The Road to Notre Dame
December 1, 2005 at 3:38 Not many people get to Notre Dame by way of the red light district, but this is the path we took in Paris .
I like to think this was an ACCIDENT and that the E-Man had no idea we’d be passing by strip joints, brothels, and adult bookstores on our way to CHURCH. Surely he didn’t plan to take a walk on the wild side before confessing all in a church pew, but hey, there are some things a Grrrl never asks.
I like to look on the bright side: his alternate route showed us another VIEW of Paris . We got a good LOOK. Unlike the previous day's trek to the Louvre, I kept my camera in my pocket, even when we passed a fabulous photo opportunity: a large chocolate-skinned woman in a mini skirt standing in a doorway under a flashing sign that said “Pussy.” (Sex and English: the universal languages!)
If my 10-year-old had noticed the sign, he might have dashed across the street, thinking it was a Parisian pet store. OK, so it WAS a pet store of sorts but you all know what kind of pets I’m referring to. Straighten up will you! We are on our way to CHURCH, and it’s snowing and we’re attempting to think pure white thoughts.
Have you all gotten yourselves together yet? OK, let’s move on to the serious stuff now because as soon as my feet passed into the softly lit church, I was overwhelmed.
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Europe ’s medieval cathedrals always make me cry. I’m awed by the sheer scale of them as well as their beauty. It’s humbling to stand small in these cavernous spaces and consider they were built by hand with wheel barrows and pulleys and scaffolding, not cranes, power tools, or heavy machinery. The marvel of the builders’ engineering is overshadowed for me by the depth of their dedication to honor God.
To take on a project that would take lifetimes to complete, to make it as ornate and glorious as possible, to hold back nothing and sacrifice everything in pursuit of a divine vision moves me. Always. To tears.
Standing in Notre Dame, I’m reminded it has been exactly 24 years since Thanksgiving 1981, the last time I saw my sister Louise. My memory of that visit is jogged by the crucifix in a recessed chapel on my right. The figure of Jesus is golden and virtually faceless, the eyes slits in a shapeless head, the limbs limp and sagging. I see Louise in that agony, unrecognizable and deformed by pain, isolation, by the via dolorosa she walked while we watched helplessly from the sidelines. She died of cancer of the sinuses, and was blind, deaf, and senseless in the end. She was only 33.
I light a candle to honor her memory and the memory of my parents, and I share my tears with that forsaken Jesus, so formless and yet so explicit in translating human and divine suffering. I take it all to heart and pull tissues from my pocket.
I offer small prayers as I wander through the dim cathedral, reaching out to touch the stone, to feel the permanence of faith through the ages, to consider the dim gray quality of our lives caught between the sacred and eternal. I’m pleased the children are reverent and quiet and caught in the moment. They don’t push and shove, giggle and joke, or complain about being bored or hungry. They take their time moving through the church, pausing when the spirit moves them.
They stop and pray for E’s mom. They ask to light candles for the grandparents they never knew. My son holds my hand at one point and tells me he wishes he had met my sister. He knows, even though I haven’t spoken, that her memory is heavy on my heart.
We spent last Thanksgiving with E’s mom, a devout Catholic and a native of Belgium . This Thanksgiving I buy her a French prayer card with Pope John Paul’s photo on it and a devotional candle to light at home, souvenirs of where she’s been that are wrapped in the promise of where’s she’s going.
I try to carve out a place for myself away from the crowds but I don’t always succeed. I ’m offended by the way visitors chat and explore the church as if it were an historic site and not a place of worship. They’re so busy photographing the interior and posing with the art that they miss the opportunity to catch a glimpse of the sacred. They have passed through Notre Dame and yet not been touched by it. How sad.
We step out through the heavy doors and into a full blown snow storm. The air is oh-so-cold and the wind fierce, but we carry the warmth of the church with us and forge on ahead, searching for the right path home.
© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.
December 1, 2005
Paris, Sacred places
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