Lourdes - The Window of Heaven

The article below appeared in a publication called THE GRAIL in 1945 and features a letter from an American WWII soldier writing to his sister after having spent furlough time at Lourdes, France. I have transcribed that original copy in the post below and it is an absolutely fascinating read into “The Window of Heaven”

Dear Sister Jean:

You’d never think the little statue there on the board alter in this tent chapel (Camp Brooklyn, Assembly Area Command, France), had such a story back of it. She is our Lady of the Rosary – pure white but for a delicate blue girdle, on her lips a wistful smile, a gold rose on each foot.

I bought the little French-made beauty on a day pass into Paris two weeks ago – found her in a corner of an art shop in the Seine across from Notre Dame. That was the day after my C.O. informed me that I had been granted one of the rare week passes to Lourdes, sponsored by the French Government. I acquired the statue for this particular chapel as sort of a “Thank You” to our Lady.

Three days later at Lourdes, I witnessed hundreds of miracles – not ones you could see, but miracles nonetheless – happening to battle hardened soldiers’ hearts. Olive draped uniformed enlisted men down to their knees, some with arms outstretched like hundreds of civilian pilgrims about them, tears coursing down wondering, self-conscious but illuminated faces.

Back at the hotel, on the moon bathed terrace overlooking the spires of her Shrine and beyond, the blue Pyrenees, I think we all realized our lives could never be the same. Something intangible – something beautiful and good – something you could not name nor put you finger on – had mysteriously entered our lives. As we talked, some would ask, “Do you fellows believe she is there – I mean, really there…?” Another, “Have you ever felt such a power before that seems to – suffocate the heart?” And another, “Did you get that expectant frightful feeling in that sudden quiet tonight when those bells began ringing high up in the Basilica that she was suddenly to appear before us?”

A tough looking Sergeant, veteran of the Ardennes, Hurtgen Forest: I believe I could be happy here always,” he added. There was a dream in his voice. “It’s like a Window to Heaven.” But most of the fellows didn’t even feel like talking.

We were all in the Army – Infantrymen, Engineers – right down the line – trained to deal with the material of life. Yet, at the Grotto, we all became as little children at the feet of Mary.

This doesn’t mean that men turned soft or sprouted wings overnight. But it did mean that in the vicinity of the Grotto the routine, harshness and loneliness of Army life became inconsequential, a fresh perspective was gained, and a renunciation of the old way of thinking, and living. For the enlisted me are rediscovering at Lourdes the first and most enduring secret of happiness – a childlike NEED for Mary.

And I think you will agree if you left the quiet of this tent chapel with the four-by-four altar on top of which sits the Beautiful Lady and came down to Lourdes with me on an Army pilgrimage….

The train came to a slow halt. In the cool Pyrenees evening we gather about our Chaplain, on the Lourdes station platform. He speaks in a quiet manner: “I am saying this for those Protestant and Jewish boys who have been sent here on furlough and for you Catholics who are not familiar with the story.

“The town you see below you surrounded by those green peaks is the world’s most celebrated place of pilgrimage. To us Catholics, it is a life-time dream to visit here.

“On the 11^th of February, 1858, a poor, wrapt shepherdess, Bernadette Soubirous, knelt before a Grotto. The Virgin Mary appeared to her, and speaking in provincial dialect, said, ‘I am the Immaculate Conception,’ and ordered the building of a basilica. A spring gushed forth at the base of the Grotto. The miraculous spring does more than cure: it brings back to life. A living sea at the beset of Lourdes. Today, never-ending streams of pilgrims flock to the blessed Grotto.

“It is not compulsory for any of you to attend service. But for all of you, let me quote an apt preface on your first visit here: ‘For you who believe, no explanation is necessary; for you who do not believe, no explanation is possible.’”

Here in my room in this high mountain town I sit at a little table and write to you, Sister jean. Through the door I can look out at the blue peaks of the Pyrenees.

