An Impromptu Pilgrimage

I recently returned from my Iowa Christmas vacation to visit family and friends.  After one and one-third days in Des Moines, I took my travel agent/hostess Tonia to the airport and then decided, being on the south side of the city, to take I-35 down to Highway 34 and straight west into Red Oak.

I didn't get very far along the interstate before I spotted a brown road sign that read "John Wayne Birthplace."  Being my father's son and a red-blooded American, and since I had no timetable on this particular Saturday morning, I decided to make the little side trip.  It became an all day tour of the Iowa countryside.

I left the interstate at County Road G14, several miles north of Highway 92 which offers a direct route to Winterset.  Doing this presented a pleasant surprise: coming down the off-ramp I saw another sign directing torward "St. Patrick's Church."  I thought to myself, St. Patrick's:  didn't John Paul stop there?  So I made the second impulse decision in as many minutes and turned down the gravel road.

St. Patrick's at the Irish Settlement is a little white church planted amid farm fields nearly 150 years ago.  It was locked when I arrived.  I could only see through the windows into the small narthex, where plaques and a bust of Ven. John Paul II commemorate the great pope's October 4, 1979 visit. 

Behind the church a short stroll, gravestones rose out of snow drifts.  There too is a native limestone altar and site marker of the original church.  I trudged among the plots, among beautiful old headstones mottled by 150 years of Iowa weather, praying for the people whose graves I passed.  What a peaceful place to await the Lord's return.

Though I was the only living person there, John Paul's 1979 reflections on rural life and the Gospel still seemed to be captured in that serene monochromatic December morning.

From there I returned to the county road and zigzagged through fields, hills and bluffs toward Winterset.  A couple miles from town I was sidetracked by yet another road sign.  It was a small brown sign reading "Hogback Covered Bridge," with an arrow pointing down a side road.  That's when I first realized I was in Madison County.  So, having never seen any of the famed covered bridges, I made the quick right turn.

Most of the covered bridges are tucked away on gravel back roads.  The road to Hogback (left) dips down through dense trees and scattered homes to the North River valley.

Nineteen bridges were built throughout the late 1800s.  The trusses were covered with sides and a roof in order to protect the expensive wide flooring planks from the elements.

Of the six remained bridges, half (coincidently, the three I saw) remain in their original locations.  All six had been renovated during the 1990s.  One--Cedar Bridge--had been destroyed by arson in 2002 and rebuilt two years later using authentic material and building methods.  All of them are on the National Register of Historic Places and open to foot traffic only.

Before leaving Madison County I also wound my way through the countryside to see Holliwell and Roseman Bridges.  Holliwell (above right) is the longest, and Roseman (left) is the most "famous," due to its prominence in both the book and movie The Bridges of Madison County (neither of which, for the record, have I read nor seen).  Roseman is also said to be haunted, but I can't speak to that either.

After leaving Hogback I finally reached my intended destination.  Winterset is a quaint little Iowa town, the kind you think of when you imagine America's small towns.  It is slightly smaller than Red Oak, with an inviting and lively town square.  Two-story store fronts with the traditional "downtown" architecture surround the limestone county courthouse.

The John Wayne Birthplace is two blocks south of the square.

John Wayne was born Marion Robert Morrison in 1907.  The thirteen-pound baby was delivered by the town's female doctor (a rarity for the time) in this four-bedroom house.  His family lived in Winterset for three years before moving to Earlham, where Wayne's father, Clyde opened his own pharmacy.  Four years later, the family left Iowa for sunny California, and the rest is history.

The house is decorated with period furnishings and includes a multitude of film memorabilia--props and costumes (even the eyepatch from True Grit)--photographs, and the original birth announcement from the town paper.  Next door is a small gift shop.

This little excursion was a chance to see unseen parts of the state I've left behind, to ground it as a distinct place with history.  And since I happened across both the birthplace of a deathbed Catholic and the church grounds hallowed by a future saint, it was also something of an impromptu pilgrimage.

