Summer Break Stories: What Were Your Fellow Students Up To?

The relationship between students and their parents is precious at St. Agnes Academy. It can be taken to the next level by taking a pilgrimage together.

We are so excited to share one of the most inspirational summer break stories from St. Agnes rising Senior, Sophia Bellard. Enjoy this recap of their Marian pilgrimage, as written by Sophia.

By Sophia Bellard, Class of 2025

Dread pooled in my stomach by the time I approached the point of no return, also commonly known as the TSA security check line in Houston’s George Bush Airport. The hour was devastatingly early, yet the voices of the airport employees were alarmingly loud as they belted a litany of orders: Shoes off! Belts off! Liquids out of the bag! Next in line, come on!

The fluorescent lights shining from above made everything seem just a little harsher, only adding to my discomfort as I scrambled for my passport and fumbled for my boarding pass. After what I deemed an unnecessary pat-down (what did they think I would be smuggling in?) I emerged with my family on the other side of the treacherous security check, and with one joint deep breath, we all began our trek to find our gate, which would take us out of Houston and into the foreign land of Montreal.

Now why, you might ask, were we departing for Montreal? Yes, well, Montreal, Canada, marked the beginning of our Marian Pilgrimage, which would last for an eyebrow-raising fourteen days and would cover four different European countries—five, if you count the questionable layover in Rome, Italy.

When my family and I first decided to attend the pilgrimage, I will say I was understandably taken aback; Portugal, Spain, France, and Croatia seemed quite the mouthful to cover in two weeks.

The trip seemed wondrous in theory, but logistically speaking, it sparked some questions as to just how smoothly a schedule as tight-laced as this one could go over well and be enjoyable. Combined with my intrinsic state of being a homebody as well as someone who shies from change, this trip was enough to bolster my heart rate to far north of 100 bpm.

Though, as I sat in the area surrounding my departing gate, I tried and tried to focus on the central message of this pilgrimage, which was to honor Our Lady, and not concentrate on the bird flapping its wings wildly about in my chest and the roar of intrusive thoughts thundering in my mind.

In one exhaustive sigh, however, I remember giving my anxiety and the time I was to spend overseas entirely to Our Lady and asking her to show me, firstly, why she had called me to attend this pilgrimage, and, secondly, for her to shine some divine light on what exactly I ought to be doing with the remainder of my life.

Being that the upcoming school year would be my final year of high school, there were a plethora of decisions to be made regarding my university of choice, what to study while there, and ultimately, what job I would pursue once out of schooling. 

However, this surrender did not quite eradicate the fear that still managed to course through my veins at the thought of boarding the metal tube, which I was supposed to trust to transport us safely into Montreal and then to Portugal. As I made my way on shaky legs to my aisle seat, I comforted myself by the reminder I had attended confession twice in the span of four days before I stepped foot on this plane.

I had figured it was possible the weight of sin could interfere with the cabin pressure and thought it best to be safe rather than sorry. Yes, flying had never been a favorite pastime of mine, though it is only now that I see the Blessed Mother knew this as well, and by the end of this trip, my fear of flying ended up dwindling down to a steady number five on a scale of ten (much preferred to my previous number of eleven).

It was up, up, and away for our plane, and soon we were landing safely in Montreal and then milling about the airport as we had a whopping seven-hour layover until our next flight into Portugal. Then it was onto the plane that would take us six hours to our destination, where I did not catch a wink of sleep since, of course, I needed to be awake lest the slightest problem occur on the aircraft.

Touchdown in Portugal led to a bleary-eyed bus ride through Lisbon and then onto Fatima. June 14, the day of our arrival in Fatima, might very well have been the most exhausted I have ever been in the entirety of my seventeen years of existence. My eyes refused to focus on any object; I would nod off if sitting or standing, and when I finally collapsed onto the hotel bed, I slept through dinner that night and was awoken on Saturday morning utterly confused as to where I was or what was happening.

