My Medjugorje Story in Pre-War Yugoslavia

  It was the central countryside of Yugoslavia in 1988.  Madjugorje is a small town only 40 minutes away from the city of Mostar.  I had heard so much about it from all of the pilgrims on my flight over to Yugoslavia.  In the 1960s, six children saw the Virgin Mary appear before them on the hillside with a message of peace.  She still appears to them with further instructions for bringing peace to the world.  The pilgrims talked incessantly about the miracles to be seen there.  The sun supposedly spun in circles there.  However, their constant chatter about strange sights made it sound ridiculous rather than spiritual.

It was a last minute decision of mine to go and since I was in Mostar, I decided to see this miracle place.  The bus from Mostar took a winding path through the limestone terrain that defined Yugoslavia.  From the bus stop in town, I walked the long dusty, unpaved road that led to the church and spiritual center near the hills.  Both sides of the road were lined with the tents of the suppliers of souvenirs and sacred objects.  To see so many of them gave the impression of the entrance to a carnival rather than a holy place.

The church was the focus for all points spiritual.  It was a refreshing structure at the end of the primitive path of hawkers.  Yet its high-tech map of key locations for spiritual contact was reminiscent of those found at historic sites and amusement centers.  Across the street were the early signs of transforming Mary’s Holy Place into a Pilgrim’s Pizzeria and Hotel and all around tourists’ Mecca.  Even an agnostic could feel something disturbing about the turn of affairs.

I stayed for the hour long sermon on the significance of Madjugorje.  At that point, the church was still waiting for the site to be legitimated by the religious powers on Earth.  At the end, the latest message from Mary was given.  Even without the headache I had by then, all I recall was a general call for peace in the world.  I grant that it was and still is very important.  But I wonder now if Mary was trying to warn of the conflict to come in that region of the world.

At any rate, I decided to follow the map's direction and head for the Hill of Apparitions.  I thought with all the pilgrims from various parts of the globe that I would be in large company.  I saw a bus or two pass me on the way.  It was a long walk but I needed to save money.  

It was lovely and peaceful and I got to see village life on my walk to the hill.  The houses were small and simple with nice gardens, flowers, and a few goats.  The people were oblivious to the hubbub which streamed past them everyday.  I would have liked more time here in the quiet -- the real beauty of the place.

The road took its own way around to the hill.  Towards the end which lead to the base, a few shops clustered to offer last minute souvenirs and holiness before the real climb began.  The hill was left to the truly hardy and sure of foot.  It was covered with bushes and small trees.  I came across an old woman shepherding her sheep through the brush.  She quietly allowed me to photograph her in her patterned dress, apron, scarf, and worn shoes.

I became a pilgrim for the day.  Walking was a bit treacherous for the less agile. The limestone path stabbed and tested my shoes and resolve.  I was surprised to find no other pilgrims on the path to the hill.  I didn't know where they had disappeared to.  When I arrived at the sacred spot, there were two other women quietly waiting.  We were spread about the area to be with our own thoughts and spirituality.  We sat upon the Hill of Apparitions overlooking the green and hilly landscape. The information provided at the church was that the apparitions were to come at 6:40 p.m.  It had sounded like a program schedule and I wondered if Mary had a watch to time her appearance.

There were rocks, rocks, all around.  Among the rocks were letters and cards shoved in crevices.  On a rock to my right, in memory of my long dead father I wrote “Pa, I love you!  - Candy.”  It seemed appropriate among the other remembrances -- writings, crosses, beads, handkerchiefs, candles, flowers, and even shoes -- left by other pilgrims.  On another rock, I scratched in the name of a very Catholic friend.

It was not totally silent up there.  From below came moos, engine sounds, and bells.  The two other humans had their own sounds as they prayed.  At 6:40 p.m. there were no apparitions other than the lives we live.  The sun did not go in circles.  But, of course, I could not look straight into it -- that must have been the problem.  I'm not sure what it would have proven anyway.

It seemed at the time from the hill that there was peace in the world.  The sunset was a miracle that occurred on a daily basis.  The sun spread a comforting glow across the beautiful land.  Now I there is a war tearing through the region.  It is not the sun that spins in circles but bombs and artillery shells.

The church bell tolled for 7 o’clock mass.  It was getting dark and the climb down was long.  The three pilgrims quietly gathered up our experiences and disappeared across the landscape.