A Walk In The Dark (Part 3)

I felt that Medjugorje had a serene dignity all it's own. As the week went on I came to realise that this simple little village, miles from 'normal' civilisation and immersed in prayer, was the nearest we were likely to get to a glimpse of heaven on earth. When I got back I described the experience as being 'marinated' in the Holy Spirit.

By about the fourth day of the pilgrimage, I had fallen into a routine of prayer, talks and services, with walks on Apparition Hill to pray the Rosary', or a climb up Cross Mountain to complete the Stations of the Cross. After supper there would normally be a last prayer meeting or a talk. Then Jim Maher, a friend I had made on the pilgrimage, and I would retire to a little bar by our hotel at about 10 o'clock. He would then give me a simple de-brief, over a few beers, of the key hand full of things I should take out of the day's events. Bear in mind that many of the talks were filled with Catholic jargon so they could, on occasion, be a bit impenetrable for a Protestant like me.

On this particular night we had been on a trip that day to hear a talk by Father Jozo Zovko, the original Parish Priest of Medjugorje, a truly spiritual and inspirational man. He had suffered beatings and imprisonment at the hands of the Communist authorities for daring to support the children in their claims to see visions of Our Lady. He now ran a neighbouring parish in addition to giving a series of talks every day to visiting pilgrims. If this wasn't enough he also ran a charity to support war orphans.

Father Jozo cares for over 4,000 children orphaned by the recent civil war!

The manager of the bar was about the only dissatisfied person I met in all my time at Medjugorje and, since my friend Jim and I had visited his bar two or three nights running, we started to talk to each other. A short while later my pilgrimage friend left to go to bed but I was heavily immersed in conversation with the manager so stayed on. Over a couple of drinks with him I felt emboldened enough to enquire as to why he seemed to be unhappy, he claimed he was actually a doctor and had lost all his wealth and property in Sarejevo; the wrong side of the ethnic divide.

Fired up by Father Jozo's inspiring talk, earlier in the day, I was like the proverbial 'rat up a drainpipe'. I told him in no uncertain terms that I knew of someone who would certainly welcome his assistance and tried for the next hour or so to convince him to offer Father Jozo his help, alas without success.

Our pilgrimage leader, John Martin, had decided to spend the night in prayer on Cross Mountain.

He spotted me in the bar and quite rightly made oblique comments about it 'being late and a heavy schedule tomorrow'. On learning of his plans to go to Cross Mountain I asked him to hang on for a short while whilst I finished my drink. He, no doubt thinking that I had drank more than enough already, said he wasn't going to wait, 'Come now if you want to come with me'.

I had always been brought up with the Victorian edict 'Waste not, want not', and this particularly applied to alcoholic drinks as far as I was concerned. I'd paid for the drink so I'd drink it! So off he went into the night.

About half an hour later I left the bar and I decided to go up Cross Mountain but before setting off I decided to go and sit by the beautiful white stone statue of Our Lady outside the parish church of St. James. Apart from a taxi driver asleep across the bench seat of his old Mercedes taxi I appeared to be the only person in the whole of Medjugorje. It was a black moon-free sky, lit only by thousands of twinkling little stars.

There was a breathtaking all pervading peace about the village.

The words of that beautiful Christmas carol, 'O little town of Bethlehem' came to mind and for the very first time in my life I found I was praying to Our Lady for her intercession.

After about twenty minutes in peaceful prayer to Our Lady I had to decide whether to go back to my hotel to sleep or go up Cross Mountain. Common sense dictated that I go to bed, it was well past midnight by then. However, caught up in the fervour of the aftermath of my prayers to Our Lady I decided I still wanted to climb Cross Mountain. So with a deep breath, and best foot forward, I started to walk the mile or so journey to the base of the mountain.

I'd been there once before, a couple of day's earlier as part of a small party, and thought that I knew the way. I picked the right road out of the village and patiently walked alone in the darkness. I'm sure that I didn't pass anyone or for that matter, no one passed me although I have a dim recollection of perhaps two or three cars passing. I got to the T-junction about a mile outside the village and with great confidence turned left.

I walked and walked, then walked and walked some more, until I had to admit to myself that I was lost and had gone the wrong way at the junction. I retraced my steps and after an age I returned to the vicinity of the junction.

At that moment a cock crowed.

My instant reaction was 'How biblical is this!' and I struggled in the darkness to read my watch. It was about ten minutes to four, I had been walking for between three and four hours. Perhaps it was the Lord's way of helping me to work-off any alcohol in my system.

Again I needed to make a decision, should I go back to my hotel and get some much-needed sleep, or should I go up Cross Mountain. I took a deep breath, I'd gone this far, and I'd carry on. It was only months later that I realised that I had been given three opportunities to back out, firstly when I left the bar, secondly after I had prayed at Our Lady's statue and finally just after the cock crowed in the vicinity of the junction. I set off to walk the last few hundred yards to the base of Cross Mountain.