About
Bernadette

EXCERPTS FROM,

I BERNADETTE

©Copyright 2002 St. Bernadette Institute of Sacred Art All rights reserved

Life was good for the first ten months. But one day in November Mama’s blouse caught fire while she was working in the kitchen. She was severely burned; so much so that she could no longer feed me. My parents had to find a wet-nurse who could care for, and properly nourish me. They found a woman whose baby had just died and who was very happy to take me in. So, I was taken to Bartrès, three miles from my village, where this dear family promised to support me. Can you imagine the sorrow my parents felt at having to leave me with strangers? I, too, was uncomfortable in the new surroundings. Though the people were kind, I was very frightened. My parents left me in Bartrès for eleven months. By this time, I was nearly two years old and already walking and talking. I had become quite happy with the Lagües family.

For ten years, life in Lourdes was fine.  But both my parents had gentle hearts and when friends, neighbors and customers came for flour, complaining that they had no money, Papa would always insist: “Pay me whenever you can.”  Many people took advantage of my parents’ goodness and soon they, too, were struggling to survive.  Grandmother Casterot often scolded my parents for being so generous, and eventually she was no longer able to assist them. In 1855, she went Home to her Creator.

At age twelve, I watched as my parents hit rock bottom.  But God always sent them just the right people to help.  My mother’s cousin owned the building with a basement which once had been used as the village jail.  The basement was in very bad condition; it was considered too musty for even the prisoners to live there.  But knowing our plight, Cousin Andre offered us this dungeon.  We were happy to accept it though it was extremely difficult squeezing six people into one, small room.  And though it was always cold and damp, the love we held for one another warmed our hearts and spirits.

At fourteen, I returned to Bartrès due to asthma attacks that made it difficult for me to breathe. I returned to the home and family who took me in as an infant, only this time around, I was to be a servant.  I “traded” work for room and board, sharing a room with a charming young servant-girl named Jeanne-Marie Garros.  We became good friends.  She was a gift from God since I missed my family so dearly.  Another blessing was that my father would walk the three miles to see me quite often.  I loved every minute I spent with him.

During this time in Bartrès I was placed in charge of the sheep.  I took very good care of them.  Or so I thought.  One day I climbed the steep, winding hill to the barn where the sheep stayed.  I was going to lead them to pasture.  As I opened the large doors, I instantly saw that some of the sheep had turned bright green.  Oh!  You can imagine how frightened I became!  Green!  I began to cry. And at the same time, I pulled out my rosary from my apron pocket and asked God’s help to heal the sick sheep.  “What have I done wrong, Lord?”  And He answered me with the sound of Papa singing a folk song from our region.  He was coming for a visit.  Perhaps he would be able to get me out of trouble.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but since I could hear him singing, obviously he could also hear me sobbing.  By the time he came into view, he was running to see what was wrong. When he asked what happened, all I could do is point a finger at the green sheep in the field.  Papa burst into laughter.  I stopped weeping and must have looked puzzled.  He looked deep into my damp, dark eyes and said, “Bernadette, this is very serious.  You’ve allowed the sheep to eat too much grass.”  Before he’d finished his sentence I’d already burst into tears and threw myself into his arms.  How was I to know how much grass the sheep should eat?  He stroked my head and let me cry for a while.  I could feel him chuckling.  But I didn’t realize at the time that he’d been teasing me.  Finally, he fessed up.  He told me that the green sheep had been marked by the owners and were going to market.  Ah!  I knew Papa would make it all better!

Sometimes I prodded my father to allow me to return to Lourdes so that I could go to school and prepare for my First Communion.  I’d been in Bartrès six months and, since my health was no better in the hill country, I really wanted to return to my own home and family, no matter how poor we were.  It didn’t take Papa long to make his decision.  He quickly made arrangements and I was walking back to Lourdes.  I was happy again, even though we didn’t have any of the comforts I had enjoyed in Bartrès.  I was, once again, with my own family.

