24 March - Notre-Dame de L’épine Fleurie

[Weedy]

24 March - Notre-Dame de L’épine Fleurie
Our Lady of the Flowering Thorn, France

From the infancy of the Church, images of our Blessed Lady have been
in use among the faithful to enkindle and keep alive in their hearts a
tender devotion to the Mother of God. When the barbarians overran the
Roman Empire, the Christians, fearful of profanation, hid these
paintings and Statues of the Blessed Virgin, in the most secret
recesses of caves and forests. The Huns and vandals spared neither age
nor sex and when the tumult of war had subsided, oftentimes, few or
none remained to withdraw those images from their hiding places and
they rested, until the providence of God, allowed them to be
discovered and often, in a miraculous manner. “Our Lady of the
Flowering Thorn” was one of these and the marvellous circumstances of
the discovery, are thus related by a chronicler of the olden time:

“On the western side of the Jura, France, there once stood an old
baronial residence. Its noble owner had heard the voice of St Bernard
calling through the length and breadth of the land, to the rescue of
Jerusalem and of the Holy Sepulchre. He had listened to the thrilling
words, “Hail to thee, holy City, City of the Son of God, chosen and
sanctified to be the source of salvation to man. Sovereign of nations,
capital of empires, metropolis of patriarchs, mother of prophets and
apostles, hail to thee.” The infidel had taken possession of her, and
Christendom rose to the rescue.

Who has not heard of what the world calls the fatal ending of St
Bernard’s crusade! Yet surely not fatal to those devoted souls, whom
the love of God inspired to fight for the land where Jesus suffered
and died for them and who fell on the battlefield, to rise and grasp
the crown of glory. Among those heroes of the Cross fell the Lord of
our castle on the Jura, leaving a widow to mourn her loss while she
rejoiced in his gain. “Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.” Their names
have been lost in the lapse of ages, he is only remembered as the
crusader, she as the saint.

It was on one of those days when winter, about to leave the earth,
seems to cast himself into the bosom of spring, that our saint was
walking along the avenue of her castle, her mind full of pious
meditation. She had reached the termination of the avenue, when her
eye was attracted toward a thorny bush, and there she saw an arbutus
laden with the richest blossoms of spring. She hastened towards it,
doubtful whether the flakes of snow had not deceived her but no, she
found it crowned with a multitude of little white stars shaded with
crimson rays and she carefully broke off a branch to hang up in her
oratory, over an image of the Blessed Virgin which she had venerated
from childhood. She joyfully returned towards the castle, carrying her
innocent offering. Whether this little tribute was really agreeable to
the Mother of Jesus, or whether it was only that pleasure, which the
heart feels at the slightest effusion of tenderness, towards a beloved
object, the soul of the lady was that evening filled with the most
ineffable sweetness. She promised herself a great deal of pleasure in
going every day to gather a fresh garland to adorn the statue of her
Mother Mary, and she was faithful to her resolution.

Now it happened that one day, being very busy in relieving the wants
of the poor who came to her for alms and kind words, she could not go
to gather her garland before the shades of evening had covered the
earth and as she approached the thicket, an uneasy feeling came over
her, occasioned by the increasing darkness. S he was thinking that it
would be difficult to gather the flowers, when a calm clear light
seemed to overspread the bushes. Startled at the sight, and fearing
that robbers might be lurking there, she paused for a moment, but
remembering she had never once omitted to bring her offering, she
boldly ventured forward, though it was with a trembling hand she
plucked the branch, that seemed as if it bent towards her.

During that night and all the next day, the lady reflected on what she
had seen, without being able to account for it and her heart, being
penetrated with the mystery, she went the following evening to the
thicket, accompanied by a faithful servant and her old Chaplain. The
soft light was seen as they approached, becoming every instant
brighter and more vivid. They stopped and fell upon their knees, for
it seemed to them, that this light came from heaven . Then the good
old Priest arose and moved with reverential steps toward the thicket,
chanting a hymn of the Church; he put aside the branches which
appeared to open of their own accord, and there, a little image of the
Blessed Virgin, rudely carved by unskilled though pious hands, was
descried in the midst of the bushes and it was from this Statue that
the light emanated.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” said the Priest, kneeling before the
image, “and at that moment a melodious murmur was heard through the
surrounding woods, as if the chant had been taken up by the choirs of
angels.” He then recited those admirable litanies in which faith
speaks the language of the most sublime ecstasy and after repeated
acts of veneration, he took the Statue in his hands to carry it to the
castle, where it would rest in a sanctuary more worthy of it.

The lady and her servant followed with hands joined and bowed heads,
repeating the responses of the solemn litany. It is needless to tell
of the elegance and rich decorations of the niche where the holy image
was placed, surrounded with blazing lights and rich perfumes, while
the lady and her household knelt in prayer until morning advanced—but
lo! when the beams of the orb of day arose upon the earth, the image
was nowhere to be seen. Why had the heavenly Virgin deserted the
widowed saint? What new dwelling had she chosen?

The blessed Mother of the lowly Jesus had preferred the modest shelter
of her flowery thorns, to the splendour of a worldly dwelling; she had
returned to the freshness of the woods, to taste the peace of solitude
and the sweet exultations of the flowers. All the inhabitants of the
castle proceeded at evening to the wood and found it more resplendent
than ever. They knelt in respectful silence. “Queen of angels, Queen
of all saints,” said the Chaplain, “it is here thou art pleased to
dwell, be it as thou wilt.”

And soon a Chapel was raised on the spot, embellished with all the
architectural beauties those ages of faith and poetic sentiment could
inspire. The rich adorned it with gifts, and kings lavished it with
jewels and gold. The renown of the miracles wrought there, drew large
crowds of pilgrims and ere long, a convent reared its head, of which
the saint became the superior. She died full of years and good works
and our Lady of the Flowering Thorn received her pure soul and carried
her in her maternal arms to the blissful bowers of paradise, where
thornless flowers bloom forever, around the Throne of God.

Still, each spring, till Time is no more, the thorn trees bloom and
white petals testify to those who will listen, to the tale that no
scientist would believe, the story of Our Lady of the Flowering Thorn.
If you wish to check on the details, you might go yourself to the
forgotten valley, near the highest peak of the Jura and walk among the
ruins there. As you kneel on the grassy stone that once formed the
arch above the Chapel window, say a prayer to Our Lady for the one
from whom I heard the tale, for me and for all lovers and devotees of
Mary. Amen.”



On the Wonderful Effect of Divine Love (II)

THE DISCIPLE.
As yet my love is weak, and my virtue imperfect, and I have great need
of Thine strength and comfort. Therefore, visit me often, I pray, and
instruct me in Your holy laws. Set me free from evil passions, and
heal my heart from all disorderly affections; that, healed and
cleansed in spirit, I may grow able to love, strong to endure, and
steadfast to persevere.
--Thomas à Kempis ---Imitation of Christ Bk 3, Ch 5