My Calvary
Some places in a person's life are like stops along an ordinary route: you pause, look around, and move on, forgetting them after a few days. But there are also places which, in some mysterious way, write themselves into the history of your heart. You can drive away from them for many kilometres, you can forget them for years, and yet one day you return there again and discover that this place never left you at all.
That is how it is for me with Calvary Zebrzydowska. It is not only a sanctuary where Marian hymns have sounded so many times, and the scent of incense has filled the air. It is a space where a person feels a little as if on a road that leads deeper than merely along the cobblestones between the chapels. Calvary has something of a mirror in it: you stand before the image of the Mother, and you see not only Her gaze, but also your own life: questions, anxieties, hopes.
That is exactly why I say that Calvary is not, for me, the destination of a pilgrimage, but a road that keeps returning. It was here that I learned to entrust myself, here that I matured, and here that I return today with young people who, just like me years ago, are searching for light on the threshold of important decisions. And every time I discover that although much has changed in me, one thing remains the same: the gaze of the Mother, who waits.
I remember the beginning of seminary to this day. It was a time when everything was new, and you did not quite know what you were getting yourself into. On one side, curiosity; on the other, a good deal of uncertainty. The trip for the introductory days was meant to integrate us, so that we would get to know each other better as a year group (at that time still the year of St Paul VI, because later I "jumped" to the year of Blessed Martyrs Michał Tomaszek and Zbigniew Strzałkowski). But it quickly turned out that this was not just an ordinary excursion, but the first step into something greater. Into a road we were to walk together, each with his own baggage of questions, hopes, and fears.
We stayed then at the Totus Tuus centre in Zembrzyce. There was something symbolic in that. To begin seminary life in a place bearing in its name the words of John Paul II, the one who, after all, pointed so strongly to Mary. I remember the atmosphere was joyful, a little student-like: conversations late into the night, jokes, first friendships. And at the same time, somewhere in the background, a question kept sounding: "Will I really manage? Is this my road?"
One day we set out into the mountains, to the Groń of John Paul II. The path was steep, at moments exhausting, but full of freshness; after all, we had whole years of formation ahead of us and hearts full of strength. It was a climb not only in the physical sense. Looking at it from the perspective of time, I see in it an image of the beginning of formation: enthusiasm, but also uncertainty, breathlessness, and yet, step by step, higher and further.
The next day we went to Calvary Zebrzydowska. If I remember correctly, it was still before the silent retreat itself. As if the Mother were to prepare us for that meeting. Seemingly just another excursion, and yet everything carried a different weight. We stood then before the image of Our Lady of Calvary, a little shy, still so very much "at the beginning". Each carried his own baggage: fears, questions, joys, and each, in silence, entrusted his own road to Her.
That entrustment was simple, almost childlike. There were no long prayers or lofty words. There was rather a gaze full of trust, like a child who grasps its Mother's hand because otherwise it is afraid. And today, when I recall that moment, I see that it was precisely then that my road with Her began. A road which, from that moment, has returned many times and returns to this day.
A few years later I came back to Calvary. No longer as a fresh seminarian, but as a deacon standing on the threshold of ordination. The road was the same, the chapels the same, the same image of Our Lady, and yet I was different.
I already had years of formation behind me: joys, moments of crisis, moments when I wanted to throw it all away, and those when I was certain that this was indeed my road. With all of this, I stood before Her face and realised one thing: Mary had been with me the whole time. She had not changed: still the same calm, quiet gaze full of care. Only I had changed.
Once I looked at Her as the Mother to whom I entrust an uncertain future. Now I saw in Her the One who had led me through the following years. Often quietly, sometimes differently than I had planned, but always faithfully. That return to Calvary was not a retreat into the past, but a step deeper. A discovery that the road I had begun back then was not only my choice, but also Her leading.
And I understood then something important: entrustment to Mary does not happen once and for all. It is the rhythm of a life. You can return to the same place many times and each time discover something new. Because Her gaze is constant; it is only my heart that beats differently now.
For several years, since I have been at the "Serce", I have been returning to Calvary in a completely different role. Not as a seminarian, not as a deacon, but as a teacher and a priest. Just before the matura exams, Fr Przemek and I take our students there, so that they can entrust to Mary this time which, for them, seems the most important examination of their lives.