Many of the stern nuns accused me of having a naughty disposition.  Others felt that I was a lot of fun.  Yes, yes — I did enjoy a harmless prank more often than I should have — especially when the teachers would leave the classroom.  Once, I took off my wooden shoe and threw it out the upstairs window to another student working in the garden.  I instructed her to fill it up with strawberries and return it to me.  Picking strawberries was frowned upon.  But let me assure you that my classmates really had a feast that day!

At home, times were very hard.  We were barely eating.  And the prison cell was so cold.  Mama asked my sister Toinette to fetch fire wood with which she could cook and warm the room.  Mama felt that Toinette and our friend Jeanne Abadie could handle the chore.  But I offered to go along to help.  Mama worried about my asthma.  But she did eventually give in to my pleading.  So, the three of us marched onward to gather twigs and anything else that would burn.

We came to a place called Massabielle where farmers grazed their animals.  There, we approached a river crossing which was too deep to embark without getting drenched.  This time it was I who became worried about crossing the bitter cold waters.  Thinking about my health, I asked Toinette and Jeanne if they’d help me. “No!”  they both blatantly blasted.  “Take your shoes and socks off and cross over exactly as we did!”  They were still yelping and screaming from the icy, February waters. So, I knew it was going to be threatening.

As I removed my first clog and rolled down my stocking, a wind started to blow, which I hadn’t felt before. It was almost like music.  Strange thing, though I felt the wind, the branches of the trees weren’t swaying.  Honestly, I became a bit startled when I felt the breeze again.  I looked up into the old, dirty grotto and there stood a bright image of a young woman, not that much older than I.  How did she get up into that high niche without hurting herself?

The woman was clothed in white and wore a sky-blue sash as a belt.  A golden-yellow rose adorned each of her feet, matching the color of her rosary.  She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

The brilliant, beautiful lady gifted me with the pleasure of another visit.  And when the time was appropriate, I took the paper and pen from Mrs. Milhet and asked, “Would you be so kind as to write your name?”  The lady’s smile was as brilliant as a rainbow.  She even laughed a bit.  She responded, “It is unnecessary to write down my name.”  She proceeded: “Would you do me the favor of coming here for fifteen days?”  If I hadn’t already been kneeling with my rosary in hand, I surely would have fallen to my knees.  She asked if I would do her the favor!   Oh! she made me feel as if I were a queen.  And, of course, I promised that I would return.

Later, people reported that the small hole which I’d dug from the earth, and which the lady called a spring, was gushing water as swiftly as a river.  The lady had given the people a sign which she obviously had chosen with motherly pleasure.

“Does your lady have any money to build this chapel?”  I had never discussed money with the lady.  So my answer was an assumption: “No, Father, I don’t believe she does.”  “Who is this lady?” he grumbled.   I told the truth: “I do not know, good Father.”  He almost screamed: “Well, go and ask her name!”

“Does your lady have any money to build this chapel?”  I had never discussed money with the lady.  So my answer was an assumption: “No, Father, I don’t believe she does.”  “Who is this lady?” he grumbled.   I told the truth: “I do not know, good Father.”  He almost screamed: “Well, go and ask her name!”

Ah, the day finally came.  My flawless visitor was standing before me, and I was able to round up the nerve to ask: “Would you be so kind as to tell me your name?”  She only smiled.  All I could think of was Father Peyramale’s stern order!  So, I asked the lady thrice.  Upon my fourth attempt she raised her eyes toward heaven and replied, “I am the Immaculate Conception.”  I was overjoyed even though I had no idea what she’d said.  Was this her name?  Was it a title?  I just couldn’t imagine someone having the name Immaculate Conception.  But I pronounced it over and over so that I wouldn’t forget it.  “I am the Immaculate Conception.”  I had to keep practicing the words en route to Father Peyramale’s house.  By the time I arrived, scared half-to-death, I was certain that I must have mixed up the words — or — at least mispronounced them.  Once I’d arrived at the rectory, I blurted out quite boisterously, “When I asked the lady’s name, she said, ‘I am the Immaculate Conception.’” Immediately I noticed a change in Father’s face.  I noticed a change in his demeanor and for some reason I felt like weeping.  Something was happening though I couldn’t put my finger on it.  He asked me if I understood what the lady had told me.  I told Father that I did not, but I supposed that the words were her name.  Years later I was told that at this very moment Father Peyramale began to believe my every word, though sometimes I felt he struggled with certain aspects of my story.  Still, he became my ardent defender and protector.  God only knows what I would have done if not for his help and friendship.  It was this dear, stern man who explained to me that the beautiful lady was none other than Mary, the mother of God.  I recall being numb for days after he told me who she was.  Can you imagine being visited by the Heavenly Queen?  Yes, I, who was but a wretch!   I was overwhelmed!  People from all walks of life would ask if I was frightened to return to the grotto since I now understood who was visiting me.  Frightened?  Why?  We’d become such intimate friends!  No, not frightened ... but rather, honored!

