The Sisters of Providence of Saint Mary-of-the-Woods (Mary)
The Sisters of Providence described St. Mary of the Woods to be an extraordinary place.That much I knew before we ever arrived. There was a saint there. And alpacas. Lizz had taken care of all the planning and logistics. I only skimmed the sites and itinerary beforehand, gaining basic knowledge of where we were going and what we may encounter. For some reason, I felt compelled to place my trust entirely in her direction — to let her lead the way — and to trust that God would reveal what I needed to experience along the journey. But I am my father’s child — drawn to the edges, always wondering what lies just beyond the known. Even in surrender, my spirit remained alert, curious. To seek— to stay open to the possibility that God might also speak through the unexpected detours and quiet corners.
My father died in January, and all throughout this trip I found myself wishing I could talk to him about it. He would’ve loved it — the place, the rhythm, the spirit of it all. My parents raised us to love the outdoors, to wander, to observe, to be attentive. They always had a plan, an itinerary, but my Dad was always very curious to see where a road or path would take us. Sometimes those detours led us to something beautiful — a hidden lake, a perfect view, the kind of place that felt like it had been waiting just for us. Other times, we accidentally found ourselves on one of the longest hiking trails in Canada — completely unprepared, with sunset approaching, the risk of rattlesnakes feeling a little too real, and the rest of us gently (or not so gently) suggesting that maybe we should turn back. And once — we somehow ended up on the edge of a military testing site, where armed soldiers appeared and it was the only time my Dad listened to our suggestions to turn around. With my dad, you just never knew.
I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be any rattlesnakes. Or armed soldiers. So I parked the car right where we were, instead of driving around looking for the ideal place to park. I was ready to explore.
We didn’t use a map or at least I did not want to use a map. We just started walking — a few buildings and barriers between us and where we wanted to be. But I could see the church, clear enough in the distance. That was all the direction I needed.
There were only a few things — Lourdes and the Visitation — that I was determined to look for on our pilgrimage because, as I said, I wanted to be open to the experience. As we walked and statues began to come into view, I wasn’t drawn to the first statue of Mary. I could already see the stones ahead — what was probably a Lourdes Grotto. I wanted to see what I wanted to see.
Eyes focused on what’s ahead instead of what’s right in front of you — that’s a common misstep on pilgrimage journeys. I am usually not the type to fall into this, I like to think that I usually have a healthy balance of staying in the moment while also knowing what is ahead. But sometimes, I’m impatient. Sometimes I just want what I want. Sometimes I miss what I’m supposed to notice — what God is trying to show me through others or through the world around me.
After the grotto, I headed straight for the church with purpose — until I realized that maybe Lizz had something else in mind. Maybe she thought we should explore the museum first. That’s when our personalities started to be tested a bit. Not clashing, exactly, but stretching — trying to understand what mattered to each other in that moment.
The doors weren’t clearly marked — no signs, no directions, nothing to tell us what to do next. We stood there for a moment, caught in that quiet decision-making.
Do we push the button and see what happens? Or do we wander off and follow whatever catches our eye next?
It wasn’t really about logistics. It was about who was going to lead — who was going to make the call. We can become tripped up within our friendship when we are both being too polite. Sometimes, I tend to be more at ease with Lizz and let her take the lead, often forgetting that it is my strength and she wants me to lead. Another misstep in my pilgrimage already. Not using my strengths and talents when I needed to. When it was expected of me.
I could feel both of us hesitating, waiting for the other to move first. I was ready to keep walking. Lizz, I could tell, wanted to go inside — to start with the museum, to do things in order.
We lingered there, in the in-between, just long enough to feel it.
I stood there, caught between the urge to keep moving and the quiet knowing that Lizz really wanted to see the museum first — to get inside, to find out what was waiting before we did anything else. Eventually, we just kind of looked at each other, nodded, and pressed the button to be buzzed in. The doors opened. It was time to cross the threshold.
Even then, I didn’t want to speak to the woman at the reception desk. I hung back, letting the more naturally social Lizz handle the introductions while I slipped away, dodging the usual pleasantries and scripted information. I’m not a fan of small talk — or any kind of talk that feels forced. But when Lizz stepped away for a moment, I found myself asking about a stained glass window I’d noticed down a hallway. It was the kind of question my father would’ve asked. He had this way of drawing people in — of learning by asking, of discovering by simply being curious.
That one small question led us into an entire room and a historic dining hall — places we never would have found if I’d stayed quiet.
The beginning of our pilgrimage was a gentle kind of challenge — one that started to stir the lessons God was preparing for us to notice, to sit with, to follow deeper. The challenge of staying present instead of constantly racing ahead, worrying about what’s next. The challenge of recognizing the gifts and strengths God has placed in us — not just for ourselves, but to reflect Christ for others. —-Mary
