Summer 2017

The paper lanterns glowed in front of him by candle flame amidst the backdrop of the old Roman Chateau in the French woodland river valley. Footsteps and wheelchairs wrapped around the asphalt of the sanctuary’s center greenery. The basilica granite towers shone a soft effervescent yellow as the clock on the upper spire struck 8:00pm that Friday night. There in the clear starlight, the bells chimed a familiar tune written on the thousands of Tuscan colored paper lantern shades, carried by hands young and old from many corners of the world. The pilgrims' call and response seemed to steady his nerves as he waited in turn for the microphone. The laminate printout of the words he was to say were ones that he had heard, recited, and thumbed through many times before. Ever since the second grade when his family went “church shopping” and began to pray prayers as a child he had since then never heard before.

As he fiddled with the laminate paper, his hands clammy and nervous, he took a step to the microphone, his voice cracking but putting every ounce of his heart into this purpose. He looked down to read, his voice was about to be projected across the outer sanctuary square, to hit the ears of many pilgrims on this calm serene night. He wanted to be sure not to miss a beat, as now it was time for the English decade after the French prayed the first mystery.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed are thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

The words of Gabriel and Elizabeth from Luke’s Gospel seemed to rattle off the printed sheet. The prayer, steady and simple, seemed to bring hope to so many in this small town in the Pyrenees.

“Ten times, then back to stand in front of the basilica doors.”

He remembered the words from the priest directing the recitees. Then would come the Spanish decade, followed by the Polish, and closed off with the Latin. So many pilgrims from so many places, all searching for hope and healing in this small town of Lourdes and he, David, was to be part of it.

After the decades and songs, the nurses rolled their pilgrims back to the hospitals across the river walks, a light chatter filled the night as groups from across the continent and world dispersed. Separated from his stagiaire group which helped guide the procession while he stood center stage, David decided to walk down the basilica steps around the corner to his left, over to the grotto of the riverside cave to recollect the night. The nerves had gotten so much of him that it was hard to pray most of the evening. Before going to bed, he thought he would catch but one sliver of silence. There in the grotto, a few more pilgrims were scattered about the seats, seeming to have the same thought as he.

Just before the procession, David saw a family with a little girl, older brother, and father in tow. The little girl seemed to lead the way through the square, as the family prepared to pray. Being able to pick out their English amidst the white noise of so many other languages foreign to him speaking, David overheard their conversation with another family in their group.

"We were here two summers ago, as the cancer was a new reality for our family, then we lost Jenni, we just felt there was no better place she’d want us to be . . .” the Father seemed to say.

“Mommy told us always to stay grateful and give thanks to God, no matter if she stayed sick or not,” interjected the little girl, wide-eyed and looking up at the mother of the other family.

Her older brother seemed without words, a little more shrunk-shouldered, a little more quiet and behind the scenes. The image of this family still pressed on David’s mind now in the candlelit grotto. He went straight up the wooden guardrail and knelt at the mother of Jesus’s feet.

“Jesus, I pray for all those who have ever lived and have lost mothers too early in this world, may they come to see your desire to give your own mother to them. May she, your mother here, lead them to your very heart, on whom the whole world and every soul that has ever lived, depends.”

Once his prayer was finished, David opened his eyes. He looked up at the foundation of the church above him, built off the sheer granite rock above the grotto and finished in 1871. As a student in structural engineering, he marveled at its construction. How the church seemed but to hang off the edge of the cliff, how he felt less at its feet and more underneath its grand façade. It looked like one of those grande castles in the many novels he read as a kid, like a ship set off to sea, faring to some great enterprise, some great destiny. David turned to his drawstring and pulled out his journal, scribbling a random thought. 

“As we work and work to put rockets in the sky, we forget the incredible work of men who labored for the God who came to earth, for the God that draws nigh.”

Having spent a week here at this shrine, David could see God was clearly present. In the faith of the people, the Masses and prayers, in the work of the nurses, the volunteers, and the fatherhood of the priests.

In 1851, one hundred and sixty-six years prior, Mary appeared here to a fourteen-year-old girl named Bernadette in the most unlikely of places, in this cave across the river outside the town of this old valley. The miraculous spring which sprung forth from her appearances, along with prayer and the sacraments, has brought miraculous healing since then to so many. Still to this day, many doctors can’t explain the events, healings, and spiritual awakenings that have happened here.

