The Wild Tears Fall

'Hurry up, hurry up!' I told my coffee as it steeped. I plopped the last scone into a bag and tried to zip my rucksack singlehandedly. I hoped those goodies would be eaten quickly; there were too many things in my backpack that I had not yet been able to put in the truck transporting our heavier baggage, so I wanted to lighten the load as soon as possible. Ah, five minutes was up, and I began drinking what would be my last cup for at least several days, lingering over each sip even as I eyed my toothbrush.

The sky outside was heavy and overcast. There would be no magenta dawn this year. No matter, I could settle for a rose-hued orb against grey velvet. Checking my plugs, extinguished candles, and gas for the eighteenth time, I finally went running for the bus.
Though twenty and a half miles lay ahead of me, I could not sit down once aboard. Laying my bag in one of the many empty seats at 5:30 AM, I folded my arms and pondered.

What are you doing this year?
I'm going to pray. There you are.
What are you asking for?
I smiled. Reposing in my heart was a strong regard for the intentions of all whom I had known and especially those dear to me. I also planned on carrying up the burden of every soul that watched the procession (friendly or hostile) on the way. However, I was not going to petition for them. I had made the consecration of slavery to the Immaculate Heart of Mary and thus had foresworn the right to ask for anything in such a direct manner.

A priest once chided me in confession for this very literal interpretation of St. Louis de Montfort's consecration, but my own reason could not find in the saint's adamant language any room to maintain petitions at my personal discretion. I was to be a slave and to offer what I had to the Queen, who would present them fittingly before the King and ask Him for the favours she wanted. If I craved something, I could but look upon it, and hope that she might think my desire worthy enough to carry before the throne. For example, I might wish my fast to be offered up for a political crisis, or the pain in my heart to ease that in a sister's, or my rosary to strengthen the sinews of a friend's felicity, yet the Mother of God might use these prayers for something quite different.

In childhood, there were many times when I may have presented a sweet or a flower to my mother, who in turn gave it to a crying sibling. I was always quite put out whenever she had usurped the direction of my gift and to someone who did not deserve it either! However, mothers have a tendency to give blessings to those who merit them least. Understanding that tendency, and in my pride wishing to direct any spiritual works of mercy I might do, I had resisted the consecration from age 13 to 26. A year after having made it though, I was now receiving the consolations of the promise.
'Dear Lady, you know what is near to my heart and all that I long for, but you'll ask the Lord what you think is best for me, and I shall not open my mouth. This year, I promise to relish the peace and joy of the pilgrimage and seek nothing beyond. I ask for--I hope for--nothing.' I clenched my hands, hoping I earnestly meant what I was thinking, and hopped off the bus.

Our assembly must have been a bit smaller than the year before; I was surprised to find a place in a pew at Mass. We piled our rucksacks in the back and knelt with the keen readiness of soldiers at the Sacrifice. When Mass had been said and the Holy Eucharist distributed, I took a moment to read the Vespers' hymn for the Feast of the Transfiguration:

Quicumque Christum quaeritis, All ye who seek full longingly
Oculos in altum tóllite: For Christ, lift up your eyes on high:

Thank you Marzena!

Illic licébit vísere There may ye see the vision bright,
Signum perénnis glória. Th' eternal Son, in glorious light.

'O Lord!' I whispered, my throat already choaking and my eyes stinging. Gazing up at the icon of the Black Madonna above the altar, I thought, 'Yes. I shall lift up mine eyes to the Bright Mount, and contemplate Him to whom she gestures.'

Leaving the chapel, we were greeted with silver inches from the misty grey dome of heaven. The humidity in the air promised identical weather to that of 6 August, 2010. I am certain all the pilgrims had the same presentiment as the day progressed and that all hoped to find their transported bags drier than themselves at the day's end.

I exchanged greetings with familiar faces, and it was so lovely to reflect that they were known to me. Two children whom I had met from the year before, M. and O. (not at this time wishing to be 'Frodo' and 'Pippin'), seemed delighted that I remembered their names, and I soon found two ready walking companions who did not much mind my unpolished Polish.

Happily, more pilgrims joined us later, and many more walked with us to the outskirts of Warszawa to see us off. The sun shone, and the rain fell in turn. Yet, this time, when we arrived at our destination, the baggage was perfectly dry. It was also a little blessing to be encamped at the same idyllic homestead as last year.

