Going with God

Juliet Palmer

Searching for St Vincent de Paul

One of the few plans I made before going on my pilgrimage was that I’d visit the St Vincent de Paul head office in Paris. I thought it would make an interesting story to share with my fellow St Mary of the Angels Conference members when I returned – but in the end, I chickened out.

In my defence, I’d already been to a meeting hosted by the Paris branch of another organisation I belong to, and found it incredibly difficult to follow what was going on. My polished-up French really needed a bit more buffing. The idea of repeating the exercise with Vinnies seemed too difficult – though in retrospect, I guess I could have tried harder.

Begging in Central Paris

Not to be completely defeated, however, I decided to see if one of the numerous churches I visited had a Vinnies Conference. I eventually struck gold one morning when a sudden rainstorm forced me to take shelter in a church porch, which had a faded sign on a side door saying ‘St Vincent de Paul.’ But no – the ladies meeting in the room at the time informed me that Vinnies had long since moved out. They were members of the Catholic Women’s League. Oh. Au revoir et merci. Epic fail.

Still seeking but not finding, I was starting to feel desperate when a few days later a little, elderly man sitting on the footpath caught my eye. Now people sitting on Parisian footpaths begging for money are legion. They’re everywhere – some on their own, many with small children, sometimes entire families.

I guess they all have stories. The Place de la République, which was a minute or so from my hotel, hosts dozens of homeless people. Along the Parisian boulevards, the wide, ground-level windowsills of the Baron Haussmann-designed buildings make temporary sleeping quarters, as do the benches in the metro stations. Given the multitude of beggars, why did I stop for this man?

There were two reasons. One was that he obviously couldn’t see well – one eye was milky and the other absent altogether. The other was his sign: ‘SVP,’ it said … ‘Aha!’ I thought. ‘At last – a Vinnies opportunity.’ We had a chat. I offered him five euros to be allowed to take his photo. When I gave him the money he kissed my hand over and over. I wished he wouldn’t and withdrew it as soon as possible. We parted, with his blessings following me down Boulevard Voltaire. I felt unworthy – his response was far too great for my small donation.

Sacré-Cœur church, Paray-le-Monial

When I downloaded my photos, though, I had to say the last laugh was on me … SVP had nothing to do with Vinnies. It’s an acronym for the French phrase for please: s’il vous plait. Oh well … and anyway, the poor man really couldn’t see.

I eventually found what I was looking for several weeks and many train journeys later in a little town in Burgundy called Paray-le-Monial. There, quite by chance when I was exploring, I saw a street sign that said ‘Maison de Saint Vincent de Paul.’ I zipped down the street and while checking a map to make sure I knew exactly where to go a woman came up, asked where I was going, told me she was going there too, and I was in.

Jesus will accept you and bless you and will make such use of your lives as will be beyond your greatest expectations

Maison de Saint Vincent de Paul provides sleeping accommodation for homeless people and for relatives of people at the nearby hospital. It’s very simple accommodation, but decent and beautifully cared for by the residents. I was shown around inside and out – there’s a big yard, an underground chapel, a meeting room for the Conference, and several bedrooms (downstairs for men, upstairs for women). It would be a great place to stay if the need arose. We shared Vinnies stories – New Zealand is very exotic to them – and parted best of friends.

St Vincent de Paul by Simon François de Tours

My pilgrimage continued and I frequently found myself wishing for the ability to heal and cure: to save the world from itself, to inspire a miracle … to find legs for the man shuffling through the train on his bottom, to cure the woman (aged anywhere from 40 to 60) draped across the footpath in her petticoat begging for money for her next fix, for the big-eyed children holding out grimy little hands for money, for the hundreds of families desperate for permanent housing, for the refugees clamouring at borders … for the sorrow we make for each other.

I can’t do this on my own – nobody could. But we can all try together, as individuals, as Vincentians, Legions of Mary, parishes or whatever. As Pope Saint John Paul II said, ‘Jesus will accept you and bless you and will make such use of your lives as will be beyond your greatest expectations.’