Hooray!

  Cobblestones, steps, upward slopes, and shrines. Jim and I recently traveled to a pretty town in central Mexico, San Miguel de Allende, and these few words summarize our time there, except for one significant exception. It lies over 6200 feet above sea level, with an atmosphere thin enough that it rocked my world and reoriented my take on heaven.

In retrospect, a foreshadowing of my earth-shaking experience might have been the intensity of the van rattling its way over the cobblestone streets in the Centro area of the town where we were staying. The meticulously preserved stones from the 17th century are part of why the city enjoys designation as a UNESCO World Heritage site. However, being driven across said streets was an excruciatingly loud and unsettling introduction to our stay. I started asking myself what we had gotten ourselves into. 

Luckily, the lush greenery and magenta of the vining bougainvillea beyond our hotel's doors interrupted my concerns. Interior courtyards are a hallmark of Mexican colonial architecture. Our concierge showed us around Casa Schuk, and we were delighted by the hotel's open-air fountain, sculptures, fine art, and other old-world features. We were not so charmed by the stairs - I counted over sixty of them - that carried us to our (albeit lovely) rooftop room. Did I need a reminder of my fading corporality?

Because we are early risers, we'd flown out of DC at 6:30 that morning, changed planes in Houston, and were both tired and hungry when we landed at Querataro. San Miguel has a large, friendly expat population, and on the drive there in our transport van, a few coached us up on places to eat. One restaurant, well known for its swinging saloon doors and great Sangria, was close to our hotel, so before we set out on our exploratory walk around town, we stopped to relax and shift into vacation gear. A few hours later, after an ice cream and an amble around the park in front of the famous Parroquia San Miguel Arcángel, we put the name of our hotel into our MapQuest app and began what looked like a short walk home. 

As I suggested earlier, this town is hilly. It's nestled between scenic mountains, and for the next several hours, Jim and I were trapped on a mad jokester's treadmill that continuously took us further uphill. In the planning stages of our trip, I'd waxed maudlin over the charm of the town's prized cobblestones, the uneven nature of which was now sending shooting pains up and down our legs and threatening to send us tumbling. Eventually, total disorientation set in, and we wandered like two blindfolded mice. The trip length on the app kept getting longer, and it took an inordinate amount of time before we realized that our phones no longer had 5G availability. How could we Proceed to the Route when we had no idea our whereabouts?

We stayed six days and became so familiar with the town that, ironically, we could have returned to our hotel blindfolded by the end of our time there. Throughout the week, we savored great food, marveled over art, strolled and listened to Mariachi bands, watched people, and discovered the numerous street shrines and stations of the cross, tucked in plain sight throughout the city. A timely draw for our visit was that it spanned the Easter holy days. Catholics make up over 90% of the population in San Miguel, and we were eager to absorb their spirited expressions of what we call the Pascal Mysteries of Death and Resurrection. 

As kids, both Jim and I spent hours at school practicing for solemn processions that we took part in on high holy days like Christmas and Easter. We discovered they were nothing compared to the elaborate practices we witnessed here. In San Miguel, ornate floats, flowers, costumes, music, statues, and especially the solemn participation of the congregation, set a special tone of reverence and extended into the Easter Vigil Mass that we attended. In any culture, this Mass takes place over three hours. Traditionally, candles light up the darkness to indicate the light of Christ's transforming power over death and the promise of resurrection. As we lined up outside the church to process in, Jim and I were poised and ready with our candles. As we crossed the threshold into the sanctuary, we were handed a white paper napkin along with everyone else. I was unfamiliar with this custom, but decided it was likely for wiping up wax drips. As things unfolded, I learned I was mistaken.

The first part of the liturgy required listening to scripture. In darkness. At the end of the day. On hard benches. With muscles throbbing. Spoken in Spanish. Of which we barely understood a word. At one point, I attempted to peek at an English translation on my iPhone, but quickly realized what a violation that was to the darkness. Eventually, the flame from the liturgical year's Pascal candle made its way from the back of the church and around to each of our candles so that we flooded the church with light. Jim and I are familiar with this lovely practice of Lumen Christi, but I couldn't have predicted what followed. Suddenly, thunderous booms repeatedly bonged out from somewhere up in the choir with the coming of the light. Golden heaps of confetti trickled down continuously in angelic swoops from the awe-inspiring, vaulted dome of the cathedral. Exultant strains from an organ, triumphant blasts from horns, and the intense beating of drums came seemingly from everywhere. 

Earlier in the service, waiting in the dark on that hard bench, I was simply miserable. My back hurt, and the only prayer I could eke out was, I'm sorry, God, but I've got nothin' for ya. It's hard for me to admit that, but it's true. But, as the celebration continued, when the congregation stood and chanted the words Gloria a ti, Señor, their spirit was contagious, and we chanted, too. The purpose of the white napkins became clear, and we joined in waving ours along with everybody else in the utter joy of the moment.

I'm not so naive that such an experience of ebullience is a once-and-for-all proposition, just as I know the reality of being lost: misery's ways of showing up now and again and then again. Yet, the devotional impact of going to church this Easter in San Miguel bypassed any intellectual doubts or resentments I might harbor about organized religion. Grace broke through; a stone in my heart shifted and reopened me to the joy and wonder of a God who accompanies us through life's ups and downs. In the face of that mystery, I'm shouting the words we cheered at Mass: Arriba, Arriba! And then again, Arriba!