Finding a Home in Lourdes for an Oversized Candle

Backpack on and heading for France, I sat near four women from the Irish Traveller community on the London Overground. The youngest, noticing my backpack, asked where I was off to. ‘Hiking in the south of France, in the Pyrénées’. She recalled how beautiful it was in Lourdes when she was there, so I mention I’m passing through on the way to Gavarnie. And in that moment of connection, in the space of minutes in a public transit carriage in east London, a story of loss and violence and love and faith unfolds.

Could I put a flower in the river and say a prayer for a daughter, B. Could I say a prayer and light a candle for a 21 y.o. son murdered five years ago, as the family still fights for justice. A copy of his funeral service and photo is placed in my hand. Could I say a prayer for R., for the S. family, the D. family, for all Travellers. I’m given £10 for the candles. I refuse. It’s stuffed into my bag. Then another £5.

They ask me if I’m not afraid on my own and for some reason I say: ‘My god is with me’. As an agnostic I appreciate faith but I have a difficult relationship with the idea of god so I have no idea where that came from. The train pulled into my stop, it was hugs and kisses all around and we were away in different directions.

And so I found myself, the next day, jogging down to the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes, between my night train pulling in and the 90 minutes before my bus to Gavarnie. Having passed through the city many times and never looked inside, I have long been curious about the power of this place and its ability to pull towards it the collection of humanity always waiting at the station: pilgrims and religious orders, the ill and infirm, the desperate and thankful, all hoping for a miracle.

I arrived just as the complex was opening at 8am and having done no preparation I realised I had no idea where I was going. With the river Pau running on the right, the almost empty promenade at this time of the morning was dominated at its end by the gothic structure of the Basilica Notre Dame du Rosaire. Going by past visits to Cathedrals I figured the candles would be in that general direction and sure enough, in an excellent demonstration of how cultural reproduction works and the lasting power of catechism classes, underneath a vaulted walkway to the Basilica were self-service candle stands with honesty boxes for the money.

I like lighting a candle when I’m visiting a church but at most I’ll stick a euro in a tin and buy a tea light. This being Lourdes, £10’s worth of candle was about 60cm long (I donated the remaining £5 although it did cross my mind that the Catholic church was already raking it in charging £10 for candles and didn’t need any more … note ‘difficult relationship with God’). Carrying my cargo into the Basilica I found the usual tealight altar but nothing that resembled a place for a two foot long candle.

Back out again I could hear singing further down the complex so wandered around the Basilica, bolstered by seeing a few other people carrying giant candles in that general direction. And it is here, not in the grandiose church, that I stumbled on the actual grotto where Bernadette Soubirous saw the apparition of the Virgin Mary in 1858. The rough hewn cave set a few metres above the ground now holds a more solid statue of Mary, while the lower alcove houses a small altar for priests to conduct outdoor services to the hundred or so mostly elderly pilgrims seated in serried semi-circles in front (in this instance, an Italian tour group).

Set below the statue of Mary was a metal ‘tree’ with oversized candles. This, I thought, must be where my candle goes, so I join the queue, inching my way forward. As I got to the front I held out my candle as an offering to the priest who looked somewhat bemused as he held out a bread wafer as an offering to me. Realising I had just gate crashed the Italians holy communion service I took the wafer and moved to the side still clutching my candle, and remembering the admonishments of a past boyfriend’s mother that as a Protestant I should NOT be taking the body and blood of a Catholic God (note ‘difficult relationship with God’). Too late now.

Spotting the Italian’s tour guide I asked if he knew what I should do with my candle. He quietly took me aside and pointed to some half dome sheds across the river, wishing me ‘bon camino’ in the process (I still had my backpack on at this point so he thinks I’m on my way to Santiago de Compostela, the famous Way of St James pilgrimage from France to Spain).

Across the footbridge, the candle sheds held hundreds of lights, hopes, and wishes. The Sanctuary has that feeling of places where people have prayed again and again, thousands of times, for uncountable years, for relief, more than happiness I’m guessing, from the suffering of this mortal coil, and heaven knows it’s been a shit few years. Facing death or illness or trauma or grief, wanting to die peacefully looking into the face of a god, take comfort where you can. If it’s believing that a virgin mother of a Jewish radical called Jesus appeared in a grotto in southern France and that she will help, so be it.

For the women on the train, my task is done. In the half an hour or so I’d been floundering around the Sanctuary the number of pilgrims had now swelled to hundreds and soon would be thousands as tour buses began to appear at the front gate. I find a quiet place for the candle. I find wild flowers and place them in the river, with H.’s funeral service left under a stone so he’ll always be carried by the water. For B., for R., for H., for the S. family, the D. family, and all the Travellers, may you be safe, may you be well, may you be at peace.

May the road rise to meet you,

may the wind be always at your back,

may the sun shine warm upon your face,

the rains fall soft upon your fields,

and until we meet again

may [whichever God or Universe you choose to believe in] hold you in the palm of [their] hand.