to ars . . . alone

I went to Ars alone! If you are not familiar with the name of the place then you are not alone. The ticket lady at the train station in Paris told me she never heard of such a place in France, and true enough it was not even listed in their computerized ticketing counter. And so I told her that it was the parish of St. John Marie Vianney. She gave me a grave look and asked, “who’s he?”
And so I bought a ticket to Lisieux instead to the Basilica of St. Therese of the Child Jesus. Lisieux has a train station and it was easier to locate. I rode the train early in the morning from Paris but when I arrived at the station I did not know where to go. So I asked a lady walking down the street, “where is the basilica?” It took her around three minutes to instruct me how to get there – in French of course, and all I did was to answer oui . . . oui . . .oui which was the only French word I knew.


To make the long story short, I recognized a word in French written in one of the buildings which sounded like the Spanish word for pilgrims. And so I went there and indeed the receptionist, a French woman was so glad (or was she surprised?) to see a lone pilgrim from the Philippines carrying a knapsack and with a pronounced limp caused by the long walk. And she treated me like a VIP, called up the basilica informing them that a pilgrim from the Philippines has just arrived and that I should be accommodated well. It was from that kind French woman that I also came to know where Ars is.
And so back to Paris I informed the same ticket lady where Ars is and she gave me two tickets telling me that I have to come down at this station and wait for 5 minutes for the next transport which will take me to the nearest bus station that will bring me to Ars – two stations, 3 transports! And off I went.
At the first station (Macon Loche) I hurried to the restroom knowing that the next train that would bring me to the second station would arrive in five minutes. After the restroom, I waited . . . and waited. Then I began wondering, why am I all alone in this station? Am I the only person going to Ars. It was Corpus Christi Sunday, and supposedly, according to the brochure, there will be a grand procession of the Blessed Sacrament in Ars! Then I began to wonder why the train had not yet arrived.
After 15 minutes of waiting I came up to the ticket counter to complain. He looked at my ticket and lo and behold he told me, you should have been riding the bus, not a train, and the bus left 10 minutes ago! The next bus was at 12:00 noon and I have to wait for four hours, and besides if I wait that long and still go to Ars, I mght miss the train to Lyons.
But no, I have to go to Ars! It was a dream since High School after reading the book by Abbe Trochu on the life of John Marie Vianney when I resolved to see the priest himself. And so I decided to walk. I walked for an hour and a half but still there was absolutely nothing but fields of wheat and vineyards as far as my eyes can see. Finally, realizing that I am going nowhere and almost sobbing, I have to accept the reality that I could not make it to Ars on foot and went back (walking again for an hour and a half) to the station. I waited for the bus which dutifully arrived at noon and as we were travelling the long road (it was really long and to think I have tried walking to get there!) I was praying and hoping that the next bus which will be taking me to Ars will be there waiting at the bus station. It was not to be so. It was a Sunday they told me and busses ply the route only in the morning. I sat at the bench exhausted not knowing what to do. I prayed to St. John Marie Vianney negotiating, even pleading telling him that I came all the way from the Philippines with a free plane ticket I did not deserve, (the Assumption sisters intended it for the Archbishop so that he can lead the Iloilo delegates for the canonization of Marie Eugenie and gave it to me when he begged off).
I inhaled deeply and decided it was not yet the time to give up. I saw a big burly man with unkempt hair leaning against what looked like a taxi. I asked if he could bring me to Ars in his car. He could not understand English but a Negro came who knew a little English and told the man that I was looking for a transport that will bring me to Ars. He said, sorry he could not help. He is taxi driver but he is off-duty, and besides, he said, “how would you come back to this station in time for the train to Lyons if I bring you to Ars? There is no bus or taxi on the way back.” Don’t surrender yet . . . not yet . . . so I haggled, and again I pleaded. Bring me there, just give me 30 or even just 20 minutes to pray to the saint, then bring me back here . . . . please . . . the Philippines is a long, long way and this privilege does not happen to me everyday . . . please, please, please. This can even be my only chance to see and pray in Ars!
Finally, the burly man gave in to the arthritic. He told me in a voice that seemed disgusted and perplexed, “Ok 30 minutes wait, for 30 Euros.” I jumped for joy. He drove me to Ars and parked his car under a tree by the park. But before I could open the door he told me, “I will wait for you here, in this same place. I am giving you two hours!” I wanted to hug that driver, really! He was just so kind, so unexpected from a big burly man whose hair needed some shampooing and combing. I immediately went to the basilica. It was deserted except for a few boys playing basketball near the church. It was really a village. Even the souvenir shops looked like village huts converted into shops and only one was open that Sunday afternoon. I was alone in the church. There was no more mass. I went to the relic (the body of the saint), knelt in front of the saint , and after what I went through, tears just rolled down my eyes as I prayed the rosary ever so slowly savouring every Hail Mary telling the saint to please pray with me. After an hour and a half in prayer (I did not forget to pray for the driver) I went to the preserved convent with John Marie Vianney’s shoes (he had just one pair), his kitchen utensils, his famous bed which the devil used to shake while he was resting, his rows of books and the vestments he used for the mass. Ten minutes before the end of the two-hour slot, I ran to the souvenir shop bought a few items and was back in the car ecstatic. The driver was there patiently waiting. He brought me back to the station and I paid him the agreed 30 euros and gave him a tip. He thanked me and smiled (probably knowing that he made someone so happy that day). I noticed that the meter was running and it showed 38 Euros. He did not complain. I thanked him. I went to the station and waited for the next train to Lyons.
A pilgrimage has a way of teaching us about life and that trek to Ars was something that resonated deep in my soul about my priesthood. Most often I have to tread the path alone. There were many times that I felt lost, and literally losing my way. But in the most unexpected places and sometimes with the most unexpected persons – the French women in Lisieux looked angelic but the driver and the negro were not, - but just the same there were, as pilgrims often say, Angeles del Camino – angels along the route. In a pilgrimage done alone, I have to relinquish control over my life and most often I came out even more surprised that I can manage to survive life even without my help . . . even without me! Twice in that pilgrimage I literally trembled in fear – one when I was almost robbed in a tram and the other when a border police accosted me suspecting that I was a drug courier. And yet with what I went through I came to know that I was and will never be alone. God is there.
I recall this experience of 2007 as a way of reminding me that my life as a priest is and has always been a pilgrimage of faith. And as the parish celebrates the 150th death anniversary of St. John Marie Vianney on August 4 on the Year for Priests, consider what I have just written as an appeal, a pleading – be angels on the way! Pray for us!