But I was determined to keep up as we walked along a two-lane road. I saw farmland right and left studded with a few farmhouses with metal roofs to withstand the wind that scoured over the northern part of the state. Trees around the houses nodded east, as if the west wind had pushed them for many years.
Off to the west, I could see a forest on the flat land, with the sunlight slanting through it. I squinted at it as Alex spread open a map. It flapped against his jacket, tearing at the corners as he swore at it.
There.as He pointed to the woods. as Thatas's where weas're going.
I lifted my eyebrows and shuddered instinctively. as Itas's dark there.
Itas'll be safe,as he promised.
I wrapped my arms around my elbows and followed him.
We turned west and walked down a broad paved lane bounded with chains painted white between concrete stanchions. It was surrounded on both sides by what had once been a manicured lawn. At the end of the lane, a white figure stood.
It was a statue of a woman in a veil with her arms outstretched. It took me a moment to realize who she was. Plain people didnas't believe in graven images, but I knew her instinctively to be Mary, mother of Jesus. At the base of the statue was a sign that read WELCOME TO THE SHRINE OF OUR LADY OF PEACE. Frostbitten zinnias wilted in a flower bed at her feet.
What is this place?as I asked.
Itas's a Marian shrine,as Alex said. as Itas's a Roman Catholic pilgrimage destination. If any place is still holy, this is it.
I was here as a little girl,as Ginger said. as I remember. My grandmother took me. There are all these little grottoes in the woods and a church.
If itas's sacred,as I said, blowing out my breath and staring up into Maryas's unseeing eyes, as we should be safe.
Cas'mon,as Alex said. as Weas're burning daylight.
We made our way down leaf-strewn bricked paths that meandered around bare trees. Tied to the trees were brightly painted sculptures.
Who are these?as I asked.
Saints,as Ginger said. as This one is Saint Francis, patron saint of animals.as She pointed to a figure holding a lamb, then another figure of a robed man holding a baby. as And Saint Joseph.
We didnas't have saints in the Amish religion.as I stared up at the robed man holding the baby. He was bearded, like an Amish man, and with the expression of tenderness on his face he reminded me of my father. I had heard of saints before, but wasnas't sure I fully grasped the concept. as I know that theyas're holy people.
Right. Theyas're special people who lived fully as˜in Christ,as'as Ginger said.
How is that different from being full of Christ, like Pastor Gene said?
Saints usually lived a long time before. And accomplished huge miracles. Like this one, Saint Joan.as She pointed to a figure of a young woman in armor. Paint had flaked away from her face, and squirrels had stored nuts in the bottom ledge of her shrine.
What did she do?
God spoke to her. He told her to lead an army to victory in the Hundred Yearsas' War. And she did.
I looked at the figure. She didnas't seem very big, or very powerful. Plain people didnas't believe in military serviceas"we were pacifists. I couldnas't imagine leading an army. And I couldnas't imagine God speaking to me.
Remember that she was also burned at the stake for heresy,as Alex chimed in.
She was a pawn for people in power,as Ginger said. as A young girl trying to do as she thought best, as she believed God told her. And she was canonized for it, made a saint. Sheas's one of the patron saints of France. Also of women and captives.
I donas't understand . . .as I struggled to articulate what I felt. as I donas't understand putting a mortal person on such a pedestal. Literally.
Saints are thought to be intercessionaries with God. Roman Catholics pray to them, as well as to God and Jesus. Itas's just another way of connecting to the divine.
I frowned. I wasnas't sure how I felt about praying to ordinary men and women, even if Christ moved through them and performed miracles with their mortal hands. But the Holy Spirit seemed to move in mysterious ways.
We walked down the path, farther into the woods draining of light. I saw a fountain, overhung with ivy and backed by a rock wall. The water in it was still and green. A figure of a womanas"another iteration of the Virgin Mary, I assumedas"was kneeling before it with her hands clasped in prayer. Behind the wall I could see a rack of burned-out candles in glass containers. Leaves had blown into the doorway.
Whatas's this?
Our Lady of Lourdes. A grotto,as Ginger explained. as Saint Bernadette of Lourdes saw an apparition of Mary. Mary told her to dig, and a spring with healing powers was revealed. Some believed in its powers. Some didnas't. Thatas's the thing about miracles. Theyas're open to interpretation.
I thought Ias'd experienced healing water at Pastor Geneas's creek, but I wasnas't sure. As more time passed, I wasnas't sure if that was the Lord or if it was just luck. Time was seeming to cloud the miracle Ias'd felt. I stared into the green water. as This is the spring?
No. The real oneas's in Lourdes, a town in France. This is a replica.
Itas's pretty,as I said. But also somehow forlorn in its abandonment.
We continued walking along the bricked paths. Moss had begun to grow over the bricks, obliterating names of people whoas'd apparently made donations of money to the shrine.
Why does the path circle this way? Arenas't we going back where we came from?as I asked. I was unused to the idea of Ginger being a spiritual guide. But this seemed to be an area of thought that she knew from her childhood. She occasionally stopped to look at sculptures, her hand pressed to her lips, lost in reverie. It was beautiful to see her in this way, touched by memory and faith.
A lot of religions believe in the idea of labyrinths for meditation. While the feet are kept busy, the presence of God is felt.
I smiled. That I could understand. Plain people believed that God emerged through hard work and performance of our daily duties.
The sun dipped below the horizon. I could see, sharp against the violet sky, an evening star burning. And before it, the cross atop a church spire at the end of the brick path, a quarter-mile distant.
Thatas's the chapel,as Ginger said. It was good to see her smile again.
The moonlight illuminated a stone mound to my rightas"it reminded me of the Indian mound weas'd stayed at days before. A placard identified it as the Grotto of Our Lady of Fatima.