I was a stranger and you welcomed me…
Think of Lourdes, and I picture the army of volunteers who make Lourdes work. They come from many parts of the world, pay their own fares and expenses, and work in one of six services: hospitality, covering care and lodging of sick or disabled pilgrims, marshalling for processions, maintenance and loan of equipment, meeting pilgrims at the station and airport and serving at the sacred spring water-taps or baths. This service is so suitably matched to the service of a fit oblate that I cannot recommend it highly enough. We read in the Rule of St Benedict Chapter 36: Care of the sick must rank above and before all else so that they may truly be served as Christ who said: ‘I was sick and you visited me’. Chapter 35 is about kitchen servers of the week: ‘The members should serve one another.’ Chapter 31: ‘The cellarer will regard all utensils and goods of the monastery as sacred vessels of the altar…’. Chapter 53: ‘All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ, who said: I was a stranger and you welcomed me’.
I remember my first long journey there, aged just 19. I had attended a convent school, run by the French Sisters of Charity of Nevers. This was the order that cared for St Bernadette in Lourdes, and which she eventually joined in Nevers, where her body is preserved in perpetuity. I had gained French at A-level, and one of the teaching nuns suggested that I volunteer at Lourdes. She would be there ahead of me for the summer.
On the Feast of the Assumption, I took a train from my parents’ home in Sussex to Newhaven, a cross-Channel ferry to Dieppe, with a further train to Paris Gare du Nord. I walked to La Madeleine Church, where I was just in time for the Mass of the feast. The singing was glorious, so fitting for the final Glorious Mystery of the Rosary. Then by Metro to Gare Montparnasse, to board the night train to Lourdes. I had failed to buy a couchette due to the added cost so spent a long and wakeful night as the train was packed with tired young French soldiers. There were not enough seats and they spilled into the corridors and washrooms. At seven in the morning, we pulled into a station to the thrilling bass sound of ‘Lourdes! Lourdes!’
I heaved my bag down the high train steps and set off for the Sanctuary on foot, gazing at the foothills of the Pyrenees that surrounded the town. I found my way to the Asile (Hospice) Notre Dame, where my teacher told me to change out of my denim jeans into a skirt and return for breakfast.
So I became a ‘handmaid’, the term at that time for a female volunteer. My prime duty was to serve sick or disabled pilgrims at the tables in the vast refectory. They were called ‘les malades’ and came from a range of countries. We washed up in old deep sinks and even sluices for the huge serving pans. Everything had to be dried and sent back to the kitchens. When all was done, we ran up flights of shallow stairs to a bright refectory of our own, where we enjoyed a French menu after a sung grace:
Bénissez-nous, Seigneur, Bless us, Lord.
Bénissez ce repas, Bless this meal,
Ceux qui l’ont preparé, And those who prepared it,
Et procurez du pain And give bread
A ceux qui n’en ont pas. To those who have none.
Ainsi soit-il! Amen!
Other days found us in the Grotto sacristy, breaking up the sheets of hosts (communion bread) to fill ciboria ready for the Masses, and kept the vestments in order. We gave auxiliary help in the long wards called ‘salles’, where the very ill or infirm pilgrims were nursed. We pushed them in wheelchairs to the Grotto or to the Blessing of the Sick. We spent time each morning in the laundry, feeding sheet after sheet through a machine or ironing smaller items. In any free time I explored the town, where the young St Bernadette had grown up, and been blessed with 18 apparitions of the Virgin Mary.
I quickly made friends with my companions, all aged from 18 to over 70, usually speaking a useful French. It did not have to be a degree or A level, as no one would ask you to quote from Beaumarchais, but you would be asked to run to the bakery room and find ‘le pain sans sel’, the salt-free bread. If you looked puzzled, you would be a real ‘pain’, pun not intended. Then because you lived in a uniform with badge, the public thought that you knew everything, and would stop you to ask directions or times. So, English with one or two other languages was of great benefit.
In the evenings we would have supper before stepping onto a balcony in the cool of the evening high above the torchlight procession. The hymn that I had sung all my school life repeated between decades of the Rosary as candles were carried round the sanctuary: Ave, Ave, Ave Maria!
The weeks of hot weather, sometimes broken by thunderstorms, passed all too quickly and having loved every minute, I returned home. The years rolled by and with my profession, working at home and overseas, further studies, getting married and raising three children, I had retired before I returned to Lourdes.
I became a volunteer, now called a hospitalière, working at the Accueil Marie Saint-Frai for a good many years. This order’s full name is Les Filles de Marie Saint-Frai de Notre Dame des Douleurs. The 15th September is the Feast of Our Lady of Sorrows. One year I was present for this day, when two novices prepared and led a beautiful candlelit celebration. We prayed the Seven Sorrows rosary, which reflects on Mary’s sorrows, so seven sets of seven Hail Marys replace the usual pattern.
In the bedroom of every volunteer, there is a timetable of that week on the desk. We are advised:
‘When you are given a task to perform, gather your tools and finish it, to the very end.’
The memories, friendship and graces of Lourdes will follow me to the end of my days.
« To the rest of you I say: do what the elders tell you, and all wrap yourselves in humility to be servants of each other, because God refuses the proud and will always favour the humble… ». 1st Letter of Saint Peter, Apostle, 5,5b -14 «
Frances Bailess
Oblate of Minster Abbey
