It feels like the Vatican almost, maybe approves of Medjugorje, and even if not yet, the visions of Our Lady allegedly continue to this day. Putting it simply, the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith tells us it is alright to believe these visions and equally alright not to believe them. Last summer, my husband and I took our five children on a pilgrimage to Medjugorje, and I had several almosts of my own.

We are converts, my husband and I. My husband is a Catholic priest*, which sometimes leads to sacrifices for our family, but more often than not, it provides us with many blessings—the opportunity for a family pilgrimage being a big one. So, here we went to Medjugorje with our children ages fourteen, twelve, ten, eight, and two.  

From the beginning, I almost didn’t even want to call this trip a pilgrimage. Our hotel had air conditioning and hairdryers; we weren’t exactly roughing it. Almost twenty hours into our twenty-five hour journey, I warmed up to calling it a pilgrimage. After a plane, a very long layover, another plane, and a van ride with no stop at Buccee’s (Any Texas moms out there?) we finally tucked our kids into beds in Medjugorje. 

Our first day was Mass, and naps, and Mass again! My eight-year-old was almost, maybe impressed to learn that Medjugorje is such a special place that we were allowed to go to Mass twice each day. The second Mass we attended was in the huge outdoor chapel directly behind St. James’ Church. After Mass, a beautiful, gigantic monstrance was set out on the altar. Our fourteen-year-old praise and worship, adoration-loving daughter bolted to the front of the crowd as if she were at a rock concert. Her dad almost had a panic attack, but I knew she was doing what she loved, and she returned to us when she was done.   

Apparition Hill leads from the houses the visionaries lived in as children to the place where Mary first appeared to them. Hill is not the word we would use for this type of climb in Texas. It was steep, rocky, and treacherous—for me, at least, with my two-year-old strapped to my chest in a baby carrier she outgrew long ago. My husband was helping me from rock to rock as we watched others making the hike, some of them barefoot. Our group stopped to pray a decade of the Rosary at each of the markers. This is where I would make sure our other four children were still with us. As the three of us finally made it to the top, I could see our two oldest in line to venerate the cross. Watching my son take his turn almost brought me to joyful tears before I quickly remembered to make sure my others had not fallen and hit their heads on the sharp rocks. The way down felt equally difficult as the little one had dozed off and was sagging forward from her carrier. We continued to make our way down slowly while watching our children laughing, jumping from rock to rock, and almost enjoying each other’s company.  

Towards the end of our week, we were able to spend time with one of the visionaries during an apparition. We took all our rosaries, key chains, and other various souvenirs to be blessed by Our Lady during the vision. We also took pages and pages of prayer requests, our own and those of dear friends, to present to Mary. Nothing was almost about this. It was the chance of a lifetime. We are told we can believe what we like, but my two-year-old sat on the kneeler of the visionary’s chapel repeating, “This place is good, this place is good . . .” And I am going to believe her.   

The Vatican is right: Medjugorje is deepening the faith of those who visit there. Our family spent a week praying the Rosary, going to Mass, going to adoration, going to reconciliation, walking the Stations of the Cross, growing in our love and understanding of each other, and talking about Mary and Jesus and our Catholic faith. This has to be at least almost, maybe a miracle.  

*For context and background information on this exception to the married priesthood, please see the following:

Fr. Josh: A married Catholic priest in a celibate world

I’m a married Catholic priest who thinks priests shouldn’t get married

Pastoral provision history