- Feb 7, 2002
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I was five months' pregnant with my son. This baby was very planned, very wanted, and very loved. A medication I had been taking for two years and understood to be safe could have caused problems with his development, and I lived with that fear in the back of my mind. My husband was stationed in Germany, so when an opportunity came up for me to make a pilgrimage to Lourdes, France, I embraced the idea.
My mother was visiting, and also a childhood friend of mine. The three of us made the trip together, on a tour arranged through the PX travel office. For those who are fortunately unaware, these tours travel by bus under duress of the passengers. Picture non-stop driving for about twenty hours, a serviceable hotel on the fringes of the focal point, and a jam-packed schedule of frenetic activity once you arrive. Add a five months' pregnant, exhausted, swollen woman, and you complete that picture with me.
We were expected to hit the ground running, upon arrival. It was late afternoon, and the tour guide accompanying us wanted to give the group an idea of the shrine grounds. He, mind you, had the luxury of two seats on the bus, the constitution of a marathon runner, and the distinct advantage of NOT being pregnant. I remember hearing the first part of his guide spiel at the entry of the grounds, and then I watched the back of his head vanish into the distance.
I wanted to see the grotto, where St. Bernadette viewed the Apparition of the Blessed Mother, and then I would head back to the hotel. Trust me, when I say the entrance of the Shrine grounds is at least 350 miles from the grotto. But I was here, I truly wanted to drink the water, and pray at the grotto. I set out...
The grounds were beautiful. It had been raining, and it would rain almost constantly during our stay; but for now there was sunshine and blue sky. I noticed very little, for it took all my energy, all my effort to simply pick up one foot and place it in front of the other. I was near tears, hurting in places where only pregnant women hurt. I yearned to be ANYWHERE else. I wanted a bed, I wanted sleep, I wanted to go home. The walkway to the Basilica seemed endless. Each step seemingly brought me no closer, and I knew the grotto was BEYOND the Basilica.
I felt all alone in the world. My mother and my friend were there, but my exquisite misery made them invisible to me. Then, ever so gently, a subtle perfume seemed to caress me. The only word I can use to describe it is "ethereal." My fellow tour bus occupants and I smelled of sweat and grime, so it couldn't have been any of us. The grounds are ALWAYS crowded with pilgrims from the world. Any of them could have been wearing a cologne, but I was traveling at such a snail's pace that a scent from another person would have been fleeting. This perfume stayed with me. The aroma buoyed my spirits, and became the only force that enabled me to keep picking up one foot and placing it in front of the other. I still hurt, I was still exhausted, and I definitely still wanted to BE at home...but the perfume allowed me to continue my trek.
Curiosity eventually surfaced, and I stopped looking at just the path and glanced around. There were huge expanses of lawn, many trees, and flower boxes lining the fences. A great statue of the Blessed Mother occupied the path ahead of me, and was ringed with a wrought iron fence. It too, contained garden boxes filled with many kinds of flowers all in full bloom. None of what I saw was the source of the blissful scent that allowed me to continue. I saw so many types of flowers I couldn't begin to name half of them, yet I saw no roses anywhere. The subtle perfume that lifted my heart and strengthened me was that of a rose.
My son suffered no ill effects from my medication. And I carry the mystical miracle of the rose in my heart to this day.
(Copyright 1997, 2002 Victoria Odle Weaver)
My mother was visiting, and also a childhood friend of mine. The three of us made the trip together, on a tour arranged through the PX travel office. For those who are fortunately unaware, these tours travel by bus under duress of the passengers. Picture non-stop driving for about twenty hours, a serviceable hotel on the fringes of the focal point, and a jam-packed schedule of frenetic activity once you arrive. Add a five months' pregnant, exhausted, swollen woman, and you complete that picture with me.
We were expected to hit the ground running, upon arrival. It was late afternoon, and the tour guide accompanying us wanted to give the group an idea of the shrine grounds. He, mind you, had the luxury of two seats on the bus, the constitution of a marathon runner, and the distinct advantage of NOT being pregnant. I remember hearing the first part of his guide spiel at the entry of the grounds, and then I watched the back of his head vanish into the distance.
I wanted to see the grotto, where St. Bernadette viewed the Apparition of the Blessed Mother, and then I would head back to the hotel. Trust me, when I say the entrance of the Shrine grounds is at least 350 miles from the grotto. But I was here, I truly wanted to drink the water, and pray at the grotto. I set out...
The grounds were beautiful. It had been raining, and it would rain almost constantly during our stay; but for now there was sunshine and blue sky. I noticed very little, for it took all my energy, all my effort to simply pick up one foot and place it in front of the other. I was near tears, hurting in places where only pregnant women hurt. I yearned to be ANYWHERE else. I wanted a bed, I wanted sleep, I wanted to go home. The walkway to the Basilica seemed endless. Each step seemingly brought me no closer, and I knew the grotto was BEYOND the Basilica.
I felt all alone in the world. My mother and my friend were there, but my exquisite misery made them invisible to me. Then, ever so gently, a subtle perfume seemed to caress me. The only word I can use to describe it is "ethereal." My fellow tour bus occupants and I smelled of sweat and grime, so it couldn't have been any of us. The grounds are ALWAYS crowded with pilgrims from the world. Any of them could have been wearing a cologne, but I was traveling at such a snail's pace that a scent from another person would have been fleeting. This perfume stayed with me. The aroma buoyed my spirits, and became the only force that enabled me to keep picking up one foot and placing it in front of the other. I still hurt, I was still exhausted, and I definitely still wanted to BE at home...but the perfume allowed me to continue my trek.
Curiosity eventually surfaced, and I stopped looking at just the path and glanced around. There were huge expanses of lawn, many trees, and flower boxes lining the fences. A great statue of the Blessed Mother occupied the path ahead of me, and was ringed with a wrought iron fence. It too, contained garden boxes filled with many kinds of flowers all in full bloom. None of what I saw was the source of the blissful scent that allowed me to continue. I saw so many types of flowers I couldn't begin to name half of them, yet I saw no roses anywhere. The subtle perfume that lifted my heart and strengthened me was that of a rose.
My son suffered no ill effects from my medication. And I carry the mystical miracle of the rose in my heart to this day.
(Copyright 1997, 2002 Victoria Odle Weaver)
When I saw the title of the thread, "The Rose," I really was hoping it wasn't going to be about that awful song Conway Twitty wrote. 
