Today is February 18, 2012, the third Saturday of the month when I usually attend our Simbang Gabi Prayer Group Meetings. Since our meeting was postponed, I had time to go through some of my things stored in the garage. And in one of the boxes, I found a small Journal where I wrote an experience way back in 1977 which I am transcribing "verbatim"- word for word as written and sharing with you.
APRIL, 26, 1977 - LOURDES
Two things occupied my mind on the morning of my departure from Lourdes to Paris - to attend Mass at the grotto or to see the wax museum reportedly the only in the world on religion. As I lackadaisically went about through breakfast and toothbrushing, it dawned on me that my attendance of Mass at the grotto would be a fitting way to end my pilgrimage than a cursory visit there to say, "Goodbye" after the trip to the wax museum. It was not actually a tug-of-war decision but, somehow, the choices left open for me caused some uneasiness to make. Beguiled by optimism, I reserved the museum stint for next time. Planning a next visit??? Ha..ha..ha.
I hurried down the steps of the Residence St. Thomas d' Aquin, a five-storey building run by the Sisters of Charity, to catch the 9:30 A.M. Mass at the grotto. As I made a right turn to the Boulevard St. Bernadette Soubirous, the street directly leading to the grotto grounds, I took an endearing look at my hotel, er, dormitory with the brick chimney and a quintet of gables surrounding it. Consoled with childish excitement over the thought of staying in a room, a gabled room at that, overlooking the basilica, I sauntered on humming the "Ave Maria" on the way. By the way, if one sings off-key, does one hum off-key, too? Not particularly anxious to know the answer to the question that crossed my mind and afraid that such a reply would be in the affirmative, I shrugged my shoulders and sang the tune instead. Brave enough to sing, yes, because the person following and before me were about fifty yards away.
The vast expanse of mountains green with dense forests and rolling plains, nourished by the rippling, sometimes gushing, waters of the River Gave and the white Byzantine steeples of the basilica all presented an atmosphere of love and serenity unequalled by any I have so far seen. I surveyed the scenery and my eyes feasted on it while my heart and soul gave way to a sense of suspended animation where it was easy to fall back to one's Dreamland- forever. The towering basilica glistened in the sunlight on this bright Tuesday morning while birds kept chirping among the trees which lined the plaza of the Church of the Most Holy Rosary. Yes, the basilica is dedicated to the Rosary of which the Blessed Lady talked so much about in Her apparitions.
The winding esplanade, multi-tiered church with its ornately-carved doors and richly-mosaic walls, delicately textured arches and marble statuetts all give proof to an era of aesthetic finesse and architectural excellence, multiplied and amplified. Deep in my heart I knew it would be extremely difficult to duplicate such an age. But suddenly, I remembered the trite and hackneyed expression, "History repeats itself." When? How? The Golden Age of Pericles and ancient history's Renaissance flashed back in my thoughts and with it, a query- "Is it possible to have a Modern Renaissance? When? How?" If, as others claim, the work of Impressionists herald the coming of a Renaissance, then, brother, give me back the age of Rome and the gods of Mount Olympus!
The chant of the assemblage before the Grotto snapped me back to the Twentieth Century and as I made the turn towards the place which is on the left side of the church if one is standing infront of it, I saw a sweltering crowd with even some people on the other side of the river attending the services. You see, the River Gave which St. Bernadette tried to cross by foot runs right infront of the Grotto with only some 20 or so yards between them. The action of flowing water for a score and a hundred years must have deepened its depth and widened its borders. For now, Gave seem to be around thirty to fifty meters from one side to the other and for its depth, I would not venture a guess. It would be safe to surmise that the river must be several fathoms deep since the placid points between swirling, gushing waters as in a maelstrom were few and far between. I noted how seemingly still the river was infront of the Grotto! It is, however, better to recall that when St. Bernadette witnessed the first apparition on February 11, 1858, she was preparing to cross the river on foot to gather wood and dry bones on the opposite bank. How shallow it must have been! And now, a multitude of humanity lined its opposite bank following the rituals of the concelebrated Mass.