When I watch them kneel before the image of Our Lady of Calvary, I see in their eyes exactly what was once in mine: uncertainty, a little fear, but also the hope that someone greater is watching over their future. They pray for good results, for the light of the Holy Spirit, for courage not to fail them in the crucial moments. And I, standing beside them, pray also that they may discover something more: that Mary is not merely a "rescue for the exam", but a Mother who can lead them through their whole lives.
Every time I return there with the young, the image of myself from years ago comes back to me: that first-year seminarian who arrived at Calvary with a trembling heart. And I realise that Mary not only led me through all those years, but that now she allows me to be a guide for others. In Her gaze there is a remarkable continuity, as if she were joining our generations, our histories, and our roads into one.
Calvary has become for me a place of meeting not only with Her, but also with myself. The self of the past and the self of today. And when I see my students leave the sanctuary calmer, with brighter eyes, I know that this road truly goes on.
Looking at this history, I discover that Calvary is not only a sanctuary, but a school of the heart. A place of maturing: of vocation, of decisions, of responsibility. It was here that a man began with the question "will I manage?", returned years later with the weight and the joy of more mature choices, and today stands with others to lead them towards the Mother.
Mary is not merely the addressee of an entrustment, someone to whom I hand over my life once at the beginning and then walk on. She is a Companion who reminds us: "I am here; you can always come back. No matter what stage of the road you are at, the beginning, a turning point, or the end, I remain beside you."
I see that my own road fits into this logic: from the student who was only beginning; through the candidate for the priesthood maturing towards his decision; to the teacher and guide who brings the young to that same place. What was once my personal history today becomes a bridge for the next generation.
It is precisely in this that the extraordinary role of Mary reveals itself. She is the memory of the road. Not only mine, but the road of the whole Church. Her gaze in the image at Calvary is unchanging, but every time I return, I see something new in it, because my heart has become new.
Returning to the very beginning: I believe that every person has such a place in life, a place to which they return, sometimes after years, sometimes completely unexpectedly. A place that reminds them where they set out from and where they are heading. For me it is Calvary Zebrzydowska. But of course it is not only about a geographical point on the map. A "Calvary" can be any space where the heart learns to entrust itself. Where a person discovers that they do not walk alone. And perhaps this is exactly where the mystery of Calvary lies: that a person returns, and the Mother is always waiting
Fr Adam Płonka
That is how it is for me with Calvary Zebrzydowska. It is not only a sanctuary where Marian hymns have sounded so many times, and the scent of incense has filled the air. It is a space where a person feels a little as if on a road that leads deeper than merely along the cobblestones between the chapels. Calvary has something of a mirror in it: you stand before the image of the Mother, and you see not only Her gaze, but also your own life: questions, anxieties, hopes.
That is exactly why I say that Calvary is not, for me, the destination of a pilgrimage, but a road that keeps returning. It was here that I learned to entrust myself, here that I matured, and here that I return today with young people who, just like me years ago, are searching for light on the threshold of important decisions. And every time I discover that although much has changed in me, one thing remains the same: the gaze of the Mother, who waits.
I remember the beginning of seminary to this day. It was a time when everything was new, and you did not quite know what you were getting yourself into. On one side, curiosity; on the other, a good deal of uncertainty. The trip for the introductory days was meant to integrate us, so that we would get to know each other better as a year group (at that time still the year of St Paul VI, because later I "jumped" to the year of Blessed Martyrs Michał Tomaszek and Zbigniew Strzałkowski). But it quickly turned out that this was not just an ordinary excursion, but the first step into something greater. Into a road we were to walk together, each with his own baggage of questions, hopes, and fears.
We stayed then at the Totus Tuus centre in Zembrzyce. There was something symbolic in that. To begin seminary life in a place bearing in its name the words of John Paul II, the one who, after all, pointed so strongly to Mary. I remember the atmosphere was joyful, a little student-like: conversations late into the night, jokes, first friendships. And at the same time, somewhere in the background, a question kept sounding: "Will I really manage? Is this my road?"
One day we set out into the mountains, to the Groń of John Paul II. The path was steep, at moments exhausting, but full of freshness; after all, we had whole years of formation ahead of us and hearts full of strength. It was a climb not only in the physical sense. Looking at it from the perspective of time, I see in it an image of the beginning of formation: enthusiasm, but also uncertainty, breathlessness, and yet, step by step, higher and further.
