Marie was a Catholic and, to many Catholics, the French city of Lourdes is a place for miraculous cures. She saved up for the trip for a solid year.
Marie and I had helped each other through our late 30's. Her Billy and my David were born brain-damaged. They were both the fourth of five children, and a unique source of joy and grief. Marie and I had been through many trials together.
It would be a difficult trip for her alone, with an unpredictable seven-year old; in addition, she'd never been out of the country and didn't speak a word of French. But even if there was only a slim chance that the waters of Lourdes would miraculously help Billy and transform him into a normal child, she must have felt she owed it to him to try.
We didn't discuss it much before she left. When I asked if I could help with her other children, she said everything was taken care of. Then Marie and Billy were gone.
Almost before I had time to miss her, Marie returned. She came back with a spring in her step and a new vitality in running her teeming household. She was more patient. There was a peace about her.
Billy on the other hand, seemed exactly the same.
I was puzzled. As the weeks went by, I kept expecting Marie to tell me what had happened at Lourdes. But I didn't dare ask.
The trip had obviously been a private experience. She didn't have to come out and tell me of her inner struggle. I knew.
I loved my David, but I wanted him to be like other kids. How often had I thought, Wouldn't it be wonderful if David were a normal child? A completely different child? Other parents might wish their sons were better students or more athletic, their daughters less moody or more ambitious. Those weren't monumental changes, like what I wanted for David.
What I wanted for my son would take a miracle.
Then one day while I was visiting Marie, she went up to her room and came back carrying a small plastic bottle. "Here, Kathy," she said. "I brought you some Lordes water."
I held the container tightly in my palm and searched Marie's eyes. Maybe she was ready to talk. "Do you think it worked for Billy?" I asked.
Marie looked away.
Suddenly I felt terrible; of course it hadn't worked for Billy. How could I be so cruel?
"You don't understand," Marie said slowly, "I didn't dip him in the waters."
"You didn't?"
"I couldn't," she said. "When it came time to do it, I just couldn't."
Mental pictures of Marie dropping coins and one-dollar bills into a mayonaise jar, week after week, to save up for the trip; the 10-hour plane ride, plus hours on the train, the stress on her family; her expectations-all passed through my mind. How could she have refused such an opportunity if she truly believed that a miracle might take place?
The word came out in a whisper "Why?"
"Because I love him the way he is."
All at once, I understood. I recognized the source of the peace that Marie had discovered.
"Even if he'll never be the way I dreamed he'd be," Marie said, "I still love my son."
A healing had taken place at Lourdes. And now it touched me. My child was from God. If someday, by some miracle, David were different, or "normal," I would praise God for his healing. And I'd love David-but no more than I love him at this very moment.
Katleen Lukens
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