The windshield wipers sloshed away the beady raindrops as our headlights shone through the dark and stormy night, illuminating the sign that announced, “Maryland Welcomes You.” Some feet ahead, a small historic marker denoted “hallowed ground,” and we exited the southbound turnpike towards Emmitsburg.
Although our minivan’s odometer registered 2,700 miles over ten days this trip, this was incontestably our hardest day on the road. Despite obstacles, we continued onwards, seeking peace after desolation.
Emmitsburg promised rest.
This quiet town nestles below the Pennsylvania-Maryland border, in the Catoctin region of the Blue Ridge mountains. Small and unassuming like my hometown far south, it nonetheless offers something different: mountains, forests, and colonial antiquity. The signs declaring it “hallowed ground” refer, in one sense, to the lives lost on the Gettysburg battlefields only twelve miles north. But this designation also indicates something deeper here, for “hallowed” has not only a historical but also a spiritual meaning. Emmitsburg is land where Saints walked, making this place a microcosm for the journey of our lives.
In June 1809, a little woman in a widow’s dark bonnet journeyed toward northern Maryland. Several young women also clad in black accompanied her, addressing her as “Mother Seton”; the three little girls who ran alongside the group called her “Mamma.” God had led Elizabeth Ann Seton down many paths: wife, mother, widow, convert, educator, consecrated woman, religious foundress. Now, He had called her to journey forward in faith––through forests, over hills, and across valleys––to Emmitsburg.
When I Walk Through The Valley
Beyond Emmitsburg’s quaint historic main street district, South Seton Avenue leads me to lower ground: St. Joseph’s Valley. On my left, evergreen trees roll past to reveal a stately brick basilica: the National Shrine of Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton.
Inspiration and peace await inside. Here, the expansive basilica dome, the luminous skylights and stained glass, the marble aisle flooring all draw me in towards a magnificent sanctuary. In a quiet alcove on the right, Mother Seton’s remains are entombed in an altar beneath her statue.
With guided tours of the historic houses on site, pilgrims like me can enter the time of Mother Seton and her Sisters of Charity of Saint Joseph. Although it is June, a chill from recent rain seeps through my light cardigan. I shiver as I stand on the Stone House terrace, recalling the brutal winter that Elizabeth Seton and her companions weathered in this tiny farmhouse.
In the Historic St. Joseph’s “White House,” the schoolhouse and convent where Mother Seton spent the rest of her life, I gaze upon the religious images that consoled her dying moments: Our Lady of Guadalupe, Saint Joseph, Christ crucified. Elizabeth lived always in the light of eternity, with a compelling “memento mori” often before her eyes: St. Joseph Cemetery lies steps away from the house. Here, Elizabeth buried her own daughters Anna and Rebecca, her sisters-in-law Harriet and Cecilia, and other early members of her community whose lives were curtailed by tuberculosis.
The mountain looms in the distance, yet I cannot see it today; the fog has spun low clouds. Sometimes, Elizabeth Seton could not see the glorious summit either.
Although the Lord had called her to the valley––to lowlands marked by sorrow, illness, and death––Elizabeth often lifted her eyes to the mountain, longing to be near God there. Yet Elizabeth trusted and soon found His consoling presence in the valley. She held firm to the Seton family motto, “hazard yet forward,” believing that her Lord would lead her through every adverse circumstance toward a victorious ascent. But first, this meant walking in blind faith.
To The Heights
It’s another misty morning. The rain that accompanied my way into the state two days ago has left its coverlet of thick gray fog over northern Maryland. Today, I cannot see the mountain from town, yet I trust it is there.
As I approach, I soon distinguish a forested ridge through the haze above the highway. It is St. Mary’s Mountain––or, as I affectionately like to think of it, the true “mountain momma” of country road fame. US-15, the road that skirts Emmitsburg, winds toward Mount Saint Mary’s University. This college and seminary are what place the town on the map for many people.
Past the campus steeples that climb the slope, something gold glints above the treetops. Our Lady of Grace, in her twenty-six-foot gilded glory, stands forth on the mountain on a high campanile that peals jubilantly every hour. Hands open wide and arms extended, Mother Mary beckons me up.
The road curls through the forest, up the mountainside. We take the footpath towards the nation’s oldest Lourdes Grotto. On the left, wayside Stations of the Cross accompany our upward ascent, culminating in a bronze Calvary scene at the top. This is meant to represent our daily climb toward holiness. Before that, however, stands Corpus Christi Chapel, the site of the original grotto and rugged mountain church where Mother Seton and the holy priests of Emmitsburg worshiped. I pause momentarily to beseech the intercession of the holy Saints who also climbed this mount.
We reach the grotto, which is also located at the summit, just before the footpath that leads to the Calvary scene. After lingering to pray and light a votive candle, I take the downward trail. In a manner likewise reminiscent of Lourdes, grotto spring water flows from taps and into a lovely Marian memorial pool, refreshing us for the return journey.
The descending walk follows the Mysteries of the Rosary––Joyful, Sorrowful, Glorious, Luminous. These movements mark every life: Mother Seton’s, yours, mine. Tall statues of Saints are enshrined in the forest; they are holy companions for my journey towards sanctity, who will remain with me even back in the shadowy valley.
Outside the grotto gates, I again stand on the lookout, in the shadow of the Marian campanile. The elevation should allow me to see far and wide; after all, I am “half in the sky,” as a nearby plaque quotes Mother Seton’s experience of it. Yet, looking down the mountain, I cannot see into the valley today: the steeples and fields beneath are veiled in mist. While I have indeed reached the higher ground, my view remains foggy. Once again, faith is required of me.
One Step Closer
Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton and her sisters climbed this mountain to be close to God. But it is often no easier on the mountain than it is in the valley. For one thing, a difficult climb is necessary, but even after the difficult ascent, the fog that clouds the valley may also obscure the prospect from the mountain.
The spiritual journey of each life proves much the same, with paths traversing both mountains and valleys. Yet Emmitsburg’s land and its holy persons proclaim that holiness is possible in both the highs and the lows. The Lord is God of the mountain and God of the valley; in each, He makes His dwelling.
As we discover our paths in those of the Saints, these spiritual roads, and our lives, too, become holy ground.
Leila Joy Castillo calls Florida home but left her heart in hill country long ago. An alumna of Ave Maria University, she freelances in Catholic communications and is a published writer, primarily on Blessed is She and Ascension. When not dabbling in the multitudinous Google docs of her articles, Leila delights in music, personalist philosophy, quality time with her younger siblings, and her literary trifecta: Austen, Lewis, and Dante. You can find her on Instagram @leila_joyinthejourney or follow her personal site here.
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