Roses in March

There are many places in this world, many I have seen, that are remarkable, unforgettable, and even contain miraculous articles. But my second home, the home of my heart, is Lourdes, France.
I have been to Lourdes three times since October, 2012. I am now so familiar with it that last September I spent five days and five nights alone there. But there, I am never alone.
When you stand before the Grotto itself, especially if you pray the rosary in French (as I do) at 3:30PM every day, there is a power that is so great no one can deny it. Now: what is this power? Is it the residual consciousness of all the millions of people who visit; is it their faith that creates a palpable “presence”; is it the Holy Spirit; is it the Blessed Mother, herself, whose presence is so real that I anticipate her, hear her, sense her? I called her the “Blessed Mommy” when I was a very young child and someday, in another article, I may share what happened between us when I was age five. Here, I share what happens between us when I am at home, in Lourdes, with her.
I have walked the quite difficult Stations of the Cross; I have been to the baths; I have attended Mass in the underground Church that was flooded and almost destroyed in June, 2013; the waters rose so high that they obliterated the rows of benches facing the Grotto itself. I have followed the procession of the Holy Eucharist which begins at 5PM. The torchlight Procession, beginning at 9PM, is an experience so profound that I could only address it in poetry. The one constant aspect of it is the “Ave Maria” sung between the decades. The procession begins at the Grotto and follows the Statue of Mary down one side of the long path from the main gate to the Grotto, and back again. With each “Ave” sung, everyone raises a candle. And the procession continues, following the loop, going back (slowly but surely, because there are thousands of people present) to the Grotto itself where the statue is then returned. One cannot compare this experience to anything in one’s lifetime. I have seen Pope Francis, I have attended Mass at Notre Dame, Sacre Coer, St. Peter’s Basilica, Nevers, Lisieux, Milan, Florence, etc. but not one of those experiences, even though each one was an amazing blessing, compares to this procession.
My testimony is surely required, and the reason that I write. She is there. I feel her – her presence, her great love, her intercession. She is real, not a figment of anyone’s imagination, nor a fable created by wishful thinking or poor exegesis, nor is she the delusion of a child, any child (including myself) but, in this case, Bernadette Soubirous.
My hotel last September was a narrow but quite beautiful place. My room overlooked the mid-section of the Shrine, where the procession could easily be seen and heard. There are no screens on windows and terrace doors in Europe. Each night I would open my terrace doors. As I lay in bed, I would see the flicker of candlelight and hear the rosary being said and see the see the candles being raised. It is the perfect lullaby. For the first time in years, I slept with total peace. I slept in the arms of my Mother. And I can’t stay away long. I will be there again in April, 2016, for one week.
If you are able (and this is not an easy journey, it is one day from JFK Airport to Tarbres Pyrenees Airport, and one day back again), I urge you to make this pilgrimage. We are strangers in a strange land, but our Mother has us all by the hand.