Stories of France
Catherine Nicolette
I went through many stages in my childhood and teen years. Every year I planned for the future, the wondrous unknown time still ahead of me. One year I was going to choose the career of archeology. I spent the year in the boot* of the car any time Dad or Mom took us for a drive reading everything I could about Egypt, digs, archeologists, Tutankhamon, the Valley of the Kings. I saw myself in my mind's eye looking svelte and glamorous in khaki, turning up wondrous new archeological finds in hitherto unknown sites and becoming the toast of the archeological world and fabulously wealthy from my career to boot.
That was before I discovered the existence of the Penny Black. I became an ardent philatelist, and had beautiful books with stamps arrayed in different countries. I really wish I had those albums now - they were absolutely beautiful. I gave them away after I completed Standard 5 and had then decided that I was going to be a doctor. Around the same time I was furious when Mom had one of her celebrated Dutch springcleans and gave away my dictionary at the back of which I had hidden my two great treasures - two rare stamps I had been given by a missionary to the country, and which were to pay for my post graduate training upon their being sold. I actually think that they were that rare, and to this day wistfully think of the assistance that cash would have given. However, maybe they weren't that valuable and I got the story wrong... truth to tell, no-one can really blame Mom. I was the inveterate hoarder, and could not bear to give anything away at that time. I suppose it was a case of clear out the cupboards and the room, or there would have been no space left for a little girl and her bed to sleep in at night.
So; I digress. I was going to be doctor. In the boot I earnestly studied anatomy because I figured that if I knew all the names of the bones, and how the body worked, well I would be a step ahead of all my fellow competitor doctors at university and become a world famous surgeon before my thirties. I'm not sure how long the doctor theme lasted, but I became pretty knowledgeable about the humerus, the femur and the other bones.
Then I discoved fashion design. I littered the house with pictures of (to my mind) fabulous designs, marvellous coats, amazing dresses, jeans and top ensembles. This was all on the way to the next step; I was going to become the world's most famous supermodel. I loved one of the seventies supermodels, and searched out every picture I could of her. This gracious lady epitomised for me elegance, good taste and refinement. I was going to stand around in beautiful brocades and fabrics against artistic backdrops, and appear on the covers of international magazines.
Then I fell in love with the written word. Books, plays, autobiographies, even encyclopedias held me in their thrall. And that made up my mind. I was going to be a world-famous author. I would bring the written word to all, and the benison and wisdom of my words would help the entire humanity to wake up each day to a new and better morning because of my efforts, because of 'passing this way but once' as Mom always says.
The final upshot was that when I went on pilgrimage at seventeen years of age to Lourdes in France, I saw a deeply disfigured woman who was so disabled she was unable to go into the healing waters there. She lay at the Piscines,*
making feeble movements with her one finger towards the water. Helpless tears streamed from her disfigured and blind-looking eyes. The attendants looked helplessly at her, she just was too disabled due to her contractured limbs to fit into the contours of the stone bath. The woman opened her mouth, and her vocally dumb state prevented her from making the cries of despair and sadness that shook her entire crippled being with emotion. All that poor woman had wanted after making that long journey was to have the emotional comfort of being dipped in the waters that came from the spring at Lourdes. And even that comfort was denied her.
No physical cries came from her mouth, but my soul heard those cries of inner pain and despair within as clearly as if she had uttered them and I had heard them with my ears. In that moment, my somewhat self-absorbed teenage soul was touched with the unbearable pain and pathos of the suffering of the human condition. And the reason why I came on pilgrimage to Lourdes, to find out what God would like me to do as career with my life, was made plain; I became a nurse in order to learn the craft of healing.
*boot - the back of the car which was open, much like a extra partition in the back in which two small children could sit. I invariably sat in the back because in those days I was so petite I fitted there very well. In Whittle tradition, the boot eventually became known as the 'doggie box'. Not sure why.
*Piscines - French word meaning pools
*Photograph was taken by Rev. Catherine. Please feel free to use the photo copyright free for any Christian, educational or spiritual purpose.
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