On Monday, I heard that Paris was burning. Or at least the heart of her. A fire began in the roof of Notre Dame cathedral and spread through the ancient timbers like a tinderbox. At 7:53 pm local time the spire atop Notre Dame cathedral collapsed and at 8:07 pm the entire roof collapsed. I held my breath with the rest of the world and watched it burn.
I remember Notre Dame. I toured it with a gaggle of silly girls, checking the cathedral off our must-see tourist checklist. I was 21 years old and didn’t understand the magnitude of what I was seeing. The outside was decked out with rows of saints and gargoyles. Inside, the place was surprisingly dark and the huge Rose windows shone like gems aflame. That’s all I really remember about how it looked.
But how it sounded? That’s what stuck with me. While we were there, a choir was practicing and I heard their voices lifting upward and spreading out, filling the place with the sound. A song sung in that place was magnified to glorification by the shape of that lofty room.
For over 800 years, Notre Dame Cathedral has been the heart of Paris. With 12 million visitors a year, it surpasses both the Louvre and Eiffel Tower as Paris’s most visited monument. Building on the structure was begun in 1160 and took a century to complete. But on April 15th, a fire broke out in the roof of the cathedral and in less than an hour the wood-and-lead spire and roof collapsed, causing incalculable damage to the interior, upper walls, and windows, as well as to numerous works of art.
A friend of mine texted me this terrible news on Monday morning, and I went online to see what was going on. It had to be some kind of terrible social media hoax. I was sick when I saw the photograph. Goblin colored fire engulfed the spire, leaping skyward. It looked like hell on earth.
After that, I tried to sit at my desk and work, but I just kept going back to look for updates on the fire. Finally, around lunchtime, I gave up and went for a walk in the woods. The leaves shimmered like emeralds. The sky was piercing blue, like sapphires. The light streaming through the trees was divine and a crow flew overhead, his voice clear in the vaulted ceiling of the sky. I felt comforted by the beautiful place.
When we all woke up the next morning, somehow, miraculously, the church had been saved. The spire, weighing 175 tons wooden- made from trees that grew almost a millennium ago had burned like a torch but the rock walls, and even most of the stained glass windows survived. The precious cathedral was saved and President Macron vowed to restore her to her former glory.
Many relics and artworks survived. At one point, firefighters, policemen and municipal workers formed a human chain to remove the treasures, including a centuries-old crown of thorns made from reeds and gold, and the tunic believed to have been worn by Saint Louis, a 13th century king of France.
Reading these accounts, I felt immediately thankful – to the fire fighters and other first responders who fought for 15 hours to save her. I felt thankful to the architects and stonemasons who built her almost a thousand years ago, thankful for their foresight to build the stone vaulted ceiling beneath the roof, because that stone withstood even the ravages of fire. And I felt thankful that I would have another chance to go to that beautiful place. To look at it with cherishing eyes and once again hear the sound of the human voice amplified to Glory.
In 1902, a 28-year-old American poet named Willa Cather journeyed to Paris and wrote this powerful poem about that ancient city. To celebrate the saving of Our Lady, I would like to share it here.
Paris
Behind the arch of glory sets the day;
The river lies in curves of silver light,
The Fields Elysian glitter in a spray
Of golden dust; the gilded dome is bright,
The towers of Notre Dame cut clean and gray
The evening sky, and pale from left to right
A hundred bridges leap from either quay.
Pillared with pride, the city of delight
Sits like an empress by her silver Seine,
Heavy with jewels, all her splendid dower
Flashing upon her, won from shore and main
By shock of combat, sacked from town and tower.
Wherever men have builded hall or fane
Red war hath gleaned for her and men have slain
To deck her loveliness. I feel again
That joy which brings her art to faultless flower,
That passion of her kings, who, reign on reign,
Arrayed her star by star with pride and power.