PLACE OF PILGRIMAGE

She was the classic old Czechoslovakian woman with all the stereo-typical appointments, right down to the babushka. But something was amiss. She wasn’t ambling slowly along the incline of the narrow cobblestone road as would be expected. Instead, she was moving quickly back and forth between the drab and musty, soot-covered walls of the apartments that confined the passageway. Her elbows up and her hands framing both sides of her head, she had the unmistakable look of desperation, as if there was a terrible incidence that needed an immediate response of aid from someone. Anyone. When she noticed our approach, she pleaded with us, “Prosim! (Please!) Can you help us? Please!” Her loud, quivering voice had that tone. The unmistakable tone that, when you hear it, you know something is very, very wrong. It meant pain. And anguish, the sort that touched her very soul. Immediately, we responded to her plea, “What do you want? What is wrong?” Of course, none of this was supposed to happen. We were not supposed to accidentally run into somebody who needed our help. We were supposed to just have a nice stroll into the “old section” of Prague and enjoy the sunset over the bridge and the warm August evening, soaking up the history that teems out from every wall of the antiquated city. But this would not be the case, as is typical with all true pilgrimage ventures. What we were about to experience could not possibly have been expected or planned for. Instead, there we stood; after praying for several days that God would continue to lead us, and “Thy will be done,” we were suddenly faced with the reality of what that prayer had in store for each of us.