Failing yet again to partake in a link up with Fine Linen and Purple.  The weekend’s been crazy, y’all.  Dave went out of el town and into la Steubenville to retrieve his baby bro and yours truly was left here to hang out with the middle schoolers on Friday and the elderly on Saturday and Sunday.  No time for nothin’!  But on the wayyy upside, I was able to hang out with my mom for a very substantial amount of time this weekend, which was such a gift to me, especially on account of yesterday being Mothers’ Day.  So thankful.  Which brings me to today…

I count the past days doubly special.  Why, you ask?  Because yesterday, I was able to celebrate in thanksgiving the life and motherhood of my earthly mama…

Hi, mom! You’re truly the kind of mother God knew I needed.

…and today, the Catholic Church gives us a day to celebrate in thanksgiving the life and motherhood of our Heavenly Mother.

That’s right, kids.  Today is the feast of Our Lady of Fatima.  This day commemorates a series of appearances of Mary, the Mother of God, to three children in the small town of Fatima, Portugal.  The apparitions took place in 1917, culminating in an undeniable solar miracle, and have left the Church with a wealth of hope and conviction that has propelled radical fidelity to Christ into even this century.  You can read more of the story here and, if that peaks your interest, you might snag this book to help you dive even deeper in to the messages of Fatima and what in the world they have to do with us today.

My purpose in this post, however, is not to tell you the story of Fatima, but to let you in a bit on my experience of the place and the Lady.  So, from here on out, I’ll assume that you know the basics of the beautifully grace-filled story of Mary in Fatima.

Let’s lay the foundation for my true-tale right quick.  It’s the fall of 2009, and I’m blest to be living and studying in Austria for the semester.  We, the students of Franciscan University, are given a ten-day long break to travel and do whatever our hearts desire.  I decide, somewhat immediately, that, in the course of those ten days, I want to participate in a mission and visit Lourdes and Fatima (I had previously been to these places when I was in the 8th grade- I took a pilgrimage with my mom- I believe my later conversion had much to do with the graces received there).  I had to go back to those places.  I don’t know why, exactly, I just had to, and I knew it.  So I commit to a mission trip with eleven other students.  We are going to Spain to serve with the Missionaries of Charity (the order started by Bl. Teresa of Calcutta) there for a few days; but first, we are making “pit stops” in Lourdes and Fatima.  What could be better?  Everyone wins!  Perfection.

Alright, so you’re caught up.  Now, the rest of the story…

We knew the trip was going to be a long one.  I mean, taking the train from Austria, to France, to Portugal, then finally to Spain in four days in order to serve for five days is an insane amount of traveling.  Luckily, we were nineteen and still had a bit of invincibility surrounding our self-perceptions.  We were quickly humbled.

Lourdes was up first.  I could dedicate my whole life to telling you about Lourdes and my experience there, but we will save that for another time.  We spent a day and a half there, then hopped back on the train for an overnight ride into Portugal.

When we finally arrived at the train station in Portugal, we were sad excuses for human beings.  We hadn’t showered in I-don’t-even-want-to-remember-how-long, we hadn’t slept because we crammed all twelve of us into a little tiny boxcar to avoid robberies and the drunk Spanish men that joined our little convoy at about 2 a.m. that morning, we were (past) hungry, and to be honest, we had no idea what we were doing.  We didn’t know where we were, or how we were going to get to the actual site of the apparitions.  We obviously were not familiar with the language, and we hadn’t determined exactly how we were going to make it back in time for our departure (did I mention that we got there in the a.m. and had to leave that same p.m.?).  Sorry, mom, kind of hid those details from you then- but we are alive and well today, so still don’t worry ;).

Here’s what we looked like as we exited the train that Sunday morning:

Once we unloaded our belongings, we decided to try to figure out our plan of action.  Being a team of mostly women, we knew the first thing we need to do was to freshen up and put on pretty dresses.  It was Sunday, after all, and we were going to visit Our Lady; thus, our mommas taught us well and we knew we were required to at least reapply deodorant and brush our teeth.

there, that’s better.

After we made ourselves feel better about, well, ourselves, we started our attempts to hail a taxi.  (insert silence.  crickets.  or whatever they have there.)  No cars.  For an hour.  No cars drove by that little train station!  We were discouraged.  We only had a few hours to explore and we had already lost an hour of the day waiting to be transported somewhere, anywhere.

