We, the Coronado Scribes, consist of both professional and amateur writers. We have in common a desire to learn, by sharing our efforts and listening to other writers. We hold pressure-less sessions every Wednesday, at the Coronado Library conference room, starting at 1:30. Often we have guests who wish to just listen. They are welcome, and so are you.
Each week on eCoronado, we feature a different piece of prose or poetry produced by one of our writers. Please feel free to comment or ask questions in the comment section below.
Spring, 1989
My brother, Bill, my youngest brother, called and said that he and wife, Linda, were going to Medjugorje for a week and asked if I could join them. He described Medjugorje as a place of spiritual peace, meditation, and sanctity He needed to be there at this time in his life. I had never heard of the place but without hesitation, I agreed to go with them. It was not because Bill was dying that I said yes. (Bill’s diagnosis of inoperable lymphoma occurred several years earlier). Bill was always part of our lives and connections were old and deep. Bill was an accepting, welcoming, adventurous, amicable, humorous, and loving. I would do anything he asked. Our flight out of JFK was not for a month and I took that occasion to learn what I could about Medjugorje.
I have to take a moment out here before we visit Medjugorje. Attending Catholic schools from elementary to university did little to prevent backsliding; I was far from being a devout Catholic, certainly not at that time. My faith and spiritual gauge had been running on empty for many years could. Lapsed Catholic or Poinsettia Catholic (mass only on Christmas and Easter) would be fair descriptors. Medjugorje prompted a fish- out- of- water feeling.
I met Bill and Linda at JFK’s international terminal. Our charter was quite late and used the time to reacquaint. Bill said that when we reached Medjugorje we would join up with seven other Americans and that all of us would be staying in a mini-hostel proximal to Medjugorje. Our co-pilgrims, as Bill described, were from all over the east coast as far north as Bangor, Maine and far south as Sarasota, Florida. There were two nuns, a priest, several clinical psychologists, and lawyer and New York City firefighter.
We arrived in Dubrovnik and headed for the bus that would take us north to Medjugorje. I anticipated catching up with lost sleep on the three-hour ride. As the bus was taking off, someone stood up and said that it would be a great time to say the rosary. Twelve rosaries later we arrived in semi-darkness of Medjugorje, found our luggage and walked down a pathway to our guesthouse. An early lunch awaited all nine of us. Introductions occurred as we sat around the table. Nothing was planned for that first day so we all decided to go out for a walk and get a sense Medjugorje and as well as each other. It was clear that our “pilgrimage” assembly would be together for much of the stay.
I woke up early, opened up the window to a sunny morning. It was a bucolic setting with milk cows, crazy looking chickens, goats and sheep ranging freely about the yard and barn. I concluded that we were staying at a converted farmhouse. Our breakfast table was again conversant but now with mid-level intimacies. Bill mentioned his diagnosis. He and I shared with the group some humorous growing up “Lavin” memories. The English mass was at 10:00 and headed for St. James in Medjugorje.
Our residence was located on the top of a hill with a pastoral view overlooking Medjagorje nestled in the valley. The music arising from the churches got louder as you made your way down the hill. The tone and the temperament of the village were welcoming. I failed to see anticipated mounds of wheel chairs and crutches. The crowds were large, old and young, figured and disfigured. There were 20 face-to-face confessionals located outside with the language of each confessor hanging on a wooden pole above-nothing anonymous here The English Mass was intense with a powerful choir. A palatable aura draped the church and hard to dismiss.
In the late afternoon, just before diner, Bill and I (and sometimes Linda) would walk up the hill and find comfortable bolder to rest against. We talked, laughed, and cried. Topics ranged from the pain, sin, life. Chicago Cubs, our father and his premature death, lymphoma, mom, what it means to die and to know about it, Mary Kay, the child ade opted three years earlier, pot smoking and why you do not need it here, prayer. These meetings became part of our daily routine. Bill acknowledged that I probably thought Medjegorje was unconvincing but to hang in there just for him. Bill said he would help me relearn some prayers.
During the rest of our stay, our group activities varied from saying the rosary several times a day, visiting religious sites, traveling to The Sacred Heart Cathedral in Sarajevo. We visited the White Mosque located in Visoko (50% of Bosnia are Moslems and in there years this region will be ransacked and the seat of sectarian genocide), we all would visit priests and pray and just walk and talk. However, it was what happened after our diners, which made this trip extraordinary.
Our hosts would feed us for diner with excellent “Bosniaish” meals. The wine made the difference. Group members began to share individual experiences but as the evening progressed expressions became more intense. We laughed loud together and cried hard together. Each would address why they came to Medjegorje. Healing became the most common rationale; but it was psychological healing. Bill was the only one in our group who knew he was going to die. Here you had a priest, nuns, and psychologists opening up like they never had. The wine would keep coming and the tears kept running. Each hour we stopped and held hands to pray for Bill. It was like that until 2:00 AM each night. You can only imagine how close we became.
Our group departed Medjegorje and headed for Dubrovnik. We toured this historic town and visited churches. We had our last meal together at a quaint Dubrovnik restaurant and of course, we talked about how we would miss one another and drank wine. The flight home was indescribable.
When we arrived at the airport, our group of nine merged to three hundred Medjegorian pilgrims now heading home to the US. The charter flight was late. Apparently, it was replaced because of engine failure. Ten hours later, we departed on a French charter with a French crew. This crowd was aglow almost an aura of merriment. The standard protocol for passenger conduct was aborted. It all started in the back of the plane when a small group began singing and moments later, all the passages began singing. Songs from the fifties, holy songs, holiday songs filled the air. It was surreal. The guitars came out. Folks were painting pictures of Elvis but mostly Jesus and Mary. Poems were being written, as were stories and then shared by standing up and reading. Did someone say safety belts? Beer and wine were free. I was sitting next to Bill and he was in pain. He had run out of his fentanyl Cancer pain meds. He asked the attendant if she could assist him. She asked for the name of the meds. Next, you heard the pilot , over the loud speaker, in a strong French accent, utter “does anyone fentanyl tablets?” Several minutes later, the flight attendant comes over with a hat full of those meds. I thought that unusual for a flight of pilgrims. Finally, nearing JFK, several flight attendants laid down on the floor, flat on their backs, and began praying in French. (A UTube moment for sure 20 years hence).
Upon arriving at JFK, both Bill’s flight to Seattle and mine to Rochester were boarding and we had move in haste. Bill thanked me for being there with him. We hugged, hugged hard. That was the last time I would see Bill; he died five months later. Three members of our Medjagorje crowd made it to the funeral.