On June 3rd, 1858 I had the great privilege of receiving for the first time, Our Blessed Lord in Holy Communion.  I was in awe of the sacredness of this sacrament.  And I, so unworthy!  Right after the reception of the “Little White Guest” people would ask me which privilege made me the happier: the appearances from the mother of God or the making of my First Holy Communion.  Both events were precious to me.  Both made me happy.  For as long as I lived, I was never able to make the decision.  I feared that the act of making a simple choice would have cheapened one or the other gift.

Two full years after Our Lady’s final visit, pilgrims were still stalking my family day and night.  It was difficult for me to tell and re-tell the story of the visions.   Dear Father Peyramale decided that I should move into the convent with the Sisters of Charity and Christian Instruction where I would be protected from the crowds.  It was hard to bid my family goodbye.  But Father knew best.  I moved into the school and hospice run by the good nuns.  Just as I was becoming less anxious and more peaceful with the “quiet” life, guests from wealthy families and Church leaders began to visit.  And now, when they offered money, I was forced to accept it for humility and for the continuation of the works of the sisters.  This was very difficult for me.

When the Honorable Village Leaders decided that something had to be done to stop all the curious pilgrims from far, far away, arriving in flocks, it was pretty much agreed upon to have my mental health dissected.   If the doctors could all accept the fact that I was mentally disturbed, even deranged, this might well be the route by which they could block “the Lady’s” requests.   But finding the right doctors was no easy task. All, so I was told, were quite cautious in “volunteering” to question me, knowing that the “believers” wouldn’t take their recommendations lightly.

I was told that the doctors were unanimous in thinking that I was sincere, pleasant, even intelligent (something that I’d never before been called).  They all felt that I was weakly nourished and that my family’s living arrangements were horrid.  No one would ever argue with these findings.  We were, perhaps, the poorest of Lourdes’ poor.  But we still had our faith.  We still loved each other.

It was during these days while living with the sisters at the Lourdes convent that I was given special instructions.  I was finally able to learn to read, write and speak French.  I was beginning to mature and it was a good feeling. 

Lourdes had changed over the years.  Hotels were being built, restaurants were opening to handle all the pilgrims, and now a basilica was being built, just as Our Lady had requested.  My work was done.  And I was awed at the solemnity of it all.

The village authorities joined with the Church in preparing for the important dedication of the chapel, which Our Lady had requested.  (My father was privileged to have helped build the crypt, the first of three chapels).  Anyone who entered our humble village on May 21, 1866, would have surely sensed the excitement.  The humming.  The buzzing.  Decorations everywhere!  Hymns being sung.  Flags, attached to rooftops, swaying in the breeze.  Enormous banners were carried by uncountable believers.  Mary was being honored, at long last, in the exact place where she issued her requests.  Can you imagine my joy?  And, as if this weren’t enough, my health was good!  I could actually participate in the dedication.

My family caused me many worries.  But Father Peyramale promised to watch over them.  Saying good-bye to my parents was the most difficult act I had ever performed.  I loved them dearly.  God sent me the courage to get through this terrible duty, but rest assured that, once I got into the carriage which was to take us to the Lourdes Train Depot, I wept bitterly.  Whether or not others saw me crying, I do not recall.  But in my heart, I cried a river!  Inwardly I knew that I’d never see Mama and Papa again.  Nor the grotto.  And I never quite recovered from these separations.  I missed my entire family.  And yes, I became very homesick.  But again, God sent me graces to overcome my spiritual and emotional discomfort.