Though I woke up mighty dazed and bewildered, I woke up in the beautiful city of Fatima and experienced the beginning of a spiritual renaissance, if you will, that would continue on throughout the remainder of the pilgrimage.

In Fatima, I felt as though there was a palpable reverence that could be felt in the very air that offered a cool breeze and in the passing smiles between fellow pilgrims, a universal show of goodwill uninhibited by language barriers.

Perhaps what touched me most profoundly were the several people I witnessed participating in the Walk to Our Lady, where they crawled on their knees to the Chapel of Apparitions. The act of crawling, of willingly inflicting pain upon oneself for the greater purpose of penance, as opposed to human tendencies, was absolutely striking to see.

The ensuing rosary procession that night also felt vividly alive with the joint worship of so many people from different corners of the world, joining together in unanimous prayer. The thousands of lit candles seemed to reflect the many stars in the sky, creating an atmosphere of peace unbeknownst to me.

Our journey continued the next morning out of Fatima and into the city of Santiago de Compostela, a city I did not expect to be fond of as much as I was. The primary landmark in Santiago was the “Way of St. James,” which concluded in the foyer outside of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.

Upon hearing about the “Way of St. James,” it is now a goal I have made for myself to complete before I graduate college with my aunt Dee. While the cathedral was breathtaking and brimming with history, what stood out most to me that day was the company I enjoyed while in Santiago. 

As was the general consensus by the conclusion of the trip, Johnny Herrera knows everything, and for the first time of many, I bore witness to this as he showed us to a quaint restaurant and aided us in ordering a myriad of mouth-watering delicacies.

Following the mass, our beloved tour guide Christopher led his band of misfits and adventurers along the scenic route to return back to our hotel, which included glimpsing a gorgeous view of the cathedral and, of course, a stop for ice cream.

The walk back also gave way to conversations with Fr. Christopher regarding my college plans and future, which I am unable to express my gratitude for, as having a supportive and reassuring voice amidst internal chaos is a priceless gift.

Boarding the infamous bus once again, we left for Avila, the cacophony of coughs and laughter filling the entirety of the automobile. Oh, the hours spent on the various buses, filled with delirium, hysteria, and rosaries, proved to be some of the times where I laughed with such force that I had to double over. [Deacon Gus, if you are reading this, my book was indeed approved by the Vatican; Fr. Christopher signed off on it. Thank you very much.]

Once in Avila, my eyes widened at the great wall that enclosed parts of the city, and I marveled at the convent where St. Theresa entered her religious life. Departing once again with Christopher on another venture, I accompanied him and my dad to a barbershop, where Bobby’s hair was once and for all taken good care of.

For the second time, Johnny knew everything and led us to a spectacular steakhouse where my family and I made the fortunate mistake of ordering two T-bone steaks, which ended up being enough to send us all into a satisfied, deep meat coma for the remainder of the day.

Then, it was off to Zaragoza, home of the Basilica del Pilar, which contained the spot in which Our Lady appeared to St. James and instructed him to erect a church to allow for worship. The story that followed the Basilica de Pilar proved a beguiling tale for me, as I found it quite fascinating how, at the time of the apparition, Our Lady was still alive in Jerusalem yet still appeared to St. James, establishing the first Marian apparition.

The interior of the basilica has yet to return my breath to me, as I audibly gasped when I entered. The Baroque architecture of the church evoked such grandeur and awe as my head spun on a swivel to take in the many ornate frescoes painted by esteemed Spanish artist Francisco Goya.

Also, the very fact that the basilica had been safe from the two bombs dropped on it during the Spanish Civil War only served as more of a jaw-dropper as to its magnificence. Another very bright highlight of the stay in Zaragoza was the absolutely illustrious hotel that we slept overnight in, which surely was one of my favorites.

The next morning, we were ambling onto the bus to leave for Lourdes and dusting off our Bonjour! and Merci!.

