An Easter Journey

I’m going to tell the story of a journey — involving river roads, ghosts and the many smiles of an infant  granddaughter — that we took over Easter weekend. It’s a story of small insights and the chance to take some sacred time with those we love.

Inspiring me to tell this story is an article, published elsewhere in this week’s CRC News, about a new video series that focuses on people telling stories of how Our Journey 2020, the Christian Reformed Church in North America’s ministry plan, is touching and shaping their lives, particularly through the resources it provides.

One of those key resources is a Faith Formation Ministries toolkit that focuses on the value of churches’ and members’ telling their stories.

So here we go.

Going West

As others were preparing to mark the somber time of Good Friday, my wife, Mary, and I rode west from Michigan along Interstate-94 toward Chicago. Billboards advertising personal injury lawyers, car dealerships, surgical procedures, and radio stations flashed by. Somewhere I saw a sign showing Christ on the cross. Beams of light fell on him.

By late afternoon, we had arrived in La Crosse, Wis., a town of about 51,000 on the Mississippi. Though we missed attending services, this was truly a good Friday for us, being able to experience our granddaughter’s energetic and infectious joy.

Her name is Charlie (short for Charlotte), her mom is Sarah, and her dad is Tom. They live in Minnesota and met us at a downtown hotel. For two days, this little 11-month-old enraptured us with smiles, outbursts of sound that weren’t quite yet words, and just being the central attraction, as it should be in families — especially on an Easter weekend.

Seeing the Sites

It was a pleasant weekend. On Saturday we stopped by a museum that offered information on what is called the Great River Road, which travels along the Mississippi Valley on a 3,000-mile route through 10 states. This year the road, which runs through La Crosse, is celebrating its 80th anniversary.

From the museum, we drove up to Grandad Bluff, a mesa about 600 feet high that overlooks the surrounding landscape, giving views of Wisconsin, Iowa, and Minnesota.

Wind whipped across the bluff, and Charlie, bundled up against the weather, seemed to enjoy herself immensely. Later we had dinner at a local restaurant. We sat near the door, and Charlie spent most of the time turned around in her highchair, greeting people coming and going with smiles and waves.

Before heading to bed, we took Charlie to the pool, where she splashed in the arms of Sarah, Tom, and Mary. I looked on, marveling at this young life and the joy she brings us.

Easter: A New Day

The next morning was Easter. We ate breakfast in the hotel dining room. But then it was time to go. After some picture-taking, we said goodbye, and Charlie and her parents headed back to Minneapolis while we began traveling south on the Great River Road.

Mary had wanted to attend a service of some sort the night before. It was important to her to take time for worship at Easter, but I was tired.

Along the road, we discovered the Our Lady of Guadalupe Shrine, a place of pilgrimage amid the craggy cliffs and hills a few miles outside La Crosse, and my wife suggested we visit.

The shrine, dedicated in 2008 and covering 100 acres, commemorates a time in the 16th century when Mary, the mother of Christ, is said to have appeared to a peasant named Juan Diego on a hill outside Mexico City. The local diocese in La Crosse wanted a place of pilgrimage dedicated to that event, so upon approval by the Holy See in Rome, the shrine was developed.

As we walked the half-mile up a winding path to the shrine, I felt a little guilty for skipping services the night before. But then as we approached the buildings, we found there was a large church there, operated by the Franciscan Friars Immaculate. Entering, we were surprised to find an Easter Mass going on.

We slipped into a rear pew and listened to rich voices of friars in the choir loft singing prayers, praises, and responses. Stained-glass windows lined the aisles, and a radiant image of Our Lady of Guadalupe shone high above the altar. Incense filled the air.

We had just missed the homily, which apparently had been about the importance of being fools for Christ on this Easter which also happened to be April Fools’ Day.

We listened as the priest moved into the part of the Mass in which he repeated a centuries-old story about a central aspect of the Christian faith: How Jesus on the night before he died met with his disciples for the Last Supper, took bread, broke it, gave it to his disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is my body which is given for you; do this to remember me. . . .”

Years ago, my wife and I frequently attended Catholic services. Both of us had grown up in Catholic communities in different parts of Michigan, and I had even served as an altarboy. So this was a welcome opportunity for us to mark Easter in a way that reminded us of our past.

Hearing a Ghost Story

Journeying down the Great River Road again, we drove alongside the river, talking about Mark Twain and his classic The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and about Ulysses S. Grant, who grew up in a town along the Mississippi. Even in the blustery, chilly weather, we stopped here and there in the hilly countryside.

We rode until nearly nightfall, gazing at scattered farms and rolling through small river towns, all of which no doubt have stories of their own to tell.

The next morning we heard one of those stories from Mike, the innkeeper where we had stayed the night in Dubuque, Iowa. He told us of A. Augustin Cooper, a rugged businessman who built a fortune in Dubuque by making wagons in the late 19th century for people heading west.

This is the story, said Mike, of how Cooper’s beloved daughter, Elizabeth, left town and married Dan Sullivan, an Irishman. When she brought him back to live in the mansion that is now the inn where we stayed, her father exploded in a rage. As an Englishman, he hated the Irish.

The father-in-law harped constantly at Dan Sullivan and wouldn’t let up. Finally, the Irishman grew so despairing that he walked to the nearby train depot and threw himself in front of a train. After his death, his distraught wife left town with their daughter.

Out of this series of events, Mike told us, arose ghosts that haunted the inn. These were the souls of unforgiving people, he said, members of a family trapped by a sad history. We didn’t encounter any ghosts, but we found the story compelling — and a little disturbing.

A Journey Together

For a few more hours we continued on our meditative, early spring drive along the river that for many years marked the western edge of our nation. Except for some fishermen, there weren’t any boats on the slow-moving water that morning.

Nearing the bridge where we would turn off and start the journey home, Mary and I talked a little of the many trips we have taken over the years and our hope for many more trips to come.

Soon we crossed the Route 136 bridge and entered the town of Fulton, Ill. Almost immediately I spotted Fulton’s First Christian Reformed Church, which traces its history back to 1856 when a Dutch immigrant visited and then invited his friends to settle in the area.

We had left Catholic country and were returning to the world in which I work and spend most of my days. It’s a world that has a lot to offer, including Our Journey 2020, which helps to remind us of the value of stories — stories of new babies, memories of worship and how God works in our lives, relationships between families, and even tales of ghosts haunting an inn in an old river town.

Whatever they are, stories such as these can help shape us and lift us up when we take the time to pay attention to see just how the Spirit is at work and where it is taking us, even in small ways, in our lives. Stories such as these can remind us, among other things, how God's grace, goodness and subtle surprizes are always there in the daily journeys we find ourselves on.