It was solely by good fortune that I got this room. The walk from the train was a long one through narrow winding streets, filled with interesting shop windows. My steps lagged behind the other fellows – particularly up the last two flights of hotel stairs! When I reached the fourth flight the maid said, “Only one, monsieur?” I nodded, and she directed me left to a large bedroom off of which was a cool verandah. From a six man tent, life suddenly became spacious, full of solitude.

The room contains a double bed, a bureau, two chairs, a basin with hot and cold running water. There are no pictures on the walls, but beside the bed is a gold crucifix.

Evening has come – and gone. We walk down the dark Rue de la Grotte, past the wrought iron gate, through the gardens, around the Chapel of the Rosary. It is our first sight of the Grotto. Illuminated by thousands of candles, with stars glimmering and the warm night air full of fragrance, the Grotto is like a fairyland. We kneel before the altar. Above us, in her rocky niche, the figure of Mary of the Rosary seems alive. It has the feel of a home here – your favorite room at home. I relax and close my eyes.

When I open my eyes, I see that most of the pilgrims have gone. Some of the soldiers are kneeling closer – right inside the Grotto. I join them. Rosaries slip quietly through our fingers.

I’m a little awkward and shy before the Grotto. I feel unprepared for this new exhilaration – this compelling sense of peace…

Dear Sister, before sun-up your presence is here with me at this blessed spot – as though you say the Rosary beside me in her Grotto Home. Since we left Australitz Station in Paris three days ago, we have been through many interesting old cities, Lamoges, Toulouse, and seen old Chateaux, but you letter has been close – in my left hand shirt pocket.

I do not know why I was chosen for this trip to Lourdes. Unless – like other soldiers I have talked to – it was that I needed it – for we had become openly rebellious – brought by physical and mental exhaustion. In this European Theater we acquired five campaign stars the hard way. Now, headed to a tougher Theater with no home furlough, seemed beyond human endurance.

Here before the Grotto I have re-read your letter. The first lesson comes slowly, although you teach it to me as only a child of Mary can: “The Pacific my dear brother, and I am the first to cry out in justice’s name to let all of you come home, but brother, right or wrong, God is permitting it – He permits things to happen and brings good out of them – ‘permits’ – but does not always WILL the thing. It is for us to submit, humbly! (Ah, how easy it is for me to sit here comfortably in California and write these hard lines!) Dear brother, Our Lady was told in the cold of winter ‘when Her time was near’ that she should make an eighty mile journey on foot through hill country. St. Joseph was told to take her to Jerusalem. What did they do? How did they answer the ‘rebellious’ questions of their neighbors – the warnings of danger? And what was God’s design for them? Why did He permit the census to be taken just at that time? God has His designs – Jesus was to be born in a stable in Bethlehem – all else was permitted for this ONE purpose. Mary and Joseph knew that ALL authority comes from above – and they saw God and His Will in the gruff soldier who banged on their door to announce the news….I can only try to help you to become resigned though I know by now your heart has been conquered ‘ere this letter reaches you…”

Talking to an old priest of Lourdes here in town I found that Lourdes derived its name from a Moor who became a Christian under Mary, Mother of God.

There rises, in the center of Lourdes, an abrupt hill on top of which the early Romans built an impregnable rock fortress. Centuries later the invading Moors swept into France through the Pass of Roland south of Lourdes in the Pyrenees. They gained ground as far north as Lyons, before being stopped by Charles Martell. Then Charlemagne took up the fight. Of all the fortresses to be held out against Charlemagne’s armies, this one at Lourdes was the last to succumb. In the hands of a stubborn Moor, it withstood a twelve month siege.

At last, distraught Charlemagne sent a priest who converted the Moor in the name of Mary, Mother of God. At his surrender and baptism, he took the name of Laurens, which whence comes Lourdes. It is said that at his First Communion he remarked, “I have surrendered not to Charlemagne, but to Mary, Mother of God…”

Early this afternoon my Baptist solder friend asked though the doorway, “Could we visit the hospital? After what I felt during the Stations this morning I would like to see the statistics on ‘cures’ here in Lourdes.”