Yet, I was informed that the man owned it had endured many trials, having lost both his wife and one of his children. He was congenial with the pilgrims and generous with his property, and it seemed a pity that I might not offer up a particular Ave for his sake.

Say one up anyway, and it shall be for someone.

Yes, for whomever it was, this pilgrimage would surely be for someone.

On the horizon gleamed a magenta sun whose glory seeped like molten gold along the lines of lavender grey clouds. It would have been lovely if that gentle mist could but have lingered a few hours into our journey. In truth, it was the least it could do after the mischief it had caused in the night. I glanced at the clothes I had washed and left to dry the night before, now thoroughly drenched, and made my decision. 
 
There was nothing clean amongst my clothes, except the deep blue skirt I was wearing and the white top into which I would change along the way. Both of those items would be dirty before the day's end. Furthermore, we would have the day's Mass in Częstochowa, not along the way. Pecuniary issues further helped to settle the question. I would go back to Warsaw that very night, and what I had accomplished in nine days would be undone in a matter of three hours.

Music seeped into the morning air as I listened to our wake-up playlist for the last time. I hardly understood a word of the first song, but I laughed every time. It probably did wonders to squash any sort of grouchiness that may otherwise have arisen from weary pilgrims deprived of coffee.



Tents were being collapsed, and many were donning their white and blue or white and black garb for the entrance to Jasna Góra. Our Lady's icon would likely be wearing the Diamond gown, and she would be beautiful in her queenly attire, though my personal favourite was either the Millenium dress or the Totus Tuus robe. More people were hastening to pack in flurries of white, blue, and black when Piotrek sleepily strolled by in a T-shirt and pair of shorts.

'Not getting dressing yet?'

'Wha'? oh no, no. These people are crazy,' he gestured drowsily, yet demonstratively, towards the pristinely decked out individuals, 'by the time we get there, they will all be sweaty and dirty, they'll look like drunks--' Whereupon Piotrek illustrated his point with characteristic economy and humour by leaning against a fence that turned out not to be very well supported.
Bittersweet gaiety brewed within me as I reflected with pleasure on the past eight days and then on the fact that this ninth was the last. I supposed I would enjoy the first bath I had on returning home, but it did not seem so superior to bathing in a shed with a basin of water for washing one's self. I had missed cooking, but what I had been eating was of so little account on the journey that I could hardly say I pined for the activity. My bed...well that was a thing I looked forward to with relish, though again not every night had been uncomfortable, especially when surrounded with the best company.

It had all been nine days of reality, and Reality Itself is what Catholics worship. The Earth was a thing barren and unyielding until man made it his own with effort; every day was a weary journey, water did not rush from a natural spiggot that man might easily clean himself. A distance of nearly two hundred miles could not be covered by man's natural powers in three hours. Life, away from the inventions of modernity, was in essence more like what we had been taking part in on our odyssey through the plains of Poland--a daily, physical exertion alongside clear-eyed people, with God so close and present that one could feel His warmth through the veil of matter.

With backsides saturated with the heat of the sun, we slowly mounted the hill to St. Pio of Pietrelcina's sanctuary. Alas, it was disheartening to see the church devoted to a holy man of such a traditional bent was a monstrously abstract edifice. When I looked to see how others were reacting, I saw they were all facing away from the church in one direction. With a gawkish stare, I followed their gaze. Then I saw it, and I am sure I must have blanched in spite of my sun-burned visage.

In the distance was the seat of the Queen, the spire of the Bright Mountain. At last, it stood within our view! Eight and a half days of walking, and now we were nearing journey's end. We crossed ourselves and broke out in a joyous Salve Regina.
(thanks Krzysztof! :)

Descending the hill, we made towards our last stop, and all took to the water closets to put on Our Lady's colours. I regretted my infantile grasp of Polish quite passionately as we convened in the open field to hear Father Grzegorz's final address. Many times passing through encampments we could heart priests bantering and chit-chatting on the microphone as they addressed the groups. Though there was no fault in this, it did mean that the cleric was not always saying something one ought to heed.

