Borrowed Prayer

Wouldn’t we all like a miracle? A message from the cosmos? Something to tell us there was a point to it all? It wouldn’t take much. A wink from a statue or a bottomless basket of bread. It would give such comfort. God exists and we needn’t be afraid. We don’t just turn into dirt. Even a visit from a ghost or martian would be welcome. Wouldn’t we all like proof?

When I was eleven or twelve, I read the book, “The Song of Bernadette” It was at a time when I still considered sainthood as a viable career option and I thought it could be instructive. I got a few good tips but the book also spooked me. For months after, I entered empty rooms with caution in case the Virgin Mary was in a corner. I would spin around unexpectedly in case she was behind me. I spied out the places where she might appear. On top of the piano and the chicken coop roof seemed most likely and I checked them regularly. I was half afraid and half hopeful that she would materialize but she never did.

The story goes that In 1858, the Virgin Mary appeared 18 times to Bernadette. On one visit, she asked her to drink water from a non-existent spring. To the horror of the neighbours, Bernadette scooped up some soil and ate it. The following day, water flowed from that spot and this is the miraculous spring that draws thousands to Lourdes today. Bernadette became a nun but was always sickly and died young. She was dug up 30 years after her death and her body hadn’t decayed very much. She was incorrupt. This cinched her nomination for sainthood and naturally she was put on display for the public to gawk. She still is and we went to see her in Nevers.

It’s hard to make religious sites accommodating for tourists without getting tacky. Most don’t succeed. I expected the Disneyland atmosphere of Lourdes when we arrived but Nevers was suspiciously low profile. In fact, we struggled to find the church at all. Like most places in France, it was closed when we wanted to visit and was deserted except for a fat man in a parka who hurried from one door to another jangling his keys. The whole place appeared rather scuffed and worn and had the signs of a foolish rebranding campaign. A new laser cut, stainless steel logo was hung on the wall, “Espace Bernadette.” ESPACE was in Roman Capital letters but her signature was used for the word Bernadette. It looked like the name of the restaurant at a swanky hotel.

We walked around a parking lot filled with a clumsy collection of buildings. Usually buildings have a parking lot but this was the other way around. Originally a handsome old convent, the complex had evolved to accommodate the Bernadette attraction and lost all harmony in the process.. At the entrance, there was a small building with the shutters drawn. I peered inside. Shelves lined the walls stacked with a jumble of statues, rosaries, fridge magnets, postcards, honey, and sweets. A few steps further was a portable cabin of the sort generally found on construction sites. A large i topped the roof but nobody was inside. Passing that, we came to a cave erected on the pavement. It was like the caves made for bears in zoos. I thought it was convincingly done in fibreglass but was contradicted by a sign that said it was made from actual rocks taken from Lourdes. Candles were burning inside. Crouching next to the cave was a church. A sign with the word “Bernadette” pointed at the door but it was locked. The next building claimed to be a museum. Surprisingly it was open.

The exhibit began with a large panel entitled, “the first apparition” It told Bernadette’s story in her own words. It was sweet. A showcase displayed her snuff box, her little cardigan, and some early souvenirs of the shrine. I walked on expecting to see more panels for the second, third, fourth etc apparition but there weren’t any more. Somehow a first implied there would be others.

The next room was papered with photos of smiling poor people from third world countries. Small glass cylinders were set into the wall. Museums use these sort of gadgets to give the visitor an interactive experience and usually I avoid them. Each cylinder contained a quotation from Bernadette. With a spin you could have the german or english translation. They were meant to inspire but Bernadette didn’t have the knack of the soundbite. They sounded to me like the vaguely precocious quips of a cheerful but rather dim-witted girl.

“Bernadette was seen laughing after mass one day, We enquired what it was that she found so amusing, She replied, “One of the nuns prays with her eyes closed. Why does she shut her eyes when they’re meant to be open?”

“Mary appeared to me because I was ignorant. If somebody else had been more ignorant than me, she would’ve appeared to her.”

Clunk.

In the last room a spiral notebook lay on a table with a pen. A plexiglass cartoon balloon floated above containing the words, “notes to bernadette” in comic sans. I resisted contemplating the logistics of this. Nobody was around so I furtively opened the book and began reading. There were french, german and english handwritten notes. Everyone used the same formal format; a greeting to Bernadette, the message, the valediction, and a signature. To my surprise, they were mostly requests for medical assistance. I was confused by this and then remembered the whole Lourdes thing.

Dear Bernadette,
Please heal my brother in law, Ray. He has cancer of the throat.
Best wishes,
June Goobey.

These were sincere and moving little prayers. More specifically, they were courteous requests for miracles. Maybe you just had to ask politely. I wondered if they got them. Did Ray die? If so, does June tell people Bernadette is a phoney? Life and death situations might be the wrong time to ask for a miracle. I thought Bernadette must dread getting this in the post – or however she gets it.

Back outside, I saw the fat man again and realized it must be opening time. I followed the arrow and entered the church. A large glass box was in a front chapel behind a iron fence. It was framed with gold and gold birds flew above like the box where Snow White slept after taking a bite of the poison apple. Inside this box was a very small woman dressed in a nun’s habit. She lay on a pillow with her hands clasped in prayer. A sign on the wall informed us that these were the actual remains of Bernadette but her hands and face were covered with a thin layer of wax. An iron-stomached frenchman did this work in 1925. He was very talented. On first impression Bernadette did appear to have an extra finger but a count gave the customary ten. I examined her face. She was very lifelike. In fact, she didn’t look dead at all. To tell the truth, she looked beautiful. She was unimaginably lovely and serene. She looked like a princess waiting for one kiss.

I stared at her face. It was strangely magnetic. I tried to look away but my eyes were drawn back.. She had fine eyebrows, a delicate nose and her cheeks blushed softly pink as in sleep. It seemed she would wake any moment. The longer I stared the more I actually did want her to wake. My girlhood yearning for a miracle came back. I wanted her to open her eyes or yawn or sit up. It really seemed she could. Did her eyelid just flutter? I concentrated on her face and willed her to move. Nothing happened. I said, “Could you move, please?” No reaction. It was frustrating. I wanted to shake the tiny french nun and shout, “Get up! I want proof!”

Dim winter light filtered through the windows and it was very peaceful. People came in and went out. I’d exhausted my ability to will Bernadette awake and was out of courteous phrases. There would be no miracle this day. I shrugged sheepishly and got up to go. Suddenly I remembered one of the prayers in the museum notebook. I turned to Bernadette and spoke it softly outloud.

Dear Bernadette,
Accompany me through my daily life so that I may not fall into sin,
Sincerely, Ivan.

Bernadette didn’t stir but I realized I was smiling. That seemed like a reasonable request to make of a saint. I may not have seen a miracle but as I left the church,  I had a tiny feeling that Bernadette walked invisibly by my side.