"It must be a special Mass for the sick," I whispered to myself as I slowed down my steps approaching the Grotto. The whole area was a sight to behold - so touching and impressive that I could not hold back my tears. Rows and rows of the sick, aged and infirm on stretchers and wheelchairs with their blue parasol-like awnings as protection from the spring sun were participating in the solemn offering of the Mass. The white flowing caps and distinctive Red Cross pins of immaculately attired attendants behind each patient further dramatized the aura of sadness and hope intertwined in that tableau which has made an indelible imprint in my mind. Only courage forged on the anvil of faith, unwavering faith, could have sustained these unfortunate brethren through all the difficulties encountered via train or airplane rides. I recalled how much of a test it was for me, one who is fortunately endowed with both limbs and adequate strength, to survive a ten-hour train trip from Paris to Lourdes. How difficult I experienced it to be so as to vow never to take the railway trip again despite the enticing savings of at least half the plane ticket. And to think that most of these mained patients and those afflicted with debilitating diseases came on a pilgrimage by train and from all indications would of necessity be homeward bound through the same means. I felt miserable and ashamed inside me! My heart sank at the thought of how disconcertingly aggrieved and selfish I had been and like a thunderbolt, I realized the gravity of the train situation to these helpless ones! Whereas at the train terminal I only took a quick look at the disembarking patients and the clusters of Red Cross volunteers who met them with stretchers and wheelchairs for I was totally preoccupied with pulling my two pieces of luggage, now a deep sense of empathy enveloped me. I prayed hard, prayed as I have never prayed before not for me nor for my family but for the hundreds of sick and handicapped pilgrims before the Grotto.
My intentions of the sung Mass poured out directly for them ... for the elderly man minus both limbs on my right who was singing with immense "Alleluia" in French, ... for the pixie-faced girl of twelve or thirteen years who was grappling with the straps that bound the iron rods of a deformed left leg, ... for the cute blond boy of about three years whose expressionless face revealed him to be a "retardate" and the couple probably his parents holding on to his wheelchair with bowed heads in fervent prayer, ... for the young man of about 20 summers whose epileptic fits caused him to lose muscular control and the sound of his voice who sits infront of me at the dinner table, ... for the two middle-aged Italian ladies on wheelchairs who with their solicitous husbands obligingly, with all smiles, posed with me after the procession of the Blessed Sacrament one afternoon, ... for the many senior citizens of diverse origins who either lying prostrate on stretchers or sitting complacent on wheelchairs continually clasped their rosary beads throughout the Mass, ... for them and for the hundreds of disabled and infirm my heart bled with sympathy and love. And for the teeming group of volunteer workers almost equitably numbered from both Adam and Eve's species, I offered a special prayer to the Blessed Virgin - to shower upon them immense blessings and a reservoir of stamina and patience from which they can draw enough sustenance during their daily solace-giving chores.
The Mass has ended. I looked at my watch and felt relieved that I had ample time to linger infront of the Grotto where inner peace of inexplicable state and intensity permeated my whole being to the deepest marrow of my bones. Finding no adequate word to conceptualize the undefinable feeling within me, I hereby attempt to communicate such exalted state by saying that ... it is the magic blend of a mother's happiness the warmth a new-born baby generates as it lay on her for the momentous umbilical cord cutting, ... the fathomless abyss of sorrow a daughter plunges into upon the death of a loving mother, ... the air of expectancy a contestant feels before the announcement of winners, ... the excitement of a wide-eyed seven-year old celebrant as he listens to the "Happy Birthday Song" being sang for him and his big puff to blow out the candles, ... and to a large measure the peace of mind and body that comes to one who sits alone in the woods on a lazy autumn morning whilst golden brown leaves of a hundred shades drift ... s-l-o-w-l-y by!
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