Finally, our fearless mission team leader and one of the men braved the long road ahead and began to walk to find someone.  There was a broom propped up against that building you see in the previous picture, so I swept the sidewalk while we waited, naturally.

Then, the first little miracle of our trip occurred.  Our teammates returned with incredible news: they found a gas station, and the woman there called a taxi to come pick us up- all we had to do was walk to the station!  Alleluia.  When we arrived a short time later, we were received by that same woman with refreshments.  Not only that, but she offered to put our packs (do you see how huge they are?!) into their back room and lock it up for us.  Looking back, I knew then that we were putting ourselves at risk for being robbed, but I knew, at the same time, that nothing would happen and everything would be safe.  Call it naivety; I call it the Holy Spirit.

Our taxi arrived, driven by the nicest Portuguese man I have and ever will meet.  He didn’t speak a lick of English, but he knew precisely where we wanted to go.  We drove through the beautiful country-side of the town, seeing all the cork and olive trees, letting our greasy hair blow in the wind, and chatting about how many amazing things had already happened.

When we arrived to the site of the apparitions, I could have died.  We made it.

We spent the morning in Mass, walking around the grounds, visiting the shrine built there, and having lunch in a small cafe right outside the courts.  But perhaps the best part of the day was our experience of the traditional “walk on the knees”.  What is this?  Well, during the time that Our Lady was appearing to the children of Fatima, the mother of one of the children fell very ill.  In an attempt to aid her near-death mother, the young girl asked Mary to pray that her mother might be healed.  To show her faith and her willingness to sacrifice herself on her mother’s behalf, she promised to move from the road on which she walked to the fields to tend sheep every day, to the tree where Our Lady had been appearing, on her knees.  Now, today, that area is paved in concrete; but back in the day, it was a field covered with rough grass and twigs.  This child performed this act as an act of suffering for someone else’ behalf; namely, her mom.  The girl’s mother was brought back to health because of her petition, and ever since, people have imitated this act of faith and request by retracing the visionaries “steps” from the road to the apparition site.

To put it simply, watching an innumerable amount of people participating in this act of humility and faith was beyond moving.  I watched people pray as they went, crying, laughing.  Each of them carried a petition for divine assistance or a prayer of great thanksgiving, and each was willing to sacrifice their own comfort in order to beg on behalf of another.

Watching the many people go by, I was impressed and moved, but I wasn’t going anywhere.  I was in a dress, my knees had absolutely no protection.  I was hesitant as my friends began their own journey down the path, but then I remembered my grandpa.  My grandfather, who was living at the time, had a major devotion to Our Lady of Fatima.  I never got to ask him what initially began his love for her (insert regret), but I’ve always known it was deep.  He would speak of her frequently, and to this day, my favorite part of my grandparents’ home is their statue of Our Lady at Fatima.  My grandfather came to my mind, and in an instant, I knew that I needed to make this walk.  He would have if he were in Fatima; and he would be disappointed if I had been given the opportunity only to reject it.  So I began.

It took a long time to finally reach the area where Our Lady appeared.  In my heart, I carried an endless amount of petitions and an even greater amount of gratitude on that road.  I remember being in pain during certain parts because little pebbles on the road provided an even rougher surface.  But I didn’t mind it.  Why?  I think because I knew something great would come from this experience.  I had confidence that the Lord would answer the prayers I made during those moments of sacrifice.  Looking back, I can tell you with much certainty and gratitude that He has answered those prayers, a hundredfold, and in ways that I never could have imagined.

We left the site that evening with the same taxi driver that brought us there, and our hearts were full.  We returned to the gas station to find our bags in the same place we left them.  We brought a rosary back for the woman who was so hospitable to us, and she was moved to tears.  The taxi driver even drove us the rest of the way back to the train station, free of charge, and just in time to hop on our ride.  We no longer cared if we ate or slept, we were just happy.  Our hearts were overflowing, and we were ready to serve the poorest of the poor in Spain.  To this day, I remember my time in Fatima with a smile, recognizing all the wonderful ways Our Lord loved us and provided for us that day.  He never fails.

So, to end this already-too-long-post, I wish to extend a happy (belated) Mothers’ Day to all those moms out there, living and deceased, biological and adopted, god and foster, great and grand, those who await a pregnancy in hope, and, of course, to the Mother of us all.  May we celebrate today’s feast day with the same joy that Mary declared in the announcement of her pregnancy, and, with her, let us magnify the Lord.