Founded in the mid 19th century and topping out at 1,350 feet (400 meters) above sea level, it's a popular destination for area Catholics, and hosts more than 300,000 visitors each year.
YaYa, like the other kids, was originally assigned two eighth grade 'handlers' to keep her in sight.
As they soon became more interested in eighth grade boys than their charge, she spent most of the trip with me.
This cross, carried (!) up the hill by the shrine's founders before the Civil War, is often the first sight you're introduced to as you work your way up inside the structure. The inscription is in German, with an English translation, reflecting the ethnic makeup of the area at the time.
We then gathered outside, in front of the church itself. At that height the wind is fierce, even on nice spring days, and you're soon impressed with both the scope of the place, and the engineering behind its construction.
After a few moments we were seated inside, but a religious group needed to use the church for prayer, so we were moved to a side chapel.
In the side chapel the priest, who is connected with our school, gave us a history of Holy Hill. The statue of the Madonna above the altar in the chapel has historic significance, but I'm sorry - I've plumb forgot what it is, although I recall the journey to the shrine was complicated.
Directly outside the chapel is something I vividly recall from my many trips to the church in my own childhood. There is a wall of canes and crutches, left behind by people who claim to have been cured at the site.
Here the priest told a story about his youth. As a seminarian in the '50's he was working in the church when a man began screaming inside the chapel. The priests all assumed it was a drunk causing trouble, and sent our priest in to deal with the man. He was the youngest and toughest of the bunch, you see, and had been assigned to deal with rouges before. But this time it was not a drunk, but a man from Chicago who claimed to have regained his lost sight in the chapel; he wept and ran out the door, never to be heard from again.
You can take from that what you will, and believe or disbelieve at your leisure. But aside from issues of faith, it encapsulates something I truly do love about my Church. At times I think the Catholic Church is like Hollywood's version of an Irish priest: full of faith, devotion, charity and love; but if you want to brawl, and can't be talked out of it, more than happy to oblige your request.
We stepped outside again for a few moments, where we snapped some portraits. Have I mentioned that wind?
From there it was down to another chapel, where we had Mass with a private school set to close its doors forever.
And then ventured out for a bag lunch. Our picnic spot was at the end of the Stations of the Cross, a good third of a mile/half a mile through hilly but beautiful terrain.
Lunch was fine, and so was The Dan.
The kids posed for group shots
and YaYa climbed a tree.
Then, seeking to get ahead of the group, we set out at a brisk pace for the church tower. We had half an hour to get back to the church, get up the hill, climb the tower, hit the gift shop, and make the bus back home. Oh boy.
Have I mentioned that whole hilly terrain tidbit? It was also hot, and by the time we reached the hill I was bushed. Totaled. But we pushed on to the tower. There is, if memory serves, 178 narrow winding stairs to the top of that spire. For the first time ever I couldn't complete the climb. It was, in retrospect, a grievous error to maintain that quick pace back to the hill. In the end I cleared triple digits on the stairs and surrendered. I sent YaYa on without me. :(
I was embarrassed, ashamed, and knew I'd let YaYa down. I apologized for failing her; she replied that she was happy I came and was grateful for my company. She was sincere, but it won't happen again - ever. I'll make that climb next year, and the year after that. Count on it.
After that we hit the gift shop, met the bus, and drove back to school. A very nice day, with a very nice girl at my side.