Here at the hospital, the old doctor-priest is very kind. We have thumbed records dating back seventy years. We find that an average of one hundred authentic cures take place each year – that is, supernatural cures – healings that are proven to be miracles through Faith and Prayer. “This does not include the nervous cases,” the doctor explains, “as they cannot be proven.”

“Where,” my friend asked, changing the subject, “is Bernadette buried?”

“At Orleans, at the Carmelite Convent there.”

“How long ago,” my friend persisted, “was Bernadette made a Saint?”

“She was beatified 30 years ago, at which time her body was examined. It was found to be, 30 years after her death, in perfect preservation. Her limbs were as flexible as if she were alive, and her skin was as smooth as if she were but sleeping.”

My friend looked at me with a sly glance. “Now the only bone of contention I have is that, as a non-Catholic, I think you Catholics pray too fast.”

My verandah has become the gathering point for many of my comrades. It is midnight. From the verandah, high over the sleeping town, we gaze through the yellow moonlight sifting down through the haze of the Pyrenees. The talk is very quiet, like the night. But the peace in our hearts is tremendous.

It seems as thought our Lord is admirable delicacy reserves to those who follow Mary a cup running over, so that they can draw others to God. For like a Mother she counsels that nothing is necessary but to love Her Son.

It is here at the Grotto that she fills the cup, it is here by sunlight, moonlight, starlight, wind and rain that she comes to the sad heart, the lonely heart.

High up, beside the Basilica walls, the swallows sing her praise. Even the river seems to murmur her name. There is a whisper in the night. I smell the fragrance of flowers, the scent of herbs.

A rosary slips through my fingers. One by one the candles art extinguished. At last, only a few votive lights cast a glow into the Grotto. “Hail Mary, full of Grace…” the prayers drop like petals, through the fingers used to feel the rifle steel, a pack; and the lonely dumb sort of feeling in the heart of a soldier, far from home.

Here in this midnight peace, here, alone below our Lady in the faintly illuminated niche, a resignation, a new beginning. And into the moon washed night, into the silence, there comes a Presence. Not an intoxication, but a pure Presence. Yet even more. A flowering, living Substance exalting the hush of this sacred spot. And in that hush I speak my prayer…

Not a rush of wings nor a wind of waste places, but as a whisper in the dark, as illumination of Infinite Love, does she come. I close my eyes, engulfed in her Heart – a life that was lost, but now found, at the rose-covered feet of Mary…

So, Sister Jean, like thousands of other pilgrims from all over the world, the American Soldiers, when they experience Lourdes at last, feel they have come home, where their own Mother is waiting for them. And even though you do not see her as did Bernadette, still she smiles down, and the more sick and the more sad, the happier she is that you have come to the spring where comfort can be found. You can wash in her clean cool water, and drink of it, and then she takes you to her Son. Then it is as though you were back in the days when Our Lord lived in the Holy Land and the great multitudes crowded around Him as He healed them, and gave them comforting words, and looked into their eyes and forgave them for their sins.

So now in the Grotto He is carried out of His Mother’s little Grotto Home and all of the pilgrims wait for Him to pass, the lame and the blind and the diseased and the sinners and He goes by and blesses every one, while they cry out, “Lord, if Thou wilt, Thou canst make me whole.” And to some with great love He does indeed say, “Be thou made whole.” “Arise and walk,” and they get up, rejoicing, and follow Him. But if He does not always heal, to every one He says, “Go in peace,” and He takes away their sadness, for they seem to understand that He loves the sad and the sick best of all.

Like little children they go back to their Mother in the Grotto to be comforted and kissed, and they sing with her her own hymn, “My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior.” For no one, not even the homesick soldier, ever goes away from Lourdes, the Window of Heaven, sad or disappointed.

Your Brother,
Paul