“You should go to confession in Medjugorje,” my friend Kathryn said. Her brogue made her words sound like my Irish mother commanded me from beyond the grave.

“No. That’s not something I do.” Confession is not something that will help, I wanted to add but feared I’d sound rude.

She had an unfulfilled wish to complete the journey to where Jesus’s mother, Mary, was believed to appear.

As a 43-year-old Irish dancer turned financial lawyer in New York, I’d long shed my rigid religious upbringing in the Midwest. But Kathryn and I were hours into a bus trip to a famous pilgrimage spot in Bosnia-Herzegovina, a trip I felt compelled to make in honor of my departed mother. She had an unfulfilled wish to complete the journey to where Jesus’s mother, Mary, was believed to appear, making it a sought-after place for prayer and contemplation.

The prior day Kathryn, who I knew from my years as a dancer, had flown from Ireland to Croatia, where I was staying for six-weeks during a career break to work on my memoir. Kathryn had made the pilgrimage before and offered to accompany me to Medjugorje.

Read More: How Walking the Camino de Santiago Changed My Life

Losing Our Rock

On the bus, Kathryn didn’t push her perspective as she listened to my stress about my family. My mom, the rock of our family, was long gone. My dad’s dementia worsened, and my sisters, brothers, and I couldn’t agree on how to handle his finances, despite professional guidance. Frustrated by fruitless text wars, I had blocked three siblings on my phone, needing to protect my mental health and create space to grieve both Mom and Dad, who disappeared a little every day. 

I needed to create space to grieve both Mom and Dad, who disappeared a little every day. 

As I spoke, I cried, missing my mom and our old lives. Mom would have said, “Offer up your suffering for the holy souls in purgatory.” I didn’t believe in her system of penance for the dead but grappled with how to proceed with my life and the weight of the family conflict.

In Medjugorje, Kathryn and I walked to the base of the highest mountain with a 16-ton cross at the top. As Kathryn recited prayers near a monument for the first Station of the Cross, I struggled to remember the requisite words, although I’d uttered them countless times with my mother in my youth. 

Hot and sweaty, we climbed the crowded mountain of jagged and slippery rocks. Fresh blood covered stones; I supposed it was spilled by those walking barefoot. I grabbed branches to navigate treacherous spots.

From Kathryn’s phone, we read meditations and prayers at each monument. Each time I said, “we forgive those who trespass against us,” the words of the Lord’s Prayer struck me, making me linger over them. I thought of each night as a child with my mother at my bedside saying those very words. It felt like Kathryn had led me to the Rosetta Stone, and with each iteration, the words came more alive.

A Prayer for Family

At the last station, we folded into a group of pilgrims. Hearing their Irish brogues, I smiled at the strange coincidence of being surrounded by the faithful from the country in which my mother was raised.

“For many, family can be challenging,” the group’s leader said. “So in this prayer space, ask for help with those who have hurt you mentally, physically, and spiritually.”

The hell among my siblings erupted in my mind.

The hell among my siblings erupted in my mind. Mom, when alive, had held us all together, enveloped in her love. 

A woman stepped forward. “I danced in the morning when the world was begun, And I danced in the moon and the stars and the sun…” She sang a hymn, which was the theme music from my first professional Irish dance show: Michael Flatley’s Lord of the Dance. 

Tears gushed down my cheeks as memories surfaced of Mom in the audience cheering for me. Then another memory sparked a mini waterfall to descend. At Mom’s funeral Mass, we sang those same words. 

The song ended, and I walked in silence, ascending past the giant white cross. I sat alone on a rock, feeling as if layers of pain had been wrung out, like a soaking towel twisted to dampness. From the clearing, rolling hilltops could be seen, and the sun radiated upon my head.

Confessions and Forgiveness

Later, Kathryn and I walked into town. Many priests sat on benches and chairs to hear confessions outside the main chapel. Some held private sessions inside little rooms. They displayed signs on the ground indicating which languages they spoke. Mom would have been delighted with so many options.

My penance was simply to light a candle and ask God for help. 

Glancing around, I felt an urge to embrace Kathryn’s advice and spotted an empty seat. “Bless me Father for I have sinned,” I said the standard words to start the sacramental process of penance. “It’s been about …18 years since my last confession.”

“Welcome back!” He made jazz hands. 

We both laughed. I told him about my family struggles. 

“Ask God to help you to forgive and fill you with what you need,” he said, explaining that holding onto anger would hurt me, and in time, the spirit and will would join. My penance was simply to light a candle and ask God for help. He stood and held his hands over my head as he prayed. I felt like I received reiki, a form of energy healing my mother would have put in the realm of the unholy.

A Flicker of Hope

The cloudless sky turned navy and flickered with stars, forming a surreal canopy over a nearby nook with red votives glowing in front of a large crucifix. My friend and dozens of pilgrims were scattered around the space. Gazing upon them, I thought of my mother’s wish to be where I stood. 

I thought of my mother’s wish to be where I stood. 

Mom had prayed for hours each day. She’d asked for Divine intervention for family and friends, who shared with her their special requests. She hated that I didn’t go to Mass and didn’t date Catholic men. I wondered how many prayers she’d said for a renewal of my faith. 

I lit a candle and stared into it, feeling empowered with hope. Despite rejecting my mother’s religious institution, there was something she’d fostered deep within me that felt reignited. I couldn’t fix my family’s conflict, but I knew I could move forward with peace.  

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