John Baglow: “Who am I?” (essay

Who am I?

John Baglow

My eyes opened. It was morning time, in the little town of Medjugorje, and my body was covered in sweat. The air conditioning in the inn where I stayed was selective about where it was sending cool, precious bursts of air, which was irksome. Usually, my eyes weep ever so slightly when I rise, mostly from sleepiness. This time, they were suffocated by the suctioning feeling of my brand-new contacts. Amateur. I peeled them off, the tears in my eyes running like a waterfall. I did not expect that. Nor did I expect my roommate on the pilgrimage to body me brutally into the wall once I got up, causing me to drop the pair of contacts. I brought two pairs, and I only had them for a week. What a waste. My roommate, a twenty-two-year-old from Florida, apologized, saying, “Well man, I’ll venmo you.” He never did. And so, the day began.

Medjugorje is a town no outsiders would know existed. It sits in a large valley, surrounded by green mountains that are sprinkled with rocks, and is located in modern-day Bosnia and Herzegovina. It is a place where supposedly the Virgin Mother of Christ, Mary, has appeared to several visionaries over the past forty years, bringing news of urgency to convert, as well as general reminders of God’s love for the world, and her intercession for the faithful. It’s the typical, devout-Catholic grandma type of place, where a large gathering of around one million devoted pilgrims come annually to hear the voice of Our Lady and her messages through the visionaries. My own grandmother still recounts memories of when she was an avid attendee on these pilgrimages, having gone with a group from New Orleans several times. My mom told me I should go one day, having been forever changed by the experience she had there when she was seventeen. Now I was also seventeen, and I was in the place where my mother’s life had been transformed. Oh, the irony… It was time for me to move, and my eyes were killing me. However, I didn’t let that stop me from bringing the backup contacts as I ran to the front of the building and met up with my crew. The man leading the trip was the son of two veteran pilgrims who worked in Medjugorje and who knew my grandmother back in the day. I just so happened to go to the same high school in South Bend that his daughters attended, so I ended up meeting 96

them by chance. I was new to the area, so I was glad to spend my pilgrimage with them and their friends. But I digress. We made our way to the location of the place we would start our march up to the cross—up what is called by the locals “Cross Mountain.” What a coincidence. The tale goes that the locals erected the cross to celebrate the one-thousand-nine-hundred-year anniversary of Christ’s death, which is why I was especially excited to see it. Not only that, but the view from the top was described as breathtakingly beautiful. After we convened at the base of the mountain, our leader began the rosary. The mountain had large metal depictions of the passion of Christ along the rocky path, so we had things to look at and reflect on to build up to the much grander sight. The tricky part was this: trying not to lose my breath while saying all of the prayers. I tried to focus on pushing my way off of each rock on the mountain, step by step. Awesome stuff. I didn’t know if I was going to pass out, but it sure felt like it. Approaching each station, bringing myself to say the words, and fighting against a mountain made me feel both invigorated and exhausted all at once. As we drew close, I noticed a stray dog, moving its way closer to the top of the mountain along with us. It perked its head up at me, almost in a sort of nonchalant, inviting manner. For some reason or another, I had the idea to carry the canid along with us, so as to offer the act up as a sort of penance. So, compelled by the thought, I reached down, picked it up, and brought my new friend along with me on the path of passion.

“We’re getting close, guys,” yelled Mike, our fearless leader in cargo shorts. He didn’t have to yell; we were all within ten feet of each other. That thought changed when I got to his level. The wind rushed like a water wave through the air and barred my hearing. My heart was anticipating getting to the top, so I was overjoyed. But the dog was not. He wriggled his way out of my hands and went back down the mountain, happy as can be. I was sad. Oh well, I thought. His loss, I guess. Recollecting myself, I jogged my way to the very top of the mountain, feeling both relief and exhaustion immediately. I had done it, all with my own strength. Looking up from my moment of breath catching, I saw the cross, taller than a man and twice as wide, towering over me and all the other pilgrims who were there. In that moment, I sat and reflected, thinking, contemplating...

It wasn’t I who got myself here, I thought. It was my parents. My mom, my dad... I didn’t do this. 97

I reflected on the times that I felt small, inconvenient, and ashamed. Times when I considered myself to be an outcast, with no one to call “friend” or “best friend.” Nothing that I had experienced in life could have been as good as this view. Let alone, the cross. The cross on which God took all of mankind upon himself, and felt the very weight of sin, ripping down on nails that were hammered through his hands and feet. God did it all. After all, he is perfect. Having been aware of my autism diagnoses for four years at that point in time, all my heart was feeling was grave, unending sorrow. I can’t connect with these people, and I’m scared to even try. I remembered my sister telling me that she defended me all throughout childhood when we were with friends, telling them about how different I was and that I didn’t mean to freak anyone out. Again, the thought came: Even my sister knew. She also brought me here, not I. Anyone I tried to approach, anything I tried to do, and anything that I desired for myself would have been unachievable if it were not for my sister and my parents. What was I good for? Immediately after that thought came to me, I was struck with paralyzing awe by the next: the dog. The dog was the attitude that I was embracing. At first pleased to have a helping hand from my parents and older sister, I soon came to pull away from the people who cared for me the most. I had been getting myself into things that were contrary to my beliefs, acting out of anger towards others, and being inconsiderate of just how much was accomplished to get me here. It’s all on me to choose, I suddenly realized. I had been acting like an animal. Like the clumsy mutt, I had chosen comfort in times where I needed to think critically. The choices to go to Medjugorje, to make my way to the Nolans’s house for rosary every Monday leading up to the pilgrimage, and to foster friendships with these people were all on me. Not only that, but for four years I had been dealing with a handful of my own personal and mental struggles outside of being on the spectrum that inhibit healthy living. Yet, I had also acted in high school plays, went to dances, and forged friendships with people whom I never would have thought I would have as my friends. The purpose of these things in my life, be they trials or gifts, was to strengthen myself as a person and give all that I had endured to Jesus. That, I thought, is what I’m good for, and that is who I am. After thanking God for the many gifts he had given me in my life, and for the ways he had sustained it, I made my way down the mountain and back to town for lunch with my friends. November 29, 2021

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