Astrid was in Iron Mountain, Michigan, a town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, just north of the Wisconsin border. The family was there to see Olaf for Thanksgiving. That day the family drove up to see the “Ski Jump” and Veterans Memorial, then came back to the apartment to watch movies and prepare Thanksgiving dinner.
But Astrid needed exercise. Her genes forbade her from a life of sitting, and her mind kept whispering, “You need to take a walk.” To which she would whisper back, “I’m tired, in an unfamiliar town and I don’t want to.” Eventually, and by sheer mental will, she pushed these words out, “I’m taking a walk!” and left the apartment heading north.
It was cold. Colder than where she lived. Not a hypothermia-is-an-imminent-threat kind of cold, but almost. Sparse snowflakes where flying out of the North, right into her face. Once outside, she had to make a decision: go see that beautiful thing that popped up on the map (a mile each way), or just take a short walk around the neighborhood? A cold, icy hike or a short jaunt? Beauty, or convenience and safety?
She chose beauty. It was a longer walk, she didn’t know exactly where this beautiful thing was and would have to use GPS, but it was a small challenge in thousand different challenges she faced which she was excited to take.
Like any good small Michigan town on a cold Thanksgiving day, no one was out and about. The quaint, small shops she passed were closed, only the gas stations were open. The cracked sidewalks–and this town was very good at having sidewalks along most of its roads–were patched with ice and snow. Astrid slipped and slid as she hurried along, and she had to hurry to get back in time to help complete the Thanksgiving meal.
The sky was covered in sheets of blue-grey November clouds, the trees on the hillsides were brown in their winter clothes. Snow accumulated in corners and ledges as the wind blew the chill air down from the north.
After zig-zagging through a grid of streets, she came to M-95, a four-lane road that crossed Chapin Mine Lake, with the nearby attraction (or horror, depending on who considers it) of Millie Hill Bat Viewing Area on the other side of it.
Astrid cut across a closed Hardees parking lot to keep zig-zagging through the cozy neighborhood. Most houses had more than a few cars parked in the driveways–familes gathering for dinner. She watched as a dog was put out, but it quickly did its business and ran back inside. She passed an old school which was now apartments and a tired Italian restaurant or wine shop. She couldn’t be sure which it was.
Finally, with chilled hands and wind-whipped hair, she saw it in the distance. Immaculate Conception of Our Lourdes Catholic Church. Info here It stood tall over the surrounding houses, with a meticulously groomed walled-garden area with a fountain in front. Astrid stopped for a second and took a picture, then a few more steps, another picture.
She walked around to the back, where a dome-topped tower stood flanked by doorways.
The building shape and style in the front whispered of Spanish mission facade style, but its sturdy, native redstone blocks framed with a light brick reminded her of the Richardsonian Romanesque style, though a more architecturally informed person might disagree with her. The use of the rough, native redstone gave it a more rustic look, closer to nature than the all-white gothic church she had glimpsed while out driving earlier, which was closer to the apartment (and wasn’t as good a challenge to get to).
All Astrid knew for certain was that she had found what she had set out to see, and it did not disappoint. It was beautiful to her eyes and mind and heart, for many reasons.
She whispered a prayer of thanksgiving for being able to see something old, and to see it with new eyes, and new wonder, simply because she’d never seen it before.
Astrid did not know anything about the church before she decided to walk to it, but if she had done a little research, she would have found that she might have gone in to see the inside. She might have discovered that it was built by the local Italian immigrant families-with their own hands. But to see the outside was enough on that blistery day, and she walked away without even touching the native red stone of the sturdy walls.
In the history of the world that church was newcomer, a runt sized baby compared to the ancient architectural marvels in Europe. It was a small walk in a small corner of a land filled with a thousand different latent adventures of a thousand different magnitudes, but that day, she chose movement over comfort, beauty over convenience, and it did her heart good.
Not I 