From time-to-time I was fortunate enough to receive letters from my dear sister, Toinette, my precious brothers, and the family’s “matriarch,” Aunt Bernarde.  With good intentions, they kept me informed of my mother’s health.  But they weren’t telling me the truth.  They were trying to spare me. She was not growing stronger.  She was dying.  On the important feast of the Immaculate Conception, December 8, 1866, just five months after I left her, Mama was called to eternity.  I can barely write about it.  Please forgive me as the tears fall.  All the sorrows and sufferings of this saintly woman were enough to squash me.  And to think that she is no longer with us! I simply could not bear it! And then there was poor Papa.  And my brothers, John-Marie and Bernard-Pierre (my god-child), and my sister Toinette.  In times like this I wish I could be in Lourdes to console them.  To share in their sorrows.

Mother Marie Therese constantly tried to make me a better person.  A better nun.  I learned to take her piercing words as pieces of candy.  And each time they were uttered, I’d thank God for allowing me to accept Mother’s criticisms and for sending me so many sweets.  The young sisters were interested in knowing exactly what kind of candy I considered Mother rebukes.  Their curiosity made me laugh, but I’d never give into their inquiries.  My replay was always the same: “Ah!  Now that’s my business.”

Then the newly professed sisters eagerly awaited their obediences — the convent-missions to which they were to report for duty.  The bishop enjoyed watching the expressions on the faces of the young sisters.  Too soon, I was the only sister “uncalled.”  The bishop looked at the Mother Superior and asked, “What about this sister?”  He asked the question as if he did not know who I was.  Of course, he knew!  And the Reverend Mother played right along.  She frankly replied: “Monsignor, this is Bernadette Soubirous from Lourdes who is good-for-nothing!” I heard many gasps — and certainly they were not breathed in unison.  The bishop ordered me to approach.  I could feel myself preparing for oral battle — and this is exactly what Mother Marie-Thérèse so disliked in me.  She severely disapproved of the peasant practice of defending myself.  The bishop said, “Is it true, sister, that you are good-for-nothing?”  I looked toward the floor and replied, “Monsignor, the Mother Superior would never tell a lie.”  He questioned, “Then what are we to do with you?”  In the typical, pert Pyrenean fashion of responding, I offered: “Monsignor, I asked this very question of you when we first met in Lourdes!   Do you recall?  I was grating carrots when we met. You told me that I would be perfectly adequate as an assistant in the kitchen where I could peel carrots and potatoes to my heart’s content.”  He was a bit surprised by my frankness.  Reverend Mother sternly interrupted: “Monsignor, with your permission, and out of charity, we could keep her here at the Motherhouse.  Surely, we could find something for her to do!”  The bishop hurriedly approved.  I could feel his discomfort in playing out this little role.  He dismissed all present and we processed to the recreation room where we enjoyed a very nice reception.  My classmates hugged and made a fuss over me, trying to restore my nature to its usual good humor.  I worked very hard to assure them that I was perfectly fine and that I was actually quite pleased to remain at the Motherhouse, even if I were but a “charity case!”  All the sisters laughed as I tried to poke fun at what had just occurred.  Yet, deep inside I was trying to mend the throbbing pierce to my heart.  And, as if Divine Intervention immediately took charge, a miracle blossomed, removing all misunderstanding and heartache.  How continuously good God is to me!

In April, 1870, as the Prussian Army was approaching Nevers, our French Army took over the Motherhouse convent, converting it into a military hospital.  Though I was one of the sisters who remained to serve our ill nuns, many of the other sisters were moved to other convents, schools, hospitals and orphanages to give the military the space they needed to maneuver.  Even the Bishop’s house was over-run with soldiers. Most certainly I could have done without the presence of the Prussian Army, yet I did not fear them.  God is everywhere.  Even in the midst of the Prussians!  In January of 1871, the armistice was signed.  Our prayers for peace had been answered. On occasion the sisters would get me out of bed and carry me to our beautiful gardens which I dearly loved.  This was very difficult for the nuns.  But not once did they ever complain.  Never!  They used to chuckle and tell me that they could carry much more than my weight.  I believed they could!

