It is six twenty-two in the morning. Morning Mass. I stand before the altar and realize that I must do what I have just spoken about: wish people peace and goodness — go to them, pass on the wish for peace, and share peace and love with them. My legs no longer obey. Not from fatigue, but from something else. I smile at the thought. I see that people are coming out from between the pews to shake hands with one another personally. I go to them. A few minutes later the Mass ends. The Extreme Way of the Cross is behind us. The end of the journey.
We move back twelve hours in time.
The previous evening everything begins as usual — with Mass at Keila Baptist church. The local pastors are used to welcoming us, because in the town of Keila there is no Catholic church, and the Baptists kindly open their doors to us every year. Our group gathers little by little, about twenty people: some focused and some a little tense — everyone feels that a difficult night lies ahead. At half past seven in the evening we set out.
Compared with previous years, it gets dark earlier. The sun has already set — ahead there is only the road and silence all around. We walk in silence, and in that silence there is something right. At the first stop I look at the people and feel something like pride. Seven years ago, when we were just starting, I thought we would complete the route once or twice and then everyone would get tired of it. But here we are again. Half of us are new people.
Among them is 16-year-old Caspar. He came simply because he heard an announcement at church. No one persuaded him, no one directed him to do so. He heard and came. Next to him is Artur; he is a few years older and is coming for the second time. Last year he was among the strongest on the route, and it seemed to me that he had too much energy. He came again because he sensed a connection between the physical and the spiritual and wanted once more to catch that state when, into a tired body, the clearest thoughts suddenly come. And Ene (76 years old) is going for the seventh time. The same roads, the same forests, but each time she finds something new. She comes to hear the Lord’s voice in silence and in the texts for meditation. And many others. Each with their own story…
The weather is wonderful on this night. Those who have walked before remember rain, snow, icy forest paths and bogs. Today there is calm stillness, no wind. It is warm enough to take off a jacket. We move on.
In a familiar place, a surprise awaits me: for seven years, here by the fence, a horse has always greeted us. This time there was no one there. I notice a slight anxiety within me: could it be that something is coming to an end? But ten minutes later I see another horse at the neighboring farm—alive, lively, running around in the darkness. The old goes, the new comes. Each time the Lord offers something different—the main thing is not to cling to what has passed.
The group is moving quickly—perhaps even too quickly. Up front, the more enduring group presses on. I walk a little behind and notice that Caspar has a rosary in his hand. A good decision. On long pilgrimages, when conversations fade and the body moves as if automatically, prayer becomes the most natural activity. I myself have always recommended precisely that.
Before midnight there is a stop in the forest. I look at my watch: 23:30. We are forty minutes ahead of last year’s pace. Prayer, food, a few minutes of silence. Then—onward again.
The message comes: no one can go on anymore. Blisters, fatigue, the body said “stop.” I wish a good night — but we keep going. Half the way is behind us. The fatigue is no longer sharp, but deep, settling into the muscles. Artur says later, precisely: the most precious moment is when the outer and inner noise is replaced by silence. I know what he means. The pressing thoughts that usually spin in my head disappear somewhere. Only the road remains, and what is truly important.
We enter the Harku forests of Tallinn. It is dark. There are four people in our group. No one speaks — we simply walk and each thinks their own thoughts. Ene says later that this year she was touched most by one thought from the texts: “Put off the old self and clothe yourselves with the new self.” A simple sentence and at the same time completely unfathomable. Am I changing? Do I feel the difference? Perhaps not. But some changes happen on their own, without our knowing.
Glehni Park. The famous dragon-crocodile — a mandatory photo on the route. There are still about two hours’ walk to St. Peter and St. Paul’s Cathedral of Tallinn. Here is an important point: I made it here. We made it here. Together — even if we have stretched out with an hour’s gap between us.
And then — Nõmme Road. Almost three kilometers straight, without turns, without markers. There is no end in sight. Right here Caspar admitted to himself that he wants to call home and ask to be picked up. The temptation is simple and understandable: you have already covered forty kilometers; these last ones decide nothing. But he held out. Just as everyone who made it to the end held out, because that is the point. Not in kilometers, but in the decision to take the final step when the mind has already found a thousand reasons to stop.
Toompea. The ascent to Alexander Nevsky Cathedral — usually I hardly notice it. Today it is felt in every step. The last stop. The texts call on us to shake the hand of our neighbor and thank him for being there. There is hardly any strength left, and not much desire either. But people begin to extend their hands themselves, and we shake them. In silence. Without words.
There are still a few hundred meters downhill to our St. Peter and St. Paul’s Cathedral of Tallinn. There will be no second wind. But there is something else: a clear, calm feeling that we did this together.
And then — the morning Mass. I look people in the eyes: incredible fatigue and at the same time something quiet, firm — the understanding that all this was not in vain. I almost don’t need to preach a homily. There is no need. Everything has already been said by feet, night, and silence.
What is all this for? This is not a sports competition. Not in order to feel superiority over those who stayed at home. Caspar remembered one thought from the reflection texts, which was important for me as well: if you did not change during this Way of the Cross, then it was just a walk. We walked in order to feel not strength, but weakness. Because it is precisely in weakness — not in prayer at home, not in a comfortable chair, but somewhere on a night road with aching feet — that you truly understand how much you need the Lord God. And you begin to value not moments of triumph, but precisely those minutes when there is nothing left to rely on except faith and the shoulder of the one walking beside you.
Father Igor
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