.
And every few minutes, I’d find a rock to rest on.
During one break, I struck up a conversation with a man, his wife and sister who sat down next to me. They’d been in Medjugorje a couple of weeks and still had a couple more weeks ahead of them, and were no strangers to Cross Mountain. On this day, they planned to picnic at the top. Our conversation made me feel not-so-terribly alone, and I was comforted by the fact that they were on the mountain, too.
“Hey when you get there, if you see my husband,” I said showing them a photo of him, “tell him to look for me on his way down!”
He does have to come down this way, I thought. Doesnt he?
I pushed the thought out of my mind, and instead focused on how wonderful it would be to see his face when we ran into each other.
Except that we never did. The closer I got to the top, the more I questioned what the odds were that there was an
other way down—and he’d taken it. I tried to remain hopeful as I approached the 14th Station of the Cross, leaning on the possibility that he was still at the top, soaking in the wonder of this mountain and its 90-year-old cross. And I held onto that hope like a frightened child might cling to his mother.
When I finally made it to the cross some 3 hours later, there was no sign of Dan anywhere. I tried to take in the splendor of the moment and the holiness that enveloped me. After all, I was standing in a place known for astounding conversions like those of Fr. Dan Reehill, Fr. Mark Beard, and Fr. Leon.
Yet all I could pray was, “Why God? Why did you bring me up here.”
I walked around the perimeter several times and checked out every face I saw, hoping to see someone I knew. As my hope ran dry, I noticed what I’d been fearing all along. All the pilgrims were heading down the mountain on a different path.
For the first time since my journey began, I felt a massive pit in my stomach, realizing Dan had gone down a different way, too. Now I had to make my own way back. I was exhausted, hot and thirsty—and the water and snacks were with Dan. But that paled in comparison to the reality that we’d chosen not to get international calling on our phones: they only worked when we had WiFi.
I had no way of letting him know where I was.
It was already 11:30 a.m. when I glanced at my watch. He’d likely returned to the bottom at least an hour prior—and at this point, he’d be worried sick. The pit in my stomach grew even deeper. As I’d later learn, that was exactly what was happening. Fearful that I’d been kidnapped or killed—or only God-knew-what had happened to me, he canvassed the area over and over searching for his wife, who’d promised she’d be right there waiting for him at the bottom of the mountain. Yet she was no where to be found. So he did the only thing he could do. He kept looking. And he prayed.
Meanwhile on the mountain, another reality stared me in the face: it’s always more difficult to go down than up. Hiking down a mountain is no exception, which was a notion that paired poorly with my panic to get down as fast as possible. The terrain hampered my speed so much that there were times I expected the snails to pass me. The truth was, I wanted to give up. I wanted to sit down and cry and resume the pity party that had begun hours ago at the foot of the mountain, even if I knew deep down that quitting wasn’t an option.
My conversations with God and the Blessed Mother remained questions: Why did you bring me up here if I wasn’t going to find Dan? What was the purpose of this whole hike? Why do I suddenly feel so alone? Can you send me a sign? Something? Anything? Can you at least have my Guardian Angel assure Dan I’m okay?
It was in that moment—the moment when I felt most hopeless—that the family I’d met earlier caught up with me as they made their way down. They asked about Dan and I explained what must’ve happened. Clearly worried, the woman and her sister volunteered to go ahead of us and look for Dan, and her husband offered to stay back and assist me. To this day, I wonder if they were Guardian Angels, as there were many spots on the way down that would have been challenging for me to traverse on my own. And it was nice to have company—to have someone to spill my guts to about how awful I felt about the worry I’d unwittingly caused my dear husband.
“Maybe this is something you had to do on your own,” my walking companion said.
I agreed, even if I wondered why.
It was 1:20 p.m. when we made it back to the foot of the mountain and spotted his wife and sister. But there was no sign of Dan.
They made sure I was safely in the back seat of a cab and headed back to Two Heart Hotel before parting ways. As I exited the cab and walked in to the dining room, news of my return was already making the rounds.
Meanwhile, Dan was nowhere to be found. He’d walked to The Castle to ask Nancy and Patrick if they’d seen me. and it was there that he learned of my return.
“She’s safe! She’s at the hotel!” Nancy yelled to him.
As long as my hike up Cross Mountain had taken, it paled in comparison to the wait that faced me while Dan made his way back. Now with WiFi, my phone was filled with texts from him, making it clear that he was as distraught as I was. And I’m not sure we’ve ever had a reunion quite like the one we had when he walked into the hotel. It’s hard to describe that type of relief and joy.
Suffice it to say we never left each others sides for the rest of the trip. And many a conversation recounted my hike up that Mountain.
Months later, the effects of that day linger in my mind. And I suspect they always will. I still wonder what will unfold as its graces continue to fall on me, though I’m still not sure why I hiked up that mountain. I only know that I was called to do so. In responding to that call, the power of the Holy Spirit and the intercession of the Blessed Mother and more than a few saints, accompanied me on every step of the journey. And much like the countless stories of others who’ve visited Medjugorje, I’ll never be the same.
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