Memories often flooded my heart.  I recall being told that Father Peyramale was, at one point, having difficulties believing my reports.  Though he knew me very well and knew that I would never tell a lie, there was at least a slight doubt in his mind about the apparitions.  I was far too young to understand doubt.  So, he sometimes would hurt my pride when asking something over and over, adding, “Now, Bernadette, you’re sure about this!?”  Many years after I left Lourdes, Father confessed to his superiors that he had fervently begged Our Lady and Lord for a sign.  Just a tiny one!  Anything to make his job of defending me a little easier.  Later, just before his death, he recorded in his own penmanship how God, in His Infinite Wisdom, deigned to answer his humble plea.  One morning as he turned around from the altar during the celebration of Holy Mass, he saw a brilliant light coming from one of the pews.  As he distributed the Holy Eucharist, the line of recipients approached and the light appeared to get closer and closer.  He wrote that as he placed the Host upon the lighted figure’s tongue, he could not make out any features.  He carefully watched as the light returned to the pew.  The moment the glowing person knelt to offer thanksgiving, the light disappeared.  Since no one else seemed to have witnessed the light, he immediately realized that God had sent the sign he had requested.  A miracle.  And that the haloed figure was none other than his little Bernadette.  Now I understood the reason Father had stopped questioning certain aspects of the apparitions.

The tears which flowed so freely upon hearing of Father Peyramale’s death surprised me.  Not that crying was foreign to my nature.  Many sisters would attest to this.  But it finally hit me how important this saintly priest had been to me during the difficult years at Lourdes.  How he had defended for me when the civil authorities tried to commit me to a mental asylum; how he had defended me to church officials; how he had watched over and protected my family, and how he had so effortlessly accomplished all the tasks Our Lady asked of him.  This man had been the Soubirous’ Guardian Angel!  Now he, too, was gone.  Most assuredly God was taking the most precious people in my life — so that they could spiritually prepare the way for their weakened little sister.  I spent many hours praying for my departed relatives and friends.  Their memories ignited my soul!

I felt death knocking at my door.  My body was wracked, my spirit exhausted.  I simply couldn’t go any farther.  I had just spent December 12th and 13th testifying that everything I had reported was true, told without exaggeration.  Father Sempé, who represented the Bishop of Tarbes, was touched with my responses.  He was pleased that after twenty years my replies were in accord with the original account.  He especially wanted me to know that the Holy Father approved of this last interrogation.  And this enchanted me and my congregation of sisters.  To think that the Holy Father would even consider us!

As the sisters were placing me in an armchair, readying me to be carried downstairs, I heard them discussing the situation.  Reverend Mother refused my brother entry, cautioning that I was too ill to receive visitors.  My brother, who had not seen me in twelve years was quite furious with the superior’s lack of charity.  He threatened to cause a scandal.  By this, some of the sisters felt that John-Marie was threatening to go to the newspapers.  As I closed my eyes, I could envision the scene.

The pain!  How could I possibly visit with my brother.  My body was battling with my heart.  As the nuns arranged me in the parlor, I tried to calm myself.  Interiorly, I was already weeping tears of joy.  I don’t know if anyone witnessed them fall. 

