Crutches

A temporary blindness came over me as I stepped from the sun into the dark church.   A large, blurry, blue hole morphed across my eyesight like a lava lamp.  Shoes squeaked, bodies shuffled, and mumbled prayers filled the room.  A deep male voice echoed a Polish song, heard but not seen.  As peripheral objects began to take shape, I crept forward with the crowd, whispering “przepraszam” each time I bumped into someone. 

Being alone never bothered me, especially in extremely public places.  On the many European church tours my family and I had joined, I would usually stay as far from the group as possible.  My mom would listen to the history while my dad analyzed the structure, and I would wander.  Thousands of bodies surrounded me – old and young, dark and white, male and female – whispering words I didn’t understand from languages I couldn’t make out.  I pressed up against the woman in front of me, as I was being pressed upon from behind.  Her clothing was purposefully rough, and it bothered my bare arms to touch.  I let the bodies carry me forward without purpose like a shell moves with the ocean’s ceaseless waves. There was no destination, no end goal, just feet following feet on the marble floor.

Moving through the Church of Częstochowa, I was nonexistent.  I didn’t matter to those around me.  I didn’t have a name or a past.  I didn’t speak English, I wasn’t American, I didn’t have a belief system.  I was a soul who could travel through space without affecting anyone around me.  It was humbling to be completely alone, to know my presence was unnoticed. 

On the outside, the church was stunning.  White concrete, red flowers, and a tower that rose so high you had to shield the sun to look at it.  On the inside, the walls were black.  With my eyes still adjusting from the sun, they looked even darker than black.  White pillars broke up the dark walls and stretched to meet paintings on the ceiling.  It was dim like a cave, and I couldn’t make out what the paintings were of, just that they were there.  There were no windows.  The only source of light came from the entryway and a few hanging, yellow bulbs.  A black gate separated the altar and the congregation, with the priest on one side and the people on the other.  It felt like being told a secret through the grapevine, like something special lay inside and the gate was to keep us out, or like we were watching animals at the zoo.   

As I examined the church, the priest’s voice continued to sing in Polish.  His voice was seductive.  Deep and beautiful, on key even though he wasn’t trying to be.  The people around me were generally quiet except for the occasional “scusami” or “lo siento.”  Everyone, for the most part, was trying to listen to the priest.  Even though I couldn’t understand him, I didn’t feel like I needed to.

I had never seen a church like this one before.  European churches are known for their enormity, with sculpted pillars, intricate stained-glass windows, and natural light illuminating every detail of the architecture.  The Church of Częstochowa was cramped and dark, like being on a crowded elevator.  It had the same sculpted pillars and chiseled ceiling, but the darkness of the room shielded them from sight.  Each breath, each shuffled step, each accent took up space in the small room, and it became clear that we weren’t in a crowded room; we were crowding the room. 

Every person in the room was different.  An old, dark-skinned woman who wore a scarf around her hair stood next to tall man wearing African tribal print, and I wore khaki shorts with my unwashed hair pulled into two braids.  The people were all so different that they became the same.  There was no demographic division, only a group of people who shared a moment in space and time.

In the center of the room, pews lined one after the other, occupied by churchgoers sitting through a regular mass service.  Surrounding these pews were standing tourists. The sitters were quiet and devout, and the standers were fidgety.  As a stander, I met the glares of many sitters.  Sitters judged the standers for interrupting the service and the standers judged the sitters for judging them (in a church!).  In the midst of finding a community that seemed to transcend borders, one division perpetuated: sitters versus standers. 

For years, my mom has been working on constructing our family tree.  My great grandparents immigrated from Warsaw, Poland to the United States when they were only teenagers.  Had it not been for my mom’s unbridled curiosity of her grandparents’ birthplace, I would have never thought to visit Poland.  It is overlooked in the grand scheme of Europe.  With the Eiffel Tower and Colosseum and Arch de Triumph, no one thinks of humble little Poland.  Our two-week-long family trip stretched across all of Western Europe.  Six countries, fourteen cities, five of which were in Poland.  Our tour bus stopped in Częstochowa for only an hour between Warsaw and Auschwitz – an hour that was designated for a bathroom break and grabbing a snack before getting back on the road.

The Church of Częstochowa, named after Our Lady of Częstochowa, acts as a pilgrimage site for those with disablement.  From disease to broken bones to needing an organ, Our Lady is not only the saint to pray to, but the church to pray in.  Christians travel thousands of miles to be able to pray in Częstochowa, like Mecca for healing. 