With our priests it was different. As someone had pointed out to me earlier, every word they said was meant to either inform or instruct. Not a syllable was wasted. Thus, I knew that as he was speaking to us in the glare of the sun, he was not going on about anything trivial or obvious, and I deeply wished that I could understand him. When he finished, we all lined up to have the event commemorated in film.
Now the last six miles (nine and a half kilometres) began. I was asked if I wished to carry a flag. Having but held one on the entire journey, I eagerly accepted. I was presented with the larger standard of Lech's white eagle, and I was to stand on the left of the procession while Our Lady's standard, an indigo field emblazoned with golden fleurs-de-lys, was upheld on the right of it.

Andrzej, a doctor who had lived in New York, was standing next to me and observed with good humour that I was carrying a strictly Polish standard and chivalrously offered to relieve me of it when it grew too heavy. I knew that it would eventually as I tried to balance it upright in the wind, but I purposed to carry it as long as I could. Commencing our march in prayerful song, we made towards Jasna Góra.

As we walked the longest trek of our journey, I took a moment to look meditate on the icon's history. St. Luke had been listening to the Gospel as told by Our Lady. A Greek very likely raised according to the empirical wisdom of Galen and Aristotle, an enemy of Oriental mystery, particularly when it came to the health of man's body, he must have sat with flabbergasted awe before her--the Mother of the Great Healer, He who had cured both flesh and spirit.

The pious doctor would have listened to the soft-spoken, regal woman with zealous docility rather than hurling thoughtless, importunate questions at her. As Simeon had prophesied:

Behold this child is set for the fall, and for the resurrection of many in Israel, and for a sign which shall be contradicted; And thy own soul a sword shall pierce, that, out of many hearts, thoughts may be revealed. (Luke II:34-35)

Her heart had been brutally stabbed, but ours would be exposed. Therefore when she stated each event of the Gospel in her simple way, he would not have pressed her for her thoughts at the time. Allowing her contemplations to remain a mystery, he merely recorded:
But Mary kept all these words, pondering them in her heart. (Luke II: 19)

So it is when one contemplates the icon he painted. Her beautiful eyes are heavily-lidded, as on Juan Diego's miraculous tilma, as in the paintings of the sainted Fra Angelico. Her fair mouth is closed, as she stares out towards us, her right hand gesturing to the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

One of two paintings made by the hand of the Evangelist, this one sojourned from Jerusalem to Constantinope to Bełz to the Pauline monastery in Poland where she now resides. Yet, as venerated as she is by the Polish people, her image was not to have any more peace than she had had on Earth. On her way to Poland, the army carrying her image was attacked by Muslim Tartars. Perhaps it was a random shaft, or a way of showing his disdain for the Divinity of Christ, but one archer left a mark in Our Lady's face. A horizontal scar in the centre of her cheek.

The Easter of 1430, a band of Hussite ruffians, whether for reasons of heresy of simply those of greed, stormed her chapel, stripped her image of the decorative gown adorning it, slashed her beautiful face twice, broke it in three places, and left it in bloodied mud.

Restoration was a gruelling, comprehensive process undertaken in Kraków. The restorers decided to leave the two long slashmarks stretching from her jaw to just under her right eye as a reminder.
Thirty-six years later, the King of Bohemia attacked the Bright Mountain. This convinced the Polish monarchs to begin fortifying the famous Marian shrine. Thus it became a Fortalitium Marianum.

Almost two centuries later, General Muller of the army of the King of Sweden, with a force of 3,000, was standing without the monastery calling upon it to yield. With only 170 soldiers, 20 noblemen, and 70 monks at his disposal, the abbot refused to surrender. Thinking to take the 'henhouse' quite easily, the general found himself exceedingly humiliated when forty days of fighting, resulted in victory for Our Lady and defeat for him. This miraculous success encouraged the entirety of Poland to halt the Swedish deluge. A year later, it was vowed that Our Lady of Częstochowa would be crowned Queen of Poland. With a papal blessing, this coronation took place in 1717 A.D.
A few miles into our trek, I ceded the flag. Even in the midst of my elation, impatience was beginning to burn inside me. As I cheerily waved to the onlookers, I could imagine the horrified expressions that would have met such a procession in my native land.

That moment I tried to see Our Lady as our separated brethren see her, devoid of her universal maternity and queenship. I found the exercise only intensified my devotion to her. If she was not given to us as our Mother, if she was not crowned Queen of Heaven, then imagine the debt the human race owes her! If any of the sacrifices she made had been asked of an ordinary woman, the hardest heart would feel the greatest attachment to such a creature. The sacrifice of a stranger is less expected and not even required, whereas that of a mother is.

