The 'Hanging in There' Station

On being in the same place, yet totally different

“Peter and John Running to the Tomb” by Eugène Burnand. Peter should not be this old, as you’re about to read, but it’s still a beautiful painting.

Last year I moved to a teensy tiny town with one stop sign and a KwikTrip. The best part of this teensy tiny town is living 15 minutes away from the shrine of Mary Help of Christians, a gorgeous basilica set atop a forest-drenched hill. There’s a winding path down the hill featuring stone Stations of the Cross, a perfect stroll for meditating or getting the wiggles out of your children before Mass. Last autumn we went to Mass with some good friends and beforehand, we walked the stations, letting the kids run down the hill and jump in the leaves while we complained about how cheaply Target’s shoes are made.

We came to the station where Jesus meets the women of Jerusalem. The women, of course, are the ones who did not deny him; the women stood in the face of darkness and pain and did not turn their faces. My sweet 4-year-old turned to me, eyes wide, and asked what was happening.

“Um…” I think of how to respond. “He’s kind of saying—it’s okay? But it’s not okay, so…”

“He’s saying, ‘don’t freak out’,” my friend tried to reason. “It’s—it’s the ‘hang in there’ station.”