Pilgrims still come in flocks on trains, the sick looking for healing. The elderly from dioceses and corners in Europe; with priests, bishops, sisters, young people, married couples, and families from across the continent to the Americas and Asia and beyond. All looking for God and a chance to learn from his earthly mother, the humble woman of Nazareth, on how to accept his will in their lives amidst a world that has grown weary and unfond.

For the whole week, David had a front-row seat to the shrine and all the action. He carried the disabled off the trains, helped at the baths by the river, pushed the wheelchairs of the handicapped around, carried the cross in the nightly processions, cleaned the hospital suites, and attended many of the Masses to pray, while also watching guard for anyone seeking to steal the Eucharist or to cause any trouble or deceit. Now tonight, he had even led thousands in prayer as the end of many’s weekly pilgrimage was coming to a close.

“I must build my life upon the Church and its great enterprise . . . A life modeled after Mary.” David thought, as he walked along the river and across the square.

David had come to be known in his family for these great outbursts of fervent thought and prayer. Tonight though, an ocean away from his family, he took a moment after praying at the cave’s grotto, to stop in the middle of the square. New pilgrims, who had begun trickling in before the weekend, passed by him on their way to exit the shrine. They had only yet received a glimpse of the peace which would fall upon them here throughout the upcoming week. Tonight though was David’s last night, and he had prepared one last time to visit and pay his thanks to the mother of Jesus.

Here, in the center of the shrine’s square, arose a statue of Mary on a gray granite pillar facing towards the dual basilicas to the west. Mary, a woman crowned with gold as queen of her son’s Davidic line. She seemed so joyful as her eyes gazed with love, facing towards and fixed on the churches holding her son. Her hands were folded in prayer, a light blue sash was tied around her waist, and roses were at her feet. Her prayer seemed to almost lift her upward onto the tiptoes of her feet.

Town cobblestones echoed. The shrine was closing for the night, but as one of its volunteers, a stagiaire for the Hospitalité Notre Dame de Lourdes, David’s bunk was in the inner quarters of the shrine.  Each morning of the past week, David had woken up early to walk the shrine before the gates opened, to catch the sunrise and take in the roar and rush of the river amidst the quiet morning breeze. One of the mornings, the sunrise coming from the east colored the misty air around him a golden yellow as he passed by this statue of Mary crowned and in prayer. Looking up upon her praying; the streets, restaurants, shops, hotel rooftops, and the old Roman Chateau in the foreground; David had a realization,

“She is teaching us how to worship, how to always face her son, how to pray and receive the joy of his life, how to be lifted up into the mystery of the love of God.”

Every day since then, at the volunteer Mass offered in the Chappelle Saint Jean Marie Vianney in a building to the right of this statue on the outskirts of the square, David would look out the window to his left from the second-floor chapel to see this statue of Mary, a woman almost shoulder to shoulder to the rest of them, facing her son and the altar, teaching them how to worship, holding steadily the joyful posture of prayer. He had made a point each Mass to imitate her as she worshiped her son.

Tonight, being the last night he had to look upon her, he decided to lay a candle and single rose at her feet in thanksgiving.

Tomorrow he will pack his bags, but not yet for home and life on the ranch in the plains of Oklahoma. The whole summer was still ahead of him. First, will be Spain for four weeks to take summer classes, and then five days of pilgrimage in Rome. Then finally home on the ranch to help his family. Come August will be another semester of engineering.

“Don’t forget these moments David.”

“Don’t let these graces subside.”

A voice seemed to whisper in the night as he left the statue and made his way towards his quarters. When he got to his bunk, he took off the brown leather and tan wool shoulder straps designating him as a stagiaire for the week. With his hands, now dry and no longer clammy, he rummaged through his duffle bag again and swept over his locker one final time to be sure all was packed. Looking at the crucifix on the shelf he purchased at one of the shops in town earlier in the week, David said a quick prayer.

Then, getting in his sleeping bag spread out across the plastic-lined mattress, and turning his head on his pillow, he looked out the window upon the old Roman Chateau, closed his eyes, examined his day, and fell quickly to sleep amidst the sound of the river below, under watch of the stars on this mild French summer night.