At the Window of the Father’s House

Today marks the first anniversary of the death of Pope John Paul. Last night CNN aired an excellent two-hour special which will reair tonight that reflects upon those days in April when the world's eyes were fixed on Rome.

Viewing the images and reports again stirred my emotions and has moved me to share my own experience of those events both half a world away and at the same time deeply close to my heart.

My story begins the Wednesday of Holy Week. I spent time that evening in adoration before the Blessed Sacrament, pouring over Scripture to connect to each Station of the Cross on Good Friday.

I was particularly struck by the Eighth Station and Jesus' words to the women of Jerusalem in Luke's Gospel: "Do not weep for me." On the way to His death, the Lord knew that tears of sorrow betrayed the hope of His coming Resurrection.

The Triduum and Easter Sunday were beautiful. April 1, Easter Friday, I was able to reflect upon my experience of preparing the Stations of the Cross with my spiritual director, how I encountered the Suffering Christ through this devotion and Scripture.

It was only after my meeting that I learned that the Holy Father was gravely ill. With time to spare before class, I went to a computer lab to read the latest internet reports, which told of John Paul praying the Stations of the Cross as he lay on his death bed.

I kept vigil in front of the television that afternoon, though I desperately yearned to be with my brothers and sisters in that crowded piazza below his window. I slept on the couch that night, waiting. But when I woke, there was little new information, other than a few words the Holy Father had reportedly spoken: "I have looked for you; now you have come to me. And I thank you"--and the words that took my breath away--"Do not cry for me; let us pray together." He repeated the words of the Savior that had touched me during the previous week.

But I couldn't heed those words. When the announcement of his death came, I wept. It was a response I imagine that I will only experience again when my own father dies.

It was only later on, when I learned that the Holy Father did much of his work in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament, that I fully understood the weight of what had happened to me. God had connected me to a man whom I'd never met through prayer--specifically the Way of the Cross--to show me the bond of His Church as the Body of Christ and the power of Love to span time, space, and even death.

It's a simple story, and I'm sure there are stories far more powerful than this. It was by no means anything miraculous, but neither was it merely coincidental. But this is how our God works, in the whispered wind of simplicity, and we usually fail to see its immense and beautiful might until it has swept past us.

There are other little details outside of this story that connect me to John Paul, and so my mind turns often to my spiritual father. I pray for him on this first anniversary of his death, and I pray that the Church will recognize him as a great saint, who as our new Pope Benedict said, blesses us from the window of the Father's house.

More media coverage (in which I am not featured):

The Courier

KWWL

Did you see me on the TV last night?

I went to Friend to Friend yesterday afternoon, and KWWL was there doing a story about pope merchandise flying off the shelf. My purpose for going was actually to pick up a book on Mormons that Dee had ordered for me, but I was interviewed anyway.

St. Stephen's is having a memorial Mass for John Paul tomorrow at 4:30pm, and then we're watching the funeral live from Rome at 3:00am Friday morning.

Then I'm helping with a high school retreat at Columbus later in the morning Friday and also supposed to participate in the UNI Relay for Life that night.

So after I recover from the next few days, I'll post something more substantial about the Holy Father.

Let us mourn the death of our Holy Father, John Paul, whom the Blessed Mother has received into her arms with the same tender love she showed her own crucified Son.

Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord. And may perpetual light shine upon him.

The Holy Father is dying.

He knows it himself. He has prayed the Stations of the Cross and the third hour of the Divine Office, both of which focus on the final journey and death of Christ.

May his final painful journey take him to the Cross of Calvary, and when he bows his head and it is finished, may he be welcomed by Christ into the Kingdom as His true and faithful servant. As we celebrate this Octave of Easter, may John Paul share in the glory of his Master's Resurrection.

I didn't fall asleep until sometime past 4:00 this morning. Kept rolling around with a lot of crap on my mind--JPII, Antioch, stuff at work.

Keep the Holy Father Pope John Paul II in your prayers. He is the greatest living witness to Jesus Christ, and the world still needs his guidance and example. May he make a full recovery, if God's wills it.

And keep praying for me, too.