Though I have heard countless stories detailing the miracles that took place in Lourdes and learned its history many times over in theology classes, nothing quite matched stepping foot into the city. It felt breathing and visceral in a way I had only experienced one other place to be, Medjugorje, and being there simply felt right.

Many bottles of the miraculous water were filled (enough to bring our suitcases dangerously close to being overweight at the airport), and I was able to touch the stones of the grotto where Our Lady appeared to St. Bernadette, as well as pray and attend confession in the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes.

That night, rain darkened the sky, wetted the grounds, and chilled the twilight air, yet still, the candlelight rosary procession continued on. Nature’s blockades of an outdoor procession proved to only be stepping stones for the pilgrims of Lourdes, as the ceremony seemed almost more beautiful and sincere because of the adverse weather, because standing in the cold and rain was certainly not comfortable. Yet, despite the challenges, together we all stood, candles shining brightly, though rain fell in sheets around us.

From there, we were en route to the lively city of Barcelona, which housed the Sagrada Familia, accredited to Antoni Gaudi, which is set to reach completion at the very latest next week. The church was stunning in its simplicity and surely was a work of architectural genius that I still marvel about as I sit here, writing this today.

I was also privileged to be able to read during the mass on my mom’s birthday, which, as always, was a wonderful blessing. The dinners in Barcelona were as delicious as they were entertaining; not to mention, the hotel landed a close second to my favorite in Zaragoza. 

The morning following contained quite the day: a trip from Barcelona to Dubrovnik by way of plane, my dearest form of transportation. It was then that I remember expressing to Fr. Christopher my many rambling questions about flying: What is the likelihood of a crash? Just how safe are planes, really? How do planes withstand turbulence?

While many have written off my questions as witless and frankly told me not to worry about them, Fr. Christopher took time to address each inquiry, and lo and behold, I found myself gradually tapering down this once wild fear of flying.

As we all boarded the plane to Dubrovnik, I boarded with newfound knowledge to aid my nervousness: a plane can withstand two times the amount of turbulence, the safety measures of the aircraft are triple, sometimes quadruple checked, flying was, more often than not, much safer than driving, and frozen turkeys were thrown into the engines to test their strength and integrity (this debunked the “bird strike” fear I gained from watching Sully).

So, as I sat in my seat for once, I sank back into the cushions and did not grip the armrests for dear life upon takeoff. Two hours later, we were welcomed into the balmy city of Dubrovnik and herded onto a bus that would drive us to our final stop, Medjugorje.

As for many who attended this pilgrimage, I believe Medjugorgie was a large motivator to commit to the journey. Around five years ago, I visited Medjugorje for the first time, and truthfully, I never really felt as though I recovered from what I can only describe as a spiritual hangover that took place for me while there.

As I entered Medjugorje for the second time, it was as though a bolt of electricity shot up my leg, throughout my body, then finally electrified my heart, shocking it to start again, setting it to a new rhythm that was synced with the gentle voice of Our Lady and her messages.

Following dinner that night, the opportunity arose to take the small walk down to the church and join in the Eucharistic Adoration that was exposed due to it being the 43rd anniversary of Our Lady’s Apparitions there.

My mom, whose heart resides in the abode of Medjugorje, took off in the direction of the church, leaving us all walking as quickly as we could in our attempts to follow. What exactly I expected when I approached the outdoor adoration, I am not certain; however, nothing could have prepared me for the scene of thousands of people gathered, singing in one collective voice, heads bowed, and knees bent in fervent prayer.

I knelt not of my own free will but rather by what felt more like compulsion, like reflex, as I saw the Blessed Sacrament. It was as if my body had a physical reaction, as if my knees knew their only position ought to be bent at the sight of something so tangibly holy before me.

Often, in the frenzy of our daily lives and the absence of isolated time for prayer, Catholicism can seem dull; it can seem unalive, and we must rely on our faith since we are not able to see what wonders our religion contains. The same cannot be said while in Medjugorje. There, the air crackles with energy and sweet life, the sky shines brighter, the sun sparkles brilliantly, and you know, you know undoubtedly that something is truly happening, that you are a witness to a miracle that cannot be explained, that defies all scientific precepts and human ration.

