In 2021, my husband and I had the privilege of spending three months in a home named in honor of St. Maria of Paris - a house of mutual hospitality that welcomed migrants and refugees as well as volunteers, living together in community and service. Before this, I knew nothing of Mother Maria (or Mere Marie, as she is called in France), or the turbulent and inspiring story of her life. In preparation for our time in the home, we were encouraged to read her biography and writings to understand the legacy of radical hospitality and love that she left behind.
If you have read Mother Maria’s prophetic and sometimes fiery words, you may (like me) find them both a painful challenge and a beacon of light. Yet I was so moved by her commitment to the dignity of all people, and how she retained a sense of joy and creativity even in the midst of much suffering. So while volunteering at the Maria Skobtsova House that fall, my husband and I made a short pilgrimage to Mother Maria’s original residence in Paris, Rue 77 Lourmel, and the street that is now named in her honor. It felt important for us to spend a few minutes in this place where she gave so much of her life and energy.
It is nearly four hours by train from our home in the north of France to the heart of Paris. We arrived on a humid August day, the pigeon-gray sky threatening rain. As we traveled by metro further out from the typical tourist locations, I tried to imagine what it was like for Mother Maria to be here in the 1930s, arriving with her family and very little except the clothes on their backs. Her biography tells us that she lived with her family in extreme poverty, sewing late into the night to try and keep food on the table. She could understand exactly what so many of my housemates were going through so intimately - the uncertainty, financial and physical hardship, family separations, loss of culture and identity. She, too, would bury one of her children in a foreign land and find it necessary to reinvent her life as it emerged from the ashes.
We arrived on Rue Lourmel quietly, aware that our presence as pilgrims there was rather out-of-place. As you might guess, the original house of hospitality no longer stands, nor does the stable that she turned into a chapel and decorated with hand-embroidered icons. In its place is a tall, shiny apartment building with shops on the bottom floor. But as we arrived, we were surprised to see a plaque by the apartment’s entrance, commemorating her work and the lives of those who worked alongside her, noting the year and date of their martyrdom.
From a spur-of-the-moment desire to bring some kind of gift, something beautiful we could offer, we had brought along a bunch of lilac roses. We left a few below the plaque, breathing a silent prayer. Then we continued around the corner, onto the small street recently named Rue Mere Marie Skobtsov. Here there was a larger sign, explaining the identity of the woman for whom this street was named. This quiet street was full of trees and natural beauty, and now home to a retirement community. In a certain sense, it is still a place of hospitality, dignity, and welcome.
As we sat in prayer for a moment and the sun broke through in a burst of light, I thought of the joy written on Mother Maria’s face in one of the only surviving photographs of her. I thought of how her words fit best within the context of her life - that both were needed to weave together a true story of who she was. In a sense, I got to know her best not by traveling to this place, but by living in the home that was carrying on her legacy in daily acts of love, hospitality and joy.
“In communing with the world in the person of each individual human being, we know that we are communing with the image of God,” Mother Maria once wrote, “and, contemplating that image, we touch the Archetype — we commune with God.”
As we laid down our last rose and walked away that day, I felt a clear sense of invitation rising within me. Do I truly believe that my greatest source of life is bound up in the well-being of the lives of my neighbors - that they have something essential to show me as the face of Christ? Or do I keep the door shut tightly to my individualistic world, and thereby close myself off from love and from life?
I see more than ever that is an open door I can choose to walk through – and it is entirely my free choice. Whatever is behind it, I know it is the door of love. I pray that each day I have the courage to say yes and walk through in joy.
You became an instrument of divine love, O holy martyr Maria,
And taught us to love Christ with all our being.
You conquered evil by not submitting yourself into the hands of the destroyer of souls.
You drank from the cup of suffering.
The Creator accepted your death above any other sacrifice
And crowned you with the laurels of victory with His mighty hand.
Pray fervently that nothing may hinder us from fulfilling God’s will
Because you are a bright star shining in darkness!
(Kontakian)