I had walked to the front of the room before I noticed what was hanging on the walls.  From floor to ceiling, almost every wall hung an array of medical equipment.  Walkers, wheelchairs, wooden limbs and crutches protruded off the walls like decoration. Some of it was modern, the shiny metal giving off a small glow like the moon’s reflection on a lake.  Others were centuries old, the wooden hinges falling apart at the rusted nails.  Between the large equipment hung little silver charms that resembled body parts – eyes, ears, arms, hearts, lungs – camouflaged into the dark walls for those who looked close enough. 

“It’s answered prayers,” I listened to someone speak behind me.  It was an American man; I could tell by the accent.  “People pray for healing and then come back when they’ve been cured to hang their piece on the wall.” 

An eerie sense of history hung before me.  Each piece had a story, unbeknownst to me but lifechanging to someone else.  The wooden brace could have come from a war-injured Polish prince who prayed at the Church of Częstochowa and was healed.  The crutches covered in Pokémon stickers could have come from a little English boy who prayed to Our Lady about his osteogenic sarcoma and was cleared last year.  The eye charm could have come from a man who was able to stop his glaucoma from progressing and is now able to see his daughter get married. 

There was no separation of past, present, and future in the church. Millions of people visited the site and millions more would.  They would long for the day they could hang their piece on the wall, and some would never be able to.  Modern medical equipment hung next to 18^th century crutches, from two people who struggled with the same disability hundreds of years apart.  They would feel the same pain, pray to the same God, and experience their own personal miracle – their greatest desire fulfilled by hanging their piece.

I had the sudden urge to pray, so I sunk into myself and closed my eyes.  But I’ve never been good at praying.  It sounds like I’m sitting on Santa’s lap reading my Christmas list, or standing at the front of the class unprepared for a presentation, so I ramble with the hopes of getting partial credit.  At some point, I always start to think of all the ways I’m a sinner and unworthy of speaking to God, and then push it out of my head hoping He won’t notice. 

Thousands of people stood next to me, each praying for something different.  The old man whose walker landed on my foot could be praying he doesn’t have another stroke.  The woman singing too loudly could be slowly losing her hearing and taking in every last song she can.  The mom holding the crying boy could be praying his migraines stop because no doctor can help.  Thousands of people surrounded me with reasons to be there.  Men, women, and children from around the world, speaking every language, begging God to live another day in health.  Behind me sat a middle-aged man in a wheelchair.  He had short, blonde hair and I guessed he was German.  I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever return to hang his wheelchair on the wall.  Every day, tourists throw coins into the Trevi Fountain hoping this ritual means they’ll return to Rome.  Praying in Częstochowa was kind of like that, but a lot sadder.

I tried to start my prayer, but there was nothing to say.  I stood there, overwhelmed with a lack of actual need to be there and a simultaneous feeling that I will need to return.  I searched for a crutch to hang, but I couldn’t help but compare my minimal suffering to others.  At what point is suffering enough to pray in Częstochowa?  As a child, suffering is scraping your knee on the playground.  As a teenager, heartbreak is suffering.  For a recent college graduate, maybe it is financial.  Suffering can be giving birth, a loveless marriage, watching your child get bullied, or losing your house in a hurricane.  It is physical, mental, financial, social, spiritual.  And it can be all of these at the same time.

Looking around the room, I imagined all the invisible crutches hanging on the walls – the people or things that helped someone’s suffering.  Motivational speakers, debt forgiveness, calls home to mom.  A friend checking up, therapists, paid off loans, personal trainers.  Antidepressants, prayers, forgiveness, God himself. Thousands of crutches hung before me, and I came empty-handed. 

People around me were praying for their life, for the chance to see their child’s first baseball game or their granddaughter graduate, and I was only a stander.  I was fidgety, part of a revolving door of tourists that would step in, take pictures, and leave.  I understood why the sitters glared at the standers.  We were the healthy, unaware of our privilege and flaunting it around as others prayed for what we had.  We were standers because we could be.  

I decided to pray for everyone in the church.  For people who are suffering, visible and invisible.  For those suffering in silence and for those who don’t see a way out.  I thanked God for my health and for the health of everyone in my life, now understanding that health isn’t appreciated until it’s gone.

I began my walk out of the church, scooting past each person more carefully than when I had entered.  In an hour, nothing had changed.  The priest continued to speak in Polish and the same people listened.  I brushed past the same scratchy sweater, the same crying child, the same man in the wheelchair.  The church was quiet, shoes squeaked, and the sun was blinding.  I headed towards the bus with my family, stepped on, and we started for the next city, praying we’d never need to return.