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The Our Lady of Lourdes Do-It-Yourself Garage Project was a local site of pilgrimage right near our house, close enough for a short drive and after-supper devotions for the whole family.

How did we know about it? Maybe from the St. Anthony Messenger that came in the mail to everybody’s house. Maybe from church announcements after Mass. Maybe somebody knew the story from somebody else, and spread it around the parish. One thing for sure, it was the talk of the whole street at night when neighbors sat on the steps and lawn chairs talking about the day. Then one evening in summer the parents decided to take the kids and go see for themselves. We all hopped in the cars and set out in a little convoy. 

The do-it-yourself garage family was home mowing the lawn and hanging out the wash. They were very nice about people just stopping by, and they pointed out the garage and told us to go right on in. While we did, the men stood outside for a talk about the project: rigging up a carport for the car, going to the hardware store for concrete, plumbing materials, electrical wiring, benches, music system, landscape and garden supplies, and statues. Once the men learned how the shrine worked, they took a look in the door. They agreed that the head of the house did a nice job fixing the place up.

The moms talked to the wife in a quiet way off to the side away from the kids. She had a personal story to tell them about the Blessed Mother and what she did for their family. We children didn’t hear anything about it, but we heard a lot of stories like it. Maybe somebody needed an operation, or a couple was asking God to send another baby, or a son was going into the Army. Families put their intention in the prayer announcements at church, or asked the priest for a novena of Masses for nine days, or they traveled to some special church, or attended a whole 40 Hours’ Devotion, took out a newspaper ad with the prayer to St. Jude, patron of hopeless cases. This family did something special: after Our Lady answered their prayer, they gave her their garage so everyone could come and pray to her too. 

That made sense to us. We all liked extra devotions. At the top of our school papers we always  drew a cross at the top with initials J M J for Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, like Bishop Sheen did on TV on his blackboard with chalk. One mom drove to a mission church Upstate every first Saturday for a year because the baby had asthma, so Mom got up at 3:00 a.m. and left the baby and kids with Dad, and she went to Mass there and got home at midnight with a bottle of holy water to put on the baby until next month. One grandmother took old broken charm bracelets and necklaces, and made rosaries as gifts. One girl in high school baked hot cross buns with sugar crosses on them for every day in Lent and gave them away. One neighbor went to her garage piano at 5:00 every morning to play and sing “Immaculate Mary, our hearts are on fire!” and we could hear her all up and down the street. One son was hit by a drunk driver, so his dad took a little plaster statue of Michelangelo’s Pieta, and he put a mold around it and then sat up every night and made more plaster Pietas for months and painted them silver and gold with glitter, a whole parade of little Pietas sparkling around their fish pond and lined up all along their garden path.

But we never saw anything like The Garage.

The family built a whole outdoor scene right inside a room. It was like the bug house at the Bronx Zoo, but very holy and no bugs. You could just walk in and feel all surrounded out in a peaceful place of real nature. 

The garage door and ceiling had corky white squares with holes like Munster cheese, to keep out noise. There was a chorus singing music from everywhere all around, filling the air but in a very soft way. The front wall was white stones to make a hillside grotto cave, and a waterfall with spray mist made a fountain falling down. The ceiling was like a black velvet sky with tiny white lit-up stars. The grotto was all thick ferns and white peace lilies and moss. There was a beautiful statue of The Holy Virgin in a white flowing robe and blue veil and gold crown and the gentlest face, holding out a long crystal rosary in her hands and white roses at her feet.

Everybody came in and said a prayer and one by one went back inside. I sat inside on a bench looking at the water and stars and the face of Mary watching over us until it’s like everything outside the garage just faded away. But the parents called the kids to get in the car, because the family had to finish with their laundry and lawn. We all drove home. Everybody went in to their houses; there they were inside their lighted windows with conversation and housekeeping and blue light humming TV sets.

I lay down on the front lawn in white clover flowers with the feel of the planet turning under my back. The ski was goldish blue with tiny light clouds in rows like geese, turning white to pink to lavender and all peaceful, like just past them there was Heaven. It felt like there could be this exact shrine feeling always if only I never committed another sin in my whole life.

It would be nice find that family again. It would be good to thank them, and maybe hear their story. The family didn’t preach at us about special prophecies or visions. Instead, they put the car outside in a little carport with tarp, and they made a lot of trips to the hardware stores and garden center, and they put in a lot of work. Then they opened their garage to strangers, so we could feel a little like they did when their prayer was answered. They seemed to believe that Our Blessed Mother had plenty of grace to bless anyone who stopped by her garage, or even to bless anybody in any place and time. If we set it aside for her, she’d come right down to be with us.  

Any time. Any roof.