God is really good, and the Blessed Mother really loves us.
At six-thirty, as he promised, Chris knocked on our door, leaned his head in, and said, "Good morning, ladies, time to get up now!" It was cheery as all get out and we were bewildered by how nice he was. We went down for breakfast and he said, "It is Women's Day in Poland. I am happy to be cooking for you." I'm not sure when our pilgrimage became a pampered resort experience, but we put it up to the Blessed Mother. Chris walked us to Marta's house, where we were given boxes of donuts and cookies to take with us. Marta pointed us to the train station and we were off to Warsaw.
Our first sight of the day was the Parish of Jerzy Popielusko. We saw the church which, while not the most beautiful of churches, was spangled with Polish patriotic flags and banners. A problem arose when we tried to visit the museum and found no one who spoke English to speak to us about Jerzy (whom I've never heard of before). From nowhere (well, from the rectory) a priest appeared, greeted us with, "Hello," and told us he'd call a nun to give us an English tour. He then took us into the rectory and gave us tea, coffee, croissants, and relics of Jerzy P. He was so kind, and seemed so happy to have us (though not as happy as we were to see him). The nun arrived awhile later and brought us on the tour.
Jerzy Popielusko was an amazing person... I'll run through his story briefly, as well as I can. He was a Polish priest in Warsaw during the Communist Occupation, and a powerful but peaceful supporter of the Solidarity movement (think Polish Catholic Ghandi except without deals with Nazi's). He was martyred in 1989 by the secret police, and his mother is equally worthy of sainthood. When they found his body in the river, they brought it to her, and she told them that her son gave his life to God's Church, so she gives his body. He's buried in the church courtyard where he served. I cried. I cried all of the tears.
...Sorry.
We ventured from Jerzy's parish to the central station, where we once again could not find our platform or any English speakers. We asked a mousy, moustached man with missing fingers where we had to go, and though he spoke next to no English he understood we were trying to get to Niepokalanow and told us to follow him. He bought our tickets, took us to our platform, then came back to find us to tell us our train was coming. He dropped his cigarette to help us. The hospitality is unending.
Niepokalanow, the community that Maximillian Kolbe started, was entirely empty and eerie to boot. We found one brother who also spoke no English, but called a woman to give us an English tour. She brought us to Kolbe's room, though it is usually locked, but when we asked to see the Chapel we were told it was locked and no one was around who could open it. On our way to see the Blessed Mother statue placed there by Kolbe, Mary B. and I passed the Chapel and found it unlocked. We rounded up the others and said a rosary in thanks for all the small miracles we'd experienced and the blessings to come. When we finished we raced to the train station, hurriedly purchased our tickets, and threw the money at the cashier as the train quickly approached. By yet another miracle we dove to our seats and headed back to Warsaw. Already I felt like we were returning home. I adopted quickly; Poland, and its saints, adopted us as well. I'm sure of it.
The country side was flat and already blanketed by the snow that started to fall when we were in the Chapel. Marta's daughter, who had just returned from two weeks in Sicily that morning, met us at the train station. She brought us to Mass in the Old Town, then we returned to Marta's for a quick dinner. On a Friday night (though I suppose it is Lent) the church was so packed. It's stunning. Mass is not seen as a due or obligation alone, but an integral, natural, and celebrated part of life- a very happy obligation.
Marta told us that one of John Paul II's closest friends, a woman named Wanda (or Dushka) was giving a talk inspired by JPII's theology of the body that night (I cannot believe it was earlier tonight, the day has been so full) and arranged that our hosts drive us. After supper Marta, Corinne, and several of our group went to exchange our Euro to zlotti (I cannot believe we've been operating on charity and Corinne's leftover zlotti from last semester), a small group stayed behind waiting for our rides, drinking tea with Mariska. She is younger than we are, speaks three languages, and is more composed than any high school student I've met. It was a slow, snowy drive to the church where Wanda was speaking. We met up with Blaise again, which was another stroke of grace because Marta and the others were running late and we had no translators. He knew a friend in the audience who was willing and able to translate for us and (Matthew, was his name) didn't hesitate to jump in and help us- not before apologizing for his English, that is. When Marta did show up, he continued to translate until Blaise explained that Marta was an English professor and he was so embarrassed. I wonder if the people we've met realize how great they are and the great things they do.
Wanda/Duska is 92 years old, survived WWII, imprisonment, and cancer, and was a great friend of John Paul II. She talked about the beauty and function of marriage, sex, chastity, the love between man and woman, and how it is empty without God. She drew greatly from The Theology of the Body. She was harsh, funny, tender, and sharp all at once, and the same way when we got to speak with her (Marta translating) at the end of her talk. She said she hoped we gained something from her talk, kindly promising to pray for us, then told us to leave, just like that.
We split up again, back to our host family houses. Ava told us all about her friendship with Marta, her husband who died, personal, sad, and yet lighthearted details, then made us tea and went to bed. Of course, she left us with a plate of cookies.
Only now do I realize that the entire time we were having tea, she was wearing a Santa Hat.
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