Many years had passed since I had seen the woman who was waiting for me after Mass… indeed she had grown old. I was in Belgium for a home visit, in the place where I grew up. I had known her for a long time as she and her husband operated a home and kitchenware shop in town. As children, we preferred to deal with the lady rather than the husband: we believed that he was grumpy. Ironically, all this time later she was waiting to tell me that her husband “would appreciate it if I could drop by.”
He was watching television when I arrived. It was the first time that I had seen the Tour de France with captions. The thin and pale man was sitting in his armchair. Even though it had been many years, he still knew me from the days when I came into the store as a child.
“And then you left for Congo,” he said as we reminisced.
He is sick now.
“My stomach protests,” he said, “…and my intestines do not work anymore.”
He sighs.
“But why should I complain? We were the first in the village who could regularly travel abroad. We went skiing every year. We saw half of the world. We have been very lucky.”
He looked at me and smiled.
“And now I should lose all these beautiful memories because of my stomach and my intestines? Of course not! My life does not confine itself to sick organs. My life consists of those wonderful years I enjoyed with my wife and my children. I do not allow that all these beautiful things be taken from me. I am a grateful man.”
Meanwhile, his wife had placed saucers, bowls and glasses on the table with biscuits and candies. She had several bottles in her arms:
“What do you want to drink?”
“Anything,” I said. She finally sat down at the table.
“I still want to ask something. You see that statue there: Our Lady and her Child. I put it somewhat in the corner because the children say that it is old-fashioned. But I like it. I got it for my first communion around 1915, during the war. This statue has seen a lot of things! Our Lady and her Child, they have seen my children be born and grow up. They saw my father die (as he had lived with us). And Our Lady and her Child are still here. But we are growing old. This little statue will be thrown on the garbage heap when we are gone, and I cannot stand it.”
She then moved to the edge of her chair.
“I thought: perhaps the Father could take this statue with him? Our Lady and her Child are needed everywhere.”
And so I agreed—and I took the statue with me back to the Congo. A bit of the paint was gone from the piece, so I repainted it light brown with some darker stripes for a ‘patina.’ It looked like a wooden figurine now and, if you considered it in its new surroundings, it appeared to be an African statue. Around Christmastime, I took it with me to the home of a loyal co-worker and friend named Bapro. I told him the story of where the statue came from, and I told him what the Belgian man had said about his beautiful life: that in spite of his illness, and in spite of all the pain, he remained grateful for what he enjoyed together with his wife and his children. I also told Bapro how the little statue had been pushed aside in the corner of the living room because the children did not like it and that the wife had found it such a pity that it might get lost or discarded. I repeated her words:
“Our Lady and her Child are needed everywhere. Please, give it a place in your home.”
Bapro did give the statue a place in his house. And in the same way that it was a witness of birth and death on the other side of the world, here too it would be a witness of much joy, but also of a lot of suffering in Congo. How often did Our Lady and her Child hear the songs of the children? How often did they feel the anxiety when a storm was lashing the corrugated metal, and the wind was pulling the roof, or when the thunder and lightning was raging around the house like evil forces? I came to his home many times over the years, and the statue was present along with Bapro as the children grew up, left home, got married… it even survived a house fire. No, the statue could not keep accidents and pain away from the house, but its constant presence signalled support and comfort. There eventually would be lamentations at the death of Bapro’s daughter-in-law, at the death of his son, and at the death of his wife. Indeed at times it seemed that Bapro could call the statue Our Lady of Sorrows. Years passed, and I was appointed to another province. I took comfort in the thought that Bapro was doing pretty well and honestly, in time, I basically forgot about the brown Our Lady and Child figure.
As you know by now, it’s many years since my encounter in the living room of the kitchen shop couple. I had heard that the “woman-of-the-little-statue” had died only a few months after her husband. I am now back in my homeland of Belgium, living in a community of aging confreres. For two weeks of the month, I head out early in the morning to celebrate the Eucharist with the Sisters and some sick people in the hospital near my place. My routine is to enter the hospital at the main entrance and, after Mass, one of the sisters gives me a cup of coffee and we talk about this or that… I leave by the side gate where there are flowers and shrubs to enjoy through the cool fog or mist or rain: every morning is different.
Not long after I began this routine, I noticed a small chapel in the trees, between some branches and flowers. What a surprise! There stood a statue of Our Lady and her Child: exactly the same as the one I left in Congo. Spontaneously, I cried out: “Look, Our-Lady-of-Bapro!” This time the figure had been painted white; it looked as if the Mother and her Child were laughing from under the white paint. I could only think: Joy and pain will be very close again, near the hospital.
The unexpected role of this small figure creates such a wonderful parallel in the context of my missionary purpose and journey. With humble beginnings in my hometown, it was eventually sent out to mission, just as I was sent out. And all these years later, Our Lady of Everywhere continues with me on my path. Each time I pass it, whether it is raining cats and dogs, whether birds are singing or butterflies are fluttering about, whether it is biting cold or very hot, I quite naturally look in the direction of the chapel:
“Hail, Our Lady of Bapro, Our Lady of Everywhere.”
And for a while, deep in thought, I am far away in Africa, where I still feel a little bit at home.
Nol Quartier
Belgium
Fr. Nol Quartier, cicm, is a Belgian native who joined Missionhurst-CICM in 1964, and was ordained in 1969. Sent to Africa in 1970, Fr. Nol was especially involved in Kasayi with the training of catechists and Bible animation. From 2010 onward, he worked in Kananga with CICM candidates, and also ran Bible sessions with the prisoners of the city. In 2013, he returned to Belgium where the nice memories of Congo still inspire him to preach the Good News.
