Mont St. Michel (Group A)

Mont Saint-Michel is an island in Normandy, France that you can only walk to when the tide is low. It is said that St. Michael the Archangel fought the devil here. I'd say that Beauty, Truth, and Goodness won.

When we got off the bus for our day trip to Mont Saint Michel, we immediately saw the looming figure of a monastery atop a mountain in the distance. It looked like the castle of the kingdom of God - right in between heaven and earth and surrounded by water and clouds. My small group finally chose a name, the Little Princesses, because it was looking up at Mont Saint Michel that we recognized our true identity: we are daughters of a king. It was hard not to see the majesty of this place.

As the group collectively walked together towards the island, we grew more and more silent in personal prayer and reflection. During our girls' night several days ago, we discussed how pilgrimage is not only a journey to a physical place, but a journey of the heart and soul towards God. Walking towards Mont Saint Michel and up the many stairs to the top, I understood this very clearly.

We attended Mass in French in the abbey, the church atop Mont Saint Michel. "It sounds like angels," someone commented, and indeed it did. There was something ethereal and otherworldly about it. Perhaps it was because we were up so high, or because of the acoustics and architecture of the church, or because of the breathy, high-pitched voices and light blue and white robes of the community (The Monastic Fraternity of Jerusalem, which lives in and maintains the abbey). Perhaps it was a combination of the three.

We found a grassy knoll to have a picnic lunch after Mass. Three European scouts who hiked to Mont Saint Michel without any money joined us for lunch; they were collecting money for a convent in their hometown and were relying on charity offered to them. The spirit of pilgrimage, someone said to me on the bus, “is accepting whatever charity is offered to you”. Everyone here at Saint Broader, where we are staying now, and at Nay have been so hospitable to us.

We had salad, tuna, rice, chips, fruit, bread, eggs, chocolate, and cookies for lunch and we talked and laughed under the warm sun; the rain and clouds from earlier that morning had cleared up. I am starting to get used to the looks we get from others when we sing in public. Our group of forty sang the hymn of the angels in the small chapel halfway up the mountain. We sing beforehand after every meal as our communal prayer. Some people look at us with awe and wonder in their eyes, others immediately leave the area – but at least they’re hot or cold, not lukewarm or the Lord will spit on them, right?

The day was all about the victory of God and St. Michael, and for that I am grateful, because we easily could have spent the day shopping and eating at fancy restaurants. But we aren’t tourists, we are pilgrims.