There was a paddock full of slow-moving copper-colored cows next to the church parking lot. i knew as much as they did that today was Sunday. Hell, they probably expected the midday mass rush better than i did as i backed my car into a spot made for pulling in. It was far away from other cars.

The morning unplanned, i had found myself first thing wandering into an art gallery on Canyon Road in Santa Fe, jaw dropped beneath my mask. The cheerful woman running the gallery called me an early bird, welcoming. i wandered the sculpture garden, in earnest trying to stay out of doors as much as possible, taking in all of the amazing art as slowly as i could. When i wandered back inside, the curator wanted to chat. As we talked her love of the space she maintained simply flowed off of her like an infusion of aura. i met her there, dazzled in the presence of so much soulful creation. She complimented my hair, praised my solo journey, and offered unsolicited advice that i didn’t mind one bit: take the scenic road to Taos.

Andrea (Ahn-drey-ah) started dreaming then. i saw her mind’s eye go toward the road as she tried to recall state route numbers. i watched her face squint in recollection, then soften to remember the glory of this particular journey. “You will really be in god’s country,” she said, and i knew she wasn’t capitalizing it. My host did all but take me with her when she said to stop in Chimayo, where the Santuario is visited by an annual Easter pilgrimage from all over the state. “The church has a dirt floor. Holy dirt.” Don’t have to tell me twice. Other, more reasonably timed, people started to arrive, but Andrea was nothing if not a gracious host. In no hurry, she lastly asked if i was myself an artist, and i told her i try. She said she hopes i do, then gave me her card, “If you need anything at all, any help while you’re in Santa Fe, directions in New Mexico, don’t hesitate.” i believed her, bowed with gratitude, eyes sparkling with tears and possibility. “You’re doing what I wish I was doing today,” this woman i now admired said as i turned to leave. “i take you with me, Andrea,” i patted my heart, and i think she believed me, too.

My maps app was guiding me when i saw the route Andrea had mentioned. A delight, that i could turn the app off and just follow some signs. i cruised past worn-out-looking paddocks and gorgeous adobe houses. Dust makes everything look worse for wear, i think, even if that isn’t the case. This scenic route was taking me through neighborhoods, past apathetic horses, white bikes and well-kept crosses, hills staggered across with low lying housing, windows toward the sun.

“Santuario Parking” was the first sign of my destination. i didn’t know if i would be stopping until i parked. And i didn’t know it was Sunday until i wandered into the outdoor complex and noticed a sign for noon’s mass en El Santuario de Chimayó. It was 11:55 and i had Felina’s rosary in hand. The priest stood under a pavilion while his congregation spread out further than six feet, on benches, walkways, and walls. i found my own isolated spot quite easily. Everyone was actually “in this together”; i wondered when in this strange year i had truly felt like that among folks i didn’t know. Perhaps only in New Mexico, where everyone wears masks even outdoors.

In the paddock behind the priest a cow came along slowly. She grazed there while the priest recited things his congregation knew the responses to. i was happy to be under my mask, having been easily thwarted by Catholic recitations all my pagan life. i didn’t wonder what i’d gotten myself into as much as i wondered where i was when the priest spoke English with an Asian accent alternating with proper Spanish. i looked around the crowd of about fifty people, diverse and alert, the pious and the tourists. We were all exuding respect; no one even whispered. i dared not photograph this holy event. Instead, i let myself sink into a foreign experience as god’s word was spoken.

After some research i guess it must have been Father Sebastian Lee who spoke that chilly day. He asked his congregation, “Is life a blessing or a burden?” We all said, “Blessing,” immediately but without much joy. He said, “And is life a boundless happiness, or a valle de lágrimas?” The whole congregation hesitated, and he laughed an easy laugh. “It’s a valley of tears! It’s not a trick question, life is difficult. Life is hard. But you called it a gift before. Why?” The father then launched into a couple biblical stories of sacrifice, reminding us that god is there not to hand us happiness, but to help us through difficulty. So that we may better appreciate the joys. “We do not reach out to god expecting him to fix everything. He will not. He will only show you the way out of this trouble, so that you can move on to the next.” This was my kind of homily, by god. Life is suffering. Nothing really helps but faith that each difficulty can be overcome, and that each happiness will return. It is only by grace that we are allowed to make a life in the valley of tears.

i returned to my car now surrounded by others, looking very silly with it’s faraway plates. Alone again, i embraced the valle de lágrimas, and hit the road to Taos.