By the waters of the Neisse we sat down and wept
I was in Poland when the Pope died. Well, that's not quite true. It says in the news that he died at 21:37, and I was in a Polish town on the German border then. But I didn't find out about it for 23 minutes.
We were about half-way across the river Neisse, on the bridge to Germany, and all the bells on the Polish side started ringing. My friend had said earlier that he couldn't be dead yet because the bells weren't ringing. But I looked at my watch, and it was 22:00 exactly...I clung to the hope for a couple of minutes that it might be normal for bells to ring at 10 o'clock at night. They went on and on, though, long after you could still reasonably believe in any other explanation. So that was it then. John Paul's dead. My friends were quiet and subdued, a little unsure how to act around me, The Catholic One. Michael cleared his throat and said, awkwardly, "Well. Heaven's a better place now." And I don't think he himself believes in God or heaven. So I loved him for saying that then.
We walked on into the quiet streets of the German town. All I could think about was how to get back to Poland, away from the silent Lutheran churches on this side of the river, away from my companions who don't understand, no matter how nice they are about it. But they wanted a beer, and I felt the pull of the Leader Complex that oldest children have, so we wandered around, tried to find a place we could get a beer. It's Germany, for crying out loud, you'd think it wouldn't be hard. Finally we found an ice cream place that was open. I drank my beer in record time, willing them with every fiber of my being to do the same. Headed back to Poland, got our passports examined and stamped yet again. At the door of the hostel, I paused and said, all casual like, "So. I think I'll go stop by the church." There wasn't really anything they could say to that.
By myself finally, I walked up the hill. The streets were dark and quiet, but it wasn't scary. My muscles ached in the way that comes from walking a city from morning to night; my left bootheel creaked with every step I took. I knew where the church was from earlier in the day; it was a newish building, seventies to the bone, all blond wood and track lighting, with a big nature photo in front of the tabernacle. We'd eaten lunch at an outside stand across the street from it, and watched a steady stream of people going in and out of the church, praying for him.
When I reached the top of the hill, all the lights were on in the church, and it was packed, standing room only and spilling out onto the steps. A priest in red vestments was saying the homily; two others sat behind the altar, along with twelve altar boys at least. I stood there listening to the Polish words, and hearing only his name over and over, Jan Paweł, Jana Pawła. The Poles around me were weeping, some of them. I was crying too in a half-assed way, wiping the tears against my shoulder. It felt good to cry...it seemed like I was letting out grief that I can't release for people I knew much better. He seemed like such a good man, and he had such a long life, and with the grace of God he's in heaven now. So it's good sadness; pure, without regret or rancor. Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt...There are tears for things, and mortal affairs touch the heart.
When Mass was finished I didn't want to leave the church. It was one of those times when the inside of a church feels like being at home, or like home is supposed to feel and rarely does. I didn't want to go back outside. You get a moment of certainty, when you know what's right, when you know what your home is and how to get there, and then you go back to your ordinary life and the certainty fades again. Like Alexei Karenin: he has an earth-shaking epiphany at Anna's bedside; his whole being is changed and lifted up. And then...life goes on. The clarity that hit him like a lightning bolt diminishes with time, gets confused with other things. I thought it was the most tragic thing in the book, watching his pure recognition get faded and muddy.
But they were turning the lights out, so I went back outside. It wasn't really that cold, just the clammy feeling you get when it's dark again and you've been in the sun all day. I walked on down the hill past the park; the heel of my backpack chafed against my lower back a little. The bells stopped ringing a long time ago. It's 12:30; my friends are asleep. In the room, I change in the dark so I won't wake them.
We were about half-way across the river Neisse, on the bridge to Germany, and all the bells on the Polish side started ringing. My friend had said earlier that he couldn't be dead yet because the bells weren't ringing. But I looked at my watch, and it was 22:00 exactly...I clung to the hope for a couple of minutes that it might be normal for bells to ring at 10 o'clock at night. They went on and on, though, long after you could still reasonably believe in any other explanation. So that was it then. John Paul's dead. My friends were quiet and subdued, a little unsure how to act around me, The Catholic One. Michael cleared his throat and said, awkwardly, "Well. Heaven's a better place now." And I don't think he himself believes in God or heaven. So I loved him for saying that then.
We walked on into the quiet streets of the German town. All I could think about was how to get back to Poland, away from the silent Lutheran churches on this side of the river, away from my companions who don't understand, no matter how nice they are about it. But they wanted a beer, and I felt the pull of the Leader Complex that oldest children have, so we wandered around, tried to find a place we could get a beer. It's Germany, for crying out loud, you'd think it wouldn't be hard. Finally we found an ice cream place that was open. I drank my beer in record time, willing them with every fiber of my being to do the same. Headed back to Poland, got our passports examined and stamped yet again. At the door of the hostel, I paused and said, all casual like, "So. I think I'll go stop by the church." There wasn't really anything they could say to that.
By myself finally, I walked up the hill. The streets were dark and quiet, but it wasn't scary. My muscles ached in the way that comes from walking a city from morning to night; my left bootheel creaked with every step I took. I knew where the church was from earlier in the day; it was a newish building, seventies to the bone, all blond wood and track lighting, with a big nature photo in front of the tabernacle. We'd eaten lunch at an outside stand across the street from it, and watched a steady stream of people going in and out of the church, praying for him.
When I reached the top of the hill, all the lights were on in the church, and it was packed, standing room only and spilling out onto the steps. A priest in red vestments was saying the homily; two others sat behind the altar, along with twelve altar boys at least. I stood there listening to the Polish words, and hearing only his name over and over, Jan Paweł, Jana Pawła. The Poles around me were weeping, some of them. I was crying too in a half-assed way, wiping the tears against my shoulder. It felt good to cry...it seemed like I was letting out grief that I can't release for people I knew much better. He seemed like such a good man, and he had such a long life, and with the grace of God he's in heaven now. So it's good sadness; pure, without regret or rancor. Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt...There are tears for things, and mortal affairs touch the heart.
When Mass was finished I didn't want to leave the church. It was one of those times when the inside of a church feels like being at home, or like home is supposed to feel and rarely does. I didn't want to go back outside. You get a moment of certainty, when you know what's right, when you know what your home is and how to get there, and then you go back to your ordinary life and the certainty fades again. Like Alexei Karenin: he has an earth-shaking epiphany at Anna's bedside; his whole being is changed and lifted up. And then...life goes on. The clarity that hit him like a lightning bolt diminishes with time, gets confused with other things. I thought it was the most tragic thing in the book, watching his pure recognition get faded and muddy.
But they were turning the lights out, so I went back outside. It wasn't really that cold, just the clammy feeling you get when it's dark again and you've been in the sun all day. I walked on down the hill past the park; the heel of my backpack chafed against my lower back a little. The bells stopped ringing a long time ago. It's 12:30; my friends are asleep. In the room, I change in the dark so I won't wake them.
posted by ridley at 4/03/2005 12:00:00 PM
3 Comments:
A beautiful post! And how lucky you are to have been in Poland when Our Holy Father passed on to Heaven. Even though it is very sad and we feel like orphans at the moment, it is comforting to believe that John Paul is still praying for us.
When do you return to the USA? Jedno said she would probably get back in June. God bless, Kitty
They serve beer at ice cream places?!?
Of course. They serve beer at McDonald's, too. This is the land of milk and honey.
Kitty: hey, thanks. I'll probably be back in the States in late June.
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