My Other Grandma

My mother was raised in New Ulm, MN. She received her first Holy Communion at Holy Trinity. She attended the Catholic School for 3rd and 4th grade. I have known some of this for more years than I can remember. Somehow, though, I never connected the New Ulm, MN, where she was raised with the New Ulm, MN, where our diocese is based.

As I may have mentioned earlier, we had planned to attend The Way of the Cross, as led by Bishop John LeVoir, in New Ulm today. We MapQuested the directions to the offices of the Diocese. We pulled in, about 15 minutes early, but there wasn't a person in sight. A quick call was made to a good friend of ours, who answered right about the time we turned the corner and saw the cars backed half way up the hill. Fortunately for us, we stumbled on it just in time.

The Way of the Cross was amazing. I don't have words to adequately describe what the experience was like, but I will try. Other than some technical issues with the sound equipment, the prayers went off without a hitch. 160 people were in attendance, approximately four times the number who typically attend the 3pm Way of the Cross on Good Friday. Personally, I think the Bishop held quite the power to draw people in today.

Each of the Stations is a beautiful piece of statuary, brought over from Germany more than 100 years ago. Each piece is encased behind glass in a brick shelter. At the halfway point, there is a grotto for Our Lady of Lourdes. Finally, at the end is a gorgeous chapel. It is a very holy and mystical place.

We prayed the Stations and spent some time in the Chapel. Because of the number of people in attendance, we were not able to spend a lot of time actually looking at them as we moved past each of them. On our way back down, we stopped at each of the Stations and looked at them in detail. The sculptures are so detailed, so delicate, so perfect.

We were about halfway back down when it struck me. The Way of the Cross has been there for more than 100 years. This was there when my mother was a little girl. This was there when my grandparents were young parents. My grandmother, a very devout Catholic woman, could have prayed there, as we were praying there today.

She died when I was seven. I never knew her well, or at least not well like I knew my other grandmother who lived until I was in my mid-teens, or the way Dave knew his grandparents who lived until he was in his late twenties or early thirties. Today, though, I think I might know her better. I truly felt her presence with me, and I still have a residual feeling of warmth.

I have thought more about her today than I have in a long time. I remember the sound of her rosary beads clicking in her apron pocket. I remember sitting with her in Mass when I was a very little girl. I remember listening to the words I couldn't understand at the Latin Mass they attended. I remember the feel of warm hugs and the smell of her kitchen. I remember the green pepper cookie jar in the pantry and the sugar cookies she used to keep in them. I remember the smell that was distinctive to their house. I remember feeling truly loved when I was there.