Hiking, check. Historic sites, check. Winery, check. Another hike, check. Tacos, chips and salsa, check, check and check.
We’d been planning our trip to Arizona for months, excited to experience a part of the country unknown to us. Though the itinerary was set, soon after we arrived, those other attractions seemed secondary as we found ourselves embarking on a pilgrimage in the cactus-covered southwest.
We had read of a tiny Catholic chapel, sitting high atop a formation of red rocks in the central part of the state, with exceptional architecture and an enormous cross. On our second day, we ventured out to see it, but no guidebook could prepare us for the grandeur.
After parking at the base of the rocks, we began the ascent, accompanied by so many others drawn to this place of unique beauty and peace. Around the rocks, a path wound long and curving, and we climbed slowly in the 92-degree early morning heat, reminiscent of pilgrims journeying to a holy place. Reaching the top, we paused, awed by magnificent views of giant rocks and a broad blue sky. Walking inside the church, however, literally took my breath away. I had come face to face with an image of Christ, crucified upon a massive Tree of Life.
The chatter that accompanied our walk up the hill was silenced as we entered the cool interior of the chapel, scented with the aroma of flickering candles. Immediately, a feeling of serenity enveloped us. Genuflecting, I took a seat beside my husband in one of the backless pews and bowed in prayer, along with our daughters and the others who had journeyed with us. Though considered a must-see area attraction, it is foremost a Catholic church with the Blessed Sacrament reserved in the tabernacle, its presence felt throughout this tiny building. Rising, I was drawn to the altar and the wall behind it made entirely of windows. A complete view of the desert landscape appeared, but I was taken again by that massive crucifix in front.
As I stood at the foot of the cross looking up, Jesus gazed down upon me, an experience that was utterly mesmerizing.
We stayed for some time, praying, lighting candles, and walking through the Stations of the Cross, each Roman numeral sculpted to resemble iron nails. But the hiking trails were calling, and the day was growing warmer, so we retraced our steps, descending the road that wound long and curving.
I have been inside so many churches, seen dozens of likenesses of Our Lord, and prayed before the Blessed Sacrament countless times. Why did this place have such an impact? Was it the journey, though short, and the strangers who accompanied us? Was it the location, itself a place of spiritual contemplation? Or was it simply the respite we needed during our active vacation? I read later that the architect built this “as a monument to faith so charged with God, that it spurs man’s spirit God-ward.”
That was why, of course: God’s manifest presence, complimented perhaps by the journey and location. Though I may never return to this place, I pray that our faith and our spirit continue to be spurred God-ward.
