Returned from an alternate universe.

I have seen God, people.

(How's that for a lead?)

You see, I've been to the land of Medjugorje, a once sleepy little village in the mountains of Bosnia. In 1981 The Virgin Mother of Christ, aka The Blessed Mother, aka Our Lady, appeared to a group of teenagers and gave them messages. Word spread fast, the communists henchmen went after the kiddies but didn't get them because a holy Franciscan priest named Father Jozo, a man known to many as "a living saint," a man who was totally skeptical about the apparitions, hid the kids away. He got picked up, jailed and tortured, and now he runs a home for 5500 orphaned girls--throwaways from the war.

The story goes that Our Lady of Medjugorje continues to come down from heaven every day at 6:40 p.m. The teenagers are all moms and dads now, but a couple of them are still receiving messages. It's the only place on earth that she continues to visit, they say.

And by "they" I mean a gajillion and a half faithful Catholics, mostly from Ireland, Italy and Croatia, with a handful of Canadians, French, Americans, Polish thrown in. The Church doesn't officially recognize the place as an apparition site, unlike Lourdes, Fatima, Knock, to name a few, but they can't even begin to investigate until Herself quits showing up. House rules.

So I rolled into town, skeptical journalist and skeptical believer that I am, at the urging of a very dear friend of mine who has very dear friends who live there. They didn't know I was coming, they knew nothing about me, but when I asked the lady at a tour agency in town about them, she rang them up--had them on speed dial. "Honey, come home," they said, and rushed to pick me up. I only meant to spend the day, perhaps a night. Five days later, it was hard to leave.

I hung out with priests and nuns and lots of Irish and Italians who pray the rosary more than my Grandma does. We went to mass twice a day, said the Divine Mercies at 3 p.m., did the stations of the cross up a friggin' mountain before dawn, ate only bread and water two days of the week, went to the evening service that lasted from 6 to 11 p.m. and included mass, adoration, the rosary, confession if you wanted. . . . Holy Mother of God! (I confessed to an Irish priest who was a dead ringer for Teddy Kennedy. Can you imagine? Confessing your sins to Teddy Kennedy?)

It got to be a bit much by the fifth day, honestly, but these people were so loving and so accepting and so devoted and kind, it was hard to leave. They put me up, they washed my clothes, they fed me, they blessed me, they hugged me and kissed me and petted my face, they prayed over me, they brought me to Father Jozo who gave me a special blessing: "We love journalists. Be a beautiful journalist," he said. The Blessed Mother has come down from heaven to tell you that she loves you just as you are, they said first thing when we met. Yikesaroony. That's love, people.

And so all the pilgrims and the messages and the apparition and the validity of any of it is entirely beside the point, as far as I'm concerned. There's a whole lotta love in that strange little protected place. And that, to me, is all the God I need to know or see or feel with my heart of hearts.

Today I arrived in Sarajevo and it's astounding to be here. Bosnians are remarkable. It's their custom to treat visitors like family. Why that horrendous war happened here, I'll never understand. It was and is becoming again such a vibrant, diverse place. Mosques next to Orthodox churches next to Roman Catholic churches next to discos. The sound of church bells ring out along with the call to prayer. Can you imagine? Not too long ago there was nothing here but the sound of sniper's shots and bombs. The whole city was shut down. International journalists holed up in the Holiday Inn and an underground tunnel to the airport was the only connection to the outside world.

Word on the street is Our Lady of Medjugorje has said only prayer and fasting can stop war. Hmm. I believe we have to transform our own hearts--find and make peace within ourselves--before we can make a larger impact to effect change in the world, to stop war. But those of us who have the privilege, the knowledge, the ability to be peacemakers. . . . well it has to be up to us to act, doesn't it? And not just by sitting at home praying the rosary and eating bread and water, methinks. I guess we all must have our own beginnings.

I think mine is here. Seeing it for myself. Getting closer to an experience that is so far removed from my own. And struggling with trying to figure out what I can do about making it not happen again. How's that for a tall order?