Reflections and Prayers
I was a child, maybe four or five years old, when I first met her. The Blessed Mother of Lourdes. I was a tiny member of the Sodality of Mary, wearing a ribbon that felt far too grand.
I didn’t know what that was for or why! Ha. But it was amazing. We stood before the grotto, a cool place of stone and shadow. We prayed like a bullet train—Hail Mary’s rushing past like heavy wind. The scent of beeswax and the blue of her sash were etched into my mind. A permanent, gentle mark. That smell and color, still create calmness.
I have never been a fanatic. Nothing in this world is so perfect that I can’t live without it. I have never sought the loud or the dramatic in my faith. But in times when the world feels sharp and loud, my feet find the old path. In moments of anxiety, I find myself back at the grotto. Wherever I am, I look for a candle. I strike a match, and the small flame dances. I stare at the candle. I say the Hail Mary, and the frantic speed of the world begins to slow. My heart finds its rhythm again. My spirit finds a soft place to land.
Now, years later, I am evaluating these quiet practices. I share them with folks who look to me for wisdom. I ask myself: Why do I do this? I don’t have a complex theological map. I don’t have a lecture prepared on the mechanics of intercession. The honest truth is much simpler: It calms my nerves. It gives me a center to hold on to. Life is chaotic most of the time, but with this moment at the inner grotto, I have learned to manage it.
Every morning, I have a ritual. A sacred spot with the image of the Mother of Lourdes on the wall at home—a tiny island of peace in a sea of emails and appointments, there I light a candle. I watch the smoke curl upward like a silent thought. I stand there for a few seconds. I ask for nothing. I don’t even “pray” in the way people expect a Bishop to pray. I just stare at the dancing candle. I stare at her gentle face, bathed in the glow. Occasionally, I whisper to the silence. “Blessed Mother, I am anxious.” “Mother, I am worried today.” “Blessed Mother, I simply don’t know what to do.”
Then I move on into the day. I pass that altar several times. Each time, I leave a few words behind like petals. “That was a stressful meeting.” “I don’t know why he said that.” “I don’t know why I feel this way.” I don’t dare to judge anyone, because I don’t know the secrets of their hearts. Heavens, I barely know the secrets of my own.
I have come to a place where I don’t want to analyze. I just want to acknowledge. The Blessed Mother is the perfect listener. She is like the moon—reflecting a greater light, steady and quiet. She doesn’t talk back. She doesn’t offer feedback or a list of things to fix. She simply lets me hear myself.
And most of the time? That is the greatest mercy. I need to hear my own words in the air. I need to feel how small a worry becomes when it is placed in her lap. In the stillness of her presence, my own noise turns into music.
My devotion from age four to now is a simple thread. I don’t always know what I am asking. But I know I am standing in her light. I know she is watching over me with a mother’s patient eye. What else does a child of God really need?
I think of St. Bernadette, who saw the Lady in the hollow of the rock. She was a child of simple grace, and she once said:
“I shall do everything for Heaven, my true home. There I shall find my Mother in all the splendor of her glory.”
I don’t need the splendor yet. I pray I never need it. I am happy with the candle-light. I am happy with the quiet corner. I choose to let my religion be a soft place to rest. A mother who listens while I find my way home.