John-Marie found me completely changed.  Sick.  Withdrawn.  But warm and as ever interested in the family.  He was concerned about my quietness.  He was very gratified that I was still affectionate and tender toward him.  Also, that I still felt the desire as the eldest to “guide” the family from afar, as was the custom of Lourdes.  John-Marie was working at the grotto at the time, lighting candles.  But when he told me how much he was being paid, even I, who knew nothing about finances, recognized that his salary was unacceptable.  I told him that I’d write to Father Sempé, the Dean of the Shrine, asking him to look into the matter.  I imagine that my brother had no idea how acute was my illness.  I feared that he found me inattentive.  It wasn’t that I meant to be.  The physical pain was simply more than I could endure.  I am so ashamed to confess that I cannot recall very much of our visit.  But rest assured that it meant the world to me.  I only hoped that dear John-Marie was not disappointed with his eldest sister.  I doubt that he realized I was dying.  How does one bid a loved-one farewell?  I still weep when I think of our departing.  My heart wanted him to stay much longer.  My wracked body was begging him to depart.  I was so angry with myself!  God forgive me!  Dearest John-Marie, please, please forgive me!!!

I was told that I had become nothing more than skin and bone. And my poor sister, Toinette, was shocked to see me.  I could tell when I looked into her sad eyes that she knew I was approaching death.  She had a very difficult time composing herself.  The harder I tried to be attentive, the more discouraged I became.  I could offer nothing more than a moan, or a nod, and once in a while — even a smile.  She wept and wept.  I was too weak to mourn.   I’m afraid my last visit with Toinette was not the sort of memory she’d want to carry the rest of her life.  I felt saddened.  Dear Toinette, please forgive me! I prayed that God would ease her memories of our final visit.  I not only prayed for her needs — I selfishly included my own: I repeated over and over and over: “Heaven!  Heaven!  Heaven!”  My work on earth was done.  I found myself begging Our Lady and Lord to come for me. 

There is no question that the last days of my life were the most difficult.  But mingled with the suffering and sorrow were joys that I would take to my grave.  In our community we had the beautiful tradition of surrounding dying sisters on their death-beds, and presenting to them our petitions to the Lord.  The sisters tenderly approached my bed, and each taking their turn, gave me a list of errands to complete as soon as I reached the gates of Heaven.  I loved this ritual.  It was so heart-warming.  It helped me prepare for my final moments on earth.  The sisters were a comfort to me, now more than ever!

During my last days I recalled many of my childhood memories.  For example, I loved to watch Papa grinding the wheat.  He was meticulous at whatever he did.   It was amazing that at the moment this picture entered my head, I instantly realized that my own body was being ground just like the wheat Papa used to crush.

It was eleven o’clock on Wednesday morning, April 16th, 1879, that Reverend Mother came in to greet me.  Her eyes spoke volumes.  She said that my pain seemed to have doubled and that my sores were worse than ever.  Mother was speaking the truth.  I was gasping for breath, choking, coughing.  Later, dear Mother came to inform me that she had notified the community that the end was near.  Although I already knew this fact, to hear the words from Reverend Mother pierced my heart.  How could I say good-bye to the women who had shared my life with me?  The only way I could muster up the words was to ask their forgiveness for all the trouble I had been.  Too little was I physically able to do.  And for everything they had done for me!  I felt ashamed, though I knew there was no reason to be.  The Sisters of Charity and Christian Instruction were all exceptional women who came to serve my every need without ever uttering a word of displeasure.  Would I ever enter the gates of Heaven?  Perhaps not so easily, for assuredly, even though there had been many trials, the good sisters were like angels throughout my twelve years with them.  I was in heaven on earth — without ever realizing it. Another superior entered the sickroom with a flock of her sisters.  She said to me, “You are suffering just like Jesus on the Cross.”  How I mustered the strength, I do not know, but without thinking, I extended my arms, looked upon the crucifix and announced: “My Jesus, oh! how I love You!”

Though I was completely awake, I was incoherent. I could hear my favorite prayer being chanted by the sisters, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen!” I didn’t have the strength to join the chorus. But then, as if Our Lady had entered the room, I looked at her statue and declared: “Pray for me, your poor sinner! Poor sinner!” There wasn’t a single question in my mind that she would, indeed, pray for me. I was so tired. But finally, after all these years of suffering, I felt purified. So willing to go home. I couldn’t wait to run into Mary’s strong, loving arms! It was a relief to close my eyes, lower my head and release my last breath. Thanks be to God; it is over.