In all fairness and with the keenest desire for Christian unity, I can never concede the Protestants any ground concerning Our Lady. This woman was chosen from all time to bear the God-man. The Angelic salutation is the only instance in Scripture were a heavenly emissary praised the recipient in such terms. Where God nods, I kneel.

She carried the burden of Simeon's prophecy, and that sooth-saying priest himself implied the necessity of her pain for the salvation of souls. My heart has been laid bare before God, and so that could be, her Immaculate Heart was pierced with a sword. Contemplating her as she is, merely human, provides one with the justification of glorifying her.


Linking hands to hold our group together, we entered the Gate of Victory then passed through the narrower Gate of Mourning. Weaving through the shrine's lanes, passing the entrance to the grand Basilica, we turned to the right and processed down the centre aisle of the Chapel.

I was weeping when I looked for the fifth time upon her face, seeing it for the first time as I should. I, a weary, dirty child that wanted her mother, yearning to know what she ought to do to please her, and too often blind to that maternal hand gesturing towards the Child on her arm. She was staring at me now, with a beautiful visage that might have belonged to any race on earth, with eyes that might have been swollen by weeping. Clemency is in her face, yet this merciful, tender nature only renders it the more hungry to see souls turn to her Son.

And He looks on us with a gesture of benediction, a face disposed to illuminate and to save. One however cannot gaze into their faces together. If one meets eyes with the image of Christ, hers gazes out into the beyond, into the masses of those who do not yet love Him. If one meets her eyes, she abjures the onlooker to contemplate Him. She that is not is turned perfectly towards Him that Is.

There is one mitigating consolation on contemplating the Passion of the Christ, and that is the presence of His Mother throughout His sorrows. It is our consolation when we fail to live as good Christians, that somewhere in Heaven is a creature that has never displeased God, but loves Him perfectly. That was my greatest token of gratitude as I knelt before that immemorial icon; it remains so as well.

I do not know how long we remained before the image before proceeding to the penance chapel where we had Mass. As I knelt waiting for Mass to begin, I fell asleep in the feverishly warm room. Happily, the beginning of Mass more than roused me from drowsiness and, but for the homily, I could savour all of the Sacrifice. In conclusion to the Vigil Mass of the Assumption was the O prima Virgo prodita:

O prima, Virgo, pródita O Virgin who of all God's work E Conditóris spíritu, From His creating breath came first,
Prædestináta Altíssimi Predestined in thy womb to bear
Gestáre in alvo Fílium; The eternal Son of God most high.
Tu perpes hostis fémina Thou art the woman fore-ordained
Prænuntiáta dæmonis, Victorious o'er man's enemy,
Oppléris una grátia Uniquely filled with heaven's grace, Intamináta orígine. Unblemished in thine origin.
Tu ventre Vitam cóncipis, The life by Adam's sin extinct, Vitámque ab Adam pérditam, That Life thou didst in thee conceive,
Diæ litándæ Víctimæ Clothed with man's flesh and perfected
Carnem minístrans, íntegras. A Host divine for sacrifice.

Merces piáclo débita Death, once the wages owed to sin, Devícta mors te déserit, In its defeat deserteth thee;
Almíque consors Fílii Thou, consort of thy dearest Son,
Ad astra ferris córpore. In body to the stars art raised.

Tanta corúscans glória, Higher, resplendent, glorious, Natúra cuncta extóllitur, Woman most perfect doth ascend: In te vocáta vérticem Our human nature doth in thee Decóris omnis tángere. The peak of every beauty reach.

Ad nos, triúmphans, éxsules, O Queen triumphant, turn thine eyes Regína, verte lúmina, On us exiled from heaven and thee
Cæli ut beátam pátriam, With thee to help us may we reach
Te, consequámur áuspice. The happiness of home in Heaven.

Jesu, tibi sit glória, O Jesus, who wast Vigin-born, Qui natus es de Vírgine, May every glory be to Thee, Cum Patre et almo Spíritu, The Father, and the Spirit so kind,
In sempitérna sæcula. Throughout the ages evermore. Amen. Amen.