Praying the Steps

Today is Good Friday. Our local news carried a story about Catholics 'Praying the Steps' at the Holy Cross Immaculata church in Mount Adams. There are 84 steps leading up to the church, and on Good Friday, Catholics from around the area climb the stairs, saying the Rosary as they go. To me, it seems to be a beautiful tradition. I know I couldn't handle the 84 steps. But it strikes at the heart of my spirituality.

I was raised Catholic. I still consider myself to be Catholic, I just don't practice. I won't get into all the reasons. Primarily I feel that my Christianity is not defined in a building-it is in the way I live. I believe that helping others, being a good 'neighbor' is a better way to show your Christianity than going to church each week.

But the story about Praying the Steps doesn't just touch me because I'm Catholic. It touches a part of my family history too. Most people assume that my whole family is Catholic. They are surprised to find out that only one of my four grandparents is Catholic. It just happens to be my paternal grandfather.

Mom's father was Baptist (which I have found out is also connected to our family history- my 9th great grandfather was one of the founding members of the First Baptist Church of America), mom's mother was Methodist. Grandpa converted to Grandma's faith, and my mother was raised Methodist. Dad's mother is Protestant. I still don't know which branch of the Protestant faith Grandma is. She attends the Taborton Zion United Church of Christ. It was the church her Grandfather founded after coming to the US from Germany. It's a little mountain church where everyone is related to each other. Last year we went to Sunrise service with Grandma. Did I mention the church sits on TOP of a mountain? Now, where I grew up is in the mountains, but there are some areas that are even MORE in the mountains. Those are the truly rural areas- you know, the places where if your house catches fire in the winter, you better just break out the marshmallows: no fire truck is going to get to you. Well, Taborton is one of those towns. On the top of the mountain, lakes and ponds all around. And for some reason, my great-great grandfather chose to settle there. It is referred to as 'The Kipple'. Kipple in German means 'Top of the Mountain'. Today, the road that passes what once was my great-great grandfathers farm is known as 'Kipple Road'.

The forests surrounding Taborton are very dense. Well, they are dense all over Rensselaer County, but they seem particularly dense in Taborton. You look into the forests from the side of the road and you just see darkness. Even on the brightest, hottest, sunniest day, you see darkness. You can smell the pine, and the mold. It's always several degrees cooler in Taborton. Wildlife, such as black bears and moose, are not an uncommon sight. And so, last Easter my parents and I joined my grandmother for Sunrise service. At 6am. Next to one of the many lakes that surround Taborton. On a day that felt more like the middle of winter than early Spring. It was 20* at mom & dad's house when we left that morning. It was probably 0* in Taborton- colder if you figure the wind chill. Because of course, Sunrise service at the top of a mountain would not be complete without a strong Northwest wind. Dad had said that the Sunrise services usually go pretty quickly. Dad obviously hadn't been to one in a while, or the church has a different minister. For an hour we stood there, watching the mist pull back from the lake. The man next door came out and hid eggs throughout his yard. We kept moving, trying to stay warm. There was a bonfire-the guys of the church kept putting wooden pallets on the fire-it died down three times during the service. When the service was over, there was a mad rush to the fellowship hall-who knew icicles could move so fast!

Anyway, back to my original story. I am Catholic because my father is Catholic, and his father is Catholic, and grandpa's father was Catholic. It probably goes back further, but I don't know anything about the family beyond my Great-Grandfather. My dad tells us stories of going to visit his grandparents in Quebec (they lived outside Montreal). He would go to church with his Grandfather. Dad also tells how his Grandfather took him to St. Joseph's Oratory (Shrine). This is a beautiful Shrine that sits on a hill (Mont Royale in French, Mount Royal in English) in Montreal. There are several hundred steps leading up to the Shrine (or you can drive up the hill and park and avoid the steps). The faithful in Montreal pray the Rosary up the steps-starting at the bottom, saying the Rosary on each step to the top. My great-grandfather did this as well. You can go any day and see people praying the steps. The first time I visited the Shrine, I felt such a connection to those people. I could almost see my great-grandfather working his way up the steps.

Before my dad's First Communion, his grandfather made him pray the steps. Dad says it took a long time. I think it was the only time my dad did it, but it left an impression on him. Dad always talked about the Shrine, so the first time I was able to visit, on a school trip in 10th grade; I felt right at home. It is truly a beautiful and very moving place. I remember getting goose bumps walking through it, and for the first time in my life I felt this deep spiritual connection. Every Good Friday, as the local news shows the Faithful Praying the Steps in Mount Adams, I am back in Montreal-with the generations of Catholics in my family, feeling that deep spiritual peace.