I looked back. The 70-something year old lady was gaining on me, and making good time doing it. Like me, she wasn’t wearing kneepads. Unlike me, she chose to travel the thirty-one meter ‘uncarpeted’ slope of rocks and stones on the path called the Via Sacra, starting at the Basilica in Fatima, Portugal.

Ten meters ago, as we dropped to our knees, she asked thru missing teeth and broken English, how many times I had walked ‘The Way of Penance’’? I was embarrassed to tell her it was my first and probably last, especially after she said it was her forty-third time. Besides, would she believe, or understand, if I told her I wasn’t doing this for the atonement of my sins?

The temperature must have been in the unbearable 90’s, and my mind repeatedly reminded me of a revised Matthew 28:20, “Surely I am with you always, to the very end of your knees.” Mine were failing, a bloody mass attached to my thighs. “But,” I reminded myself, “This is nothing compared to what my Lord endured!” Unconsciously, my brain was telling my knees how to operate, Lift the right knee, now stretch it ahead of the left, set it down, lift the left knee, stretch, set it down.

The conscious part of my mind wouldn’t let me forget about the heat. Occasionally it asked “Why didn’t I wait until January when the temperature was in the 70’s.” Again, I argued back with well meaning, sanctimonious logic, “I want to experience what my Lord Jesus went thru, the pain of his suffering.”

My trek had begun at the Chapel of Apparitions after the noon rosary. I, along with 120 other people gathered at the open-aired church built near the Cova da Iria, the site of the six appearances by the blessed mother to three shepard children tending sheep in 1917. In each vision the two girls and boy described her wearing a brilliant white gown, a rosary cradled in her hands. Three messages were delivered; the Vatican has allowed the first two to be made public. There’s speculation and rumors about the third.

Most everyone in the group had already passed me. I told myself this wasn’t a race, and that I needed to keep my mind focused on the Lord throughout my ordeal. Ordeal? So, now it’s an ordeal? Silently, the afternoon heat was starting to get to me. Ordeal was the wrong choice of word. Sacrifice? Ummm… no, not really. An honoring and praise unto God as Rick Warren declared in his book, ‘The Purpose Driven Life’?
Focus.
I caught myself several times as I wondered about other things, like why I was doing this even though I wasn’t Catholic, and how it was either this or participate in the recreation of the Lord’s crucifixion held in the Philippines every Easter. This year eighteen people chose the latter. I can still see the newspaper picture of that woman’s face, her agony clearly visible as the spikes were driven into her palm.

I looked back, the elderly woman about one meter behind. I looked down at the trail of my blood staining the carpet. I’d lost maybe a pint, possibly, I wasn’t sure. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t spit dirt even if I wanted. My throat was parched, raw, and rough as sandpaper. Midway, along side of ‘the path,’ a young boy held out a plastic squeeze bottle of water to all the ‘kneedy’ procession of people. I’d already determined I was going to suffer as much as possible for my Lord. I would refuse the offer of water. Again, I fought to keep my focus…

Several meters later, I again caught myself wondering, this time how the town was named after an 18-year old girl killed by an injury sustained by a door thrown at her. She was Hazrat Fatima Zahra, the daughter of Mohammed, the prophet of Islam.

As the elderly lady passed, I could hear her reciting, “Granizam Mary, mae do deus, pray para nos sinners, agora e na hora de nossa morte. Amen,” the mystery of the Hail Mary in Portuguese. When she said, “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death” I was concerned it could happen any time now. As she started with “Eu acredito no deus, no almighty do pai” the beginning of the Apostle Creed, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty,” she stumbled, but caught herself, avoiding the fall forward. I wasn’t so fortunate. I’d lost my balance cutting a gash above my right eye. It wasn’t too bad, but I had to wipe at the blood every couple of minutes.

I hadn’t noticed I wasn’t sweating anymore. I started feeling light headed, almost to the point of exhilaration. Giddy, was more like it. I became euphoric at the thought of my suffering more. I had been terribly disappointed when I first found out the use of whips once used by the most pious of pilgrims to self-flagellate their backs was now forbidden.
Pity.

Time passed. I don’t know how long, but up ahead, through the heat waves rising from the ground, I could see the cabenco, the garden, my final destination. While quickening my pace, I imagined living here at one of the eighty religious orders. Maybe some one should put up a sign along the path, “If you belonged to the Order of Fatima, you’d be home by now!” At the gift shop, why don’t they sell bumper stickers that say, “A Father Knows Best”, or a Tee shirt, on the back it’d say, “If you can read this, I’m less sorry for my sins than you.” Maybe little souvenir rocks, to remember the ‘Way’, or how about another Tee shirt that says, “My parents walked the Way of Penance and all I got was this bloody T-shirt”. God, the heat… More minutes, or was it hours? and about five meters later, I cursed myself why didn’t I get my body, particularly my knees, in better shape for this. Back home I had practiced. Every morning, while my neighbors were out doing their five-mile jog, I was working my self up to crawling one block, then two, and overcame the jubilation at five. Eventually I was up to twenty-eight. I learned to ignore the jeers of the runners and bicyclists at the park and the honking horns by the drivers stopped at the green lights. The police quit pulling me over, questioning me what I was doing, but their jokes about crawling over the speed limit still echoed in my ears.
Focus…

My tongue felt swollen, thick, dry, rough.
Focus…

I licked my lips and noticed they were cracked. I debated with myself, focus or try thinking of something that would make my mouth salivate. A pickle! A big, fat, juicy pickle! A big, fat, juicy, sour pickle, the kind sold at the movies at the mall! My tongue swept my mouth. Nothing! Didn’t help… my mouth was still drier than the Sahara desert. The desert...Oh God, the heat…I looked up, the sun high overhead was blinding, hot and getting hotter. I told my mind to stay focused on the Lord and his suffering. Lift, stretch, move. Lift, stretch, move. ‘Wipe my eye’ joined in the routine.
How much more, Oh Lord? Lift, stretch, move, wipe. Focus. Jesus, did you question the heavenly Father? Jesus, were we worth it? Lift, stretch, I can’t feel my leg move. Jesus, were you thinking of us when you were carrying that heavy cross? Did you see future generations of all peoples as the nails pierced your hands, your feet, as your sinless blood was shed…You saw the eternal purpose and results. I felt a tingling in my arms, Oh Jesus, is this a commitment honorable to your sacrificial life of love?

I was distracted by something, or was it someone? My eyes blurred, but I thought I saw a lady… she was standing in front of me, wearing white… Is that the sun behind her or is she shining?… My eyes had to squint at the glow. Is it her? She was holding something out to me…telling me to drink. I tried to lift my hands to her, but they refused to co-operate. My legs were numb. My body swayed, I felt only my face moving forward. I see the ground rising to my face. Then everything went black.

I woke up in a room with the smell of pine-scented antiseptic. It was cold. The curtains were pulled back. I saw an IV in my left arm. A nurse at the side of the bed looks up from a chart, sees me looking at her. She runs to the hallway, her shoes tapping the floor. I hear her yell to someone in Portuguese. A doctor came in. I see his nametag. ‘Dr. Martinez’ takes my pulse, smiles and nods his head. He explains in broken English I had suffered a heatstroke, was dehydrated, aggravated by all the loss of blood. I’ll be fine, he said, but I should take it easy for the next couple of days.

Lying there, I was thinking maybe I should go to the Philippines next year. Perhaps doctor Martinez could tell me how soon I should start the training. Maybe he can advise me how to go about it…