The morning after Palm Sunday a band of 10 pilgrims set off from Loyola Hall to Duckington, the starting point of a four-day walk which was to bring us back to the house in time for Maundy Thursday services. As we tightened the laces of our boots and zipped up our jackets, none of us imagined just what laid in store.
Our constant companion was an 8-foot long heavy wooden cross which was a challenge to those of us who feel we can do everything on our own. It didn’t take long before we learned to team up with those of similar height to even the weight. We figured out ways of synchronising our walking pace to carry it up hills. We got the hang of negotiating stiles, gates and ditches. Slowly, we became a community. And by the end of the walk, we felt like companions guarding the most precious symbol of our faith.
Carrying a cross for 47 miles through muddy fields, country lanes and suburban streets may seem a fitting start for Holy Week. For us, walking under that cross – which quickly became our cross – gave us much more than that. Its weight resting on our shoulders quietly, yet unequivocally, became a source of strength, calm and consolation. It moved us in ways that would be too profound for us to articulate for some time. It would seem that the act of carrying a simple cross put us in touch with some of the most tender parts of ourselves.
There is something unusual about approaching the solemnities of the Triduum through a physical experience. Most people, ourselves included, would try to pray or reflect more often, or to give something up for Lent, naturally focusing on our spirits’ readiness for the Church’s most important weekend of the year. Unlike most, we found ourselves feeling the nearness of the Passion in our bodies, in the tightness on our shoulders, the soreness of our legs, the blisters on our feet. Perhaps this year we were invited to reach the upper room by offering our spiritual selves and our prayerful minds, along with the tiredness and the pain of our bodies.
Each of us experienced this invitation in a different, often private and profound, way. But this invitation – maybe to delight in the creative joy of Easter – revealed itself in those around us too. It was present in the steadfast kindness of our companions, like when they noticed our moments of weariness under the cross and gently relieved us. It came alive in the chats that unfolded personal, heart-felt stories, which showed people’s deep yearning for God. It was extraordinarily evident in the overwhelming hospitality that we found in churches along the way: the hot meals, the refreshing showers in parishioners’ homes, the carpeted halls where we slept. And it restored us each time we found a smiling Loyola Hall team member at a rest stop, waiting for us with hot tea, sweets and a comforting “well-done”.
There were eight nationalities among ten pilgrims, and many more contrasts. Yet we effortlessly learned to trust and find goodness and joy in one another. As we entered through the gates of Loyola Hall on Maundy Thursday, our hearts were filled with a rare emotion. Perhaps it was the realisation that we had been walking with the Lord for four days and had, in a tiny way, helped him carry his cross, just as he helps us carry ours every moment of our lives. And so maybe we too were about to be part of the transformative miracle of the resurrection.
Vron Smith