I have never felt as alive as I do in Medjugorje; my emotions are heightened, my breaths come easier, my hands are stronger to help others if needed, and my heart swells in size. Be it trekking up Apparition Hill or simply sitting alone before the statue of Our Lady, where Adoration is held, my spirituality seems piqued, stimulated by what is happening around me, or rather, by who is at work around me. Truly, I do not think there is ever a right time to leave Medjugorje; any amount of time feels just a little too short. You wish for one more day and then to be there for the remainder of your days.

Alas, the show must go on, and to the Split airport we drove, preparing for our late-night departure to Rome. After a slight delay, we were shuffled outside and stood in line to board the plane, watching as aircrafts took off into the sky, reminding me very much of Top Gun, well, minus the theme music and Tom Cruise's aviator glasses-clad face.

Once again reassured at the safety of the plane, I relaxed into my seat, utterly impressed with myself for not having a single bout of nervousness while up in the air. The plane landed, and we all dragged our feet through the airport, to the baggage claim, and eventually to the bus that awaited us.

Generally, morale seemed rather low, which, given the less-than-ideal circumstances of it being past midnight and returning home flights scheduled for that very morning, was reasonable. Arrival at the hotel boasted one more lovely surprise: the water was not working, which meant no showers, no brushing of teeth, no washing of faces, and no cleanliness.

Normally, this might have seemed like an inconsequential hindrance; however, after sweating profusely while climbing Apparition Hill, a shower was needed not only for personal pleasure but also for the sake of the olfactory nerves of others in the vicinity.

I can only interpret that encumbrance as an evil ploy for us pilgrims to forget the many graces bestowed upon us while traveling and undermine the great joy we felt throughout our journey. For a moment, this mishap did exactly that; I could have collapsed in delirious tears while in the lobby waiting for my room key. However, as difficult as it was at the moment, I tried my hardest to focus on the good: we were all able to eventually take showers, we had a bed to sleep on, and there was a roof over our heads along with food to wake up to the next morning.

The next morning, after sleep restored my good nature, I packed my suitcase and backpack for the final time, reminiscing about all the memories I had made with each article of clothing I folded.

To be candid, this pilgrimage was not necessarily something I had looked forward to; the logistics stressed me much more than the possibility of an amazing time excited me. Though I found, as I hauled my luggage down to the lobby, that there was a certain unshakeable sadness that had taken root in me at the thought of returning home.

Here I had made friends, seen holy sites that astounded me, laughed until my cheeks were sore, came just a little closer to discerning what I should do during college through poignant conversations, and felt my heart open wider to accommodate all the wonderful people that surrounded me.

This pilgrimage changed me in ways that I could have never imagined. It showed me that perhaps the most valuable treasures lie beyond the hill that you are afraid to cross, but once you do, you find that not only was the trek not so bad, but also that fear often stands in the way of fortune. My faith was revitalized by the multitude of religious buildings and sites we were able to visit, and I returned home inspired to maintain the spiritual high that I had felt while on the trip. 

After hours of travel, I sat in the back of my dad’s truck, finally on familiar highways, and on the way to stop at the quintessential American landmark: Whataburger. I was home, free to speak English to anyone I might come across and request ice in any of my beverages.

My ambivalence towards my return lingers to this very day. Of course, I am grateful to be back to my normal life, yet I am still left craving the friendships I made, the experiences I lived, and the spiritual gifts bestowed upon me through careful time in prayer.

I suppose the only solution is this one: we have to do this again next year!

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What an amazing story of perseverance to complete the pilgrimage and strengthen her faith. We appreciate Sophia for being open and honest in sharing her reflections and challenges throughout the journey.

We want to hear from you! Do you have some summer break stories you’d like to share? Want to be featured on the St. Agnes website? Contact us today with your story.