The next day we went to Calvary Zebrzydowska. If I remember correctly, it was still before the silent retreat itself. As if the Mother were to prepare us for that meeting. Seemingly just another excursion, and yet everything carried a different weight. We stood then before the image of Our Lady of Calvary, a little shy, still so very much "at the beginning". Each carried his own baggage: fears, questions, joys, and each, in silence, entrusted his own road to Her.
That entrustment was simple, almost childlike. There were no long prayers or lofty words. There was rather a gaze full of trust, like a child who grasps its Mother's hand because otherwise it is afraid. And today, when I recall that moment, I see that it was precisely then that my road with Her began. A road which, from that moment, has returned many times and returns to this day.
A few years later I came back to Calvary. No longer as a fresh seminarian, but as a deacon standing on the threshold of ordination. The road was the same, the chapels the same, the same image of Our Lady, and yet I was different.
I already had years of formation behind me: joys, moments of crisis, moments when I wanted to throw it all away, and those when I was certain that this was indeed my road. With all of this, I stood before Her face and realised one thing: Mary had been with me the whole time. She had not changed: still the same calm, quiet gaze full of care. Only I had changed.
Once I looked at Her as the Mother to whom I entrust an uncertain future. Now I saw in Her the One who had led me through the following years. Often quietly, sometimes differently than I had planned, but always faithfully. That return to Calvary was not a retreat into the past, but a step deeper. A discovery that the road I had begun back then was not only my choice, but also Her leading.
And I understood then something important: entrustment to Mary does not happen once and for all. It is the rhythm of a life. You can return to the same place many times and each time discover something new. Because Her gaze is constant; it is only my heart that beats differently now.
For several years, since I have been at the "Serce", I have been returning to Calvary in a completely different role. Not as a seminarian, not as a deacon, but as a teacher and a priest. Just before the matura exams, Fr Przemek and I take our students there, so that they can entrust to Mary this time which, for them, seems the most important examination of their lives.
When I watch them kneel before the image of Our Lady of Calvary, I see in their eyes exactly what was once in mine: uncertainty, a little fear, but also the hope that someone greater is watching over their future. They pray for good results, for the light of the Holy Spirit, for courage not to fail them in the crucial moments. And I, standing beside them, pray also that they may discover something more: that Mary is not merely a "rescue for the exam", but a Mother who can lead them through their whole lives.
Every time I return there with the young, the image of myself from years ago comes back to me: that first-year seminarian who arrived at Calvary with a trembling heart. And I realise that Mary not only led me through all those years, but that now she allows me to be a guide for others. In Her gaze there is a remarkable continuity, as if she were joining our generations, our histories, and our roads into one.
Calvary has become for me a place of meeting not only with Her, but also with myself. The self of the past and the self of today. And when I see my students leave the sanctuary calmer, with brighter eyes, I know that this road truly goes on.
Looking at this history, I discover that Calvary is not only a sanctuary, but a school of the heart. A place of maturing: of vocation, of decisions, of responsibility. It was here that a man began with the question "will I manage?", returned years later with the weight and the joy of more mature choices, and today stands with others to lead them towards the Mother.
Mary is not merely the addressee of an entrustment, someone to whom I hand over my life once at the beginning and then walk on. She is a Companion who reminds us: "I am here; you can always come back. No matter what stage of the road you are at, the beginning, a turning point, or the end, I remain beside you."
I see that my own road fits into this logic: from the student who was only beginning; through the candidate for the priesthood maturing towards his decision; to the teacher and guide who brings the young to that same place. What was once my personal history today becomes a bridge for the next generation.
It is precisely in this that the extraordinary role of Mary reveals itself. She is the memory of the road. Not only mine, but the road of the whole Church. Her gaze in the image at Calvary is unchanging, but every time I return, I see something new in it, because my heart has become new.
Returning to the very beginning: I believe that every person has such a place in life, a place to which they return, sometimes after years, sometimes completely unexpectedly. A place that reminds them where they set out from and where they are heading. For me it is Calvary Zebrzydowska. But of course it is not only about a geographical point on the map. A "Calvary" can be any space where the heart learns to entrust itself. Where a person discovers that they do not walk alone. And perhaps this is exactly where the mystery of Calvary lies: that a person returns, and the Mother is always waiting
Fr Adam Płonka
