This was our last day in Paris. Once before we had stumbled inside the little church that sits underneath the great shadow of Sacré-Cœur. It is the Church of Saint Peter of Montmartre; one of the oldest surviving churches in Paris. According to traditional history, it was founded by Saint Denis in the third century. One of my favorite sacred composers, Charpentier, later wrote devotional music to be performed there. However the church, like so many other Christian sites, was destroyed during the French Revolution. Yet it still remains full of history, and there are a few Roman columns which managed to survive used in the nave. The first time we accidentally wandered in was on our honeymoon and, to my delight, I discovered a brightly colored poster of St. Francis with a wolf next to him that read, “Choisir La Paix,” or “Choose Peace.” I took it home and framed it. On this trip I wanted to revisit the church again with our little one and study it more closely. Instead of a throng of tourists and the shuffling of feet on the floors of Sacré-Cœur, we were greeted instead with an instant hush of holy silence. I could hear the murmurs of a young woman on her knees fervently praying the rosary. She knelt on the hard flloor discreetly out of the way but still very close to the this picture I unobtrusively took of the Virgin Mary. Very much a working parish and clearly a praying church, they still allowed the respectful taking of photographs, for which I was eminently grateful. The lights were dimmed inside the cool interior and the big, thick double doors managed to block out the cacophony beyond its sacred walls. A respite from the chaos of the world, my soul settled as I allowed myself to soak in my surroundings. According to the literature I’d just read, the church celebrated its 870th anniversary just two months prior; astounding! There was an elegant simplicity about it, with a white crocheted linen draped gracefully over the rough-hewn stone altar. The simple wooden pews were polished to a high sheen. I had left my little one with my husband as I silently walked through the church and I was stunned to discover them both quietly knelt in prayer. Afterward, we emerged into the bright afternoon sunlight and decided to sit at a small café where our little one had ice cream and we enjoyed my favorite beer, 1664, as we watched people traversing up the 300 steep steps to Paris’ highest point — Montmartre. Once we descended to the bottom, we rode the old carousel there that is astonishingly free. It was rife with an old magic that cannot be adequately put into words, but for me it was palpable. Watching Paris pass us by I was transported back to my first visit ten years ago. It was on my honeymoon and I remember watching my handsome new husband smiling at me as our horses rose up and down. This time I looked at the impossibly striking man I’d married and, next to him, I gazed with wonder upon our miracle from God — our precious only child. Her auburn curls slightly lifted with the breeze and I saw a perfect mix of the two of us in her, complete with my mother’s features and my father’s jet black, impossibly long eyelashes. From her father I believe she inherited her thick, wavy locks as well as her unfathomably dark eyes. My heart was so full of love and gratitude at that moment words cannot fully describe it. And yet I felt a great sense of melancholy knowing we were leaving the next day. The American author M. J. Rose said:
“I think Paris smells not just sweet but melancholy and curious, sometimes sad but always enticing and seductive. She’s a city for the all senses, for artists and writers and musicians and dreamers, for fantasies, for long walks and wine and lovers and, yes, for mysteries.”
I took in the sights and smells of the city I love and prayed we could return soon. Leaving Paris was truly like leaving home. It gave me great consolation that my little girl and husband did not want to leave either. I realized with joy that she had seeped into my husband and my little one’s heart as well — Paris, mon coeur.
