Chapter One

Shepherd Boy

My name is John, and I have been dead since August 4, 1859. How happy I am! For my soul is in Heaven. Yes, for eternity I am privileged to see God... For endless eternity I enjoy a happiness that is beyond the power of mere words to describe. And nothing can ever take this happiness from me! Or from my friends - the millions of men and women and boys and girls who are with me in Paradise! For the joy we have is everlasting. It is eternal. God has said so, and of course He cannot lie.

It was not easy to win this joy. When a soul comes into the world, the Devil tries very hard to drag it down to Hell. So it was with nearly everyone who is in Heaven today, the chief exceptions being those who died shortly after Baptism - babies and very small children. But I - well, my life on earth lasted for more than seventy-three years, and many, many times during that period the Devil tried to discourage me in my efforts to please God and to win the place which He had prepared for me in Paradise.

Did he succeed? Of course not. And why? Because of the wonderful courage God gave me whenever I called upon Him. For in my day (even as in any day) whenever there was a temptation to do wrong, to go over to the Devil's side and give up the struggle to win Heaven, God was always ready with His grace. Since He wills that every soul in the world shall someday enjoy the good things of Heaven, naturally He does not withhold the means to obtain them. But what a pity that so few people understand this, and that when trials and temptations come they never think of asking God for the grace to remian true to Him. Because of such neglect, the struggle against the Devil is generally far harder than it needs to be. Many times, alas, it even ends in defeat--in Hell, with all its terrible darkness and misery and pain.

My struggle to outwit the Devil and to win Heaven (although it was some time before I really understood about such thigns) began on May 8, 1786, in Dardilly, a village not far from the city of Lyons, in France. My parents, Matthew Vianney and Maria Beluse, already had three children: Catherine, Jane and Francis. But they were delighted to have still another, and on the same day that I was born I was taken to the village church to be baptized. Here I was given two names: John, in honor of Saint John the Baptist, and Marie (the French form of Mary) in honor of the Blessed Virgin.

"I wonder what little John Marie Vianney will be when he grows up?" some of the neighbors asked one another thoughtfully. "He seems to be a fine, strong boy."

"Why, he'll be a farmer like his father," was the general opinion.

The reply was certainly a natural one. For generations my people had tilled the soil. What was more likely than that I should follow in their footsteps? And follow in their footsteps I did, at least during the early years of my life. Of course my tasks were just simple ones at first, such as feeding the chickens, gathering the eggs, weeding the garden. But when I was seven years old my father made an important announcement.

"John, I think you're big enough now for real work," he said. "Tomorrow you may take the sheep to pasture."

How happy I was at this new responsibility! My brother Francis, two years older than I, had been in charge of the flocks for some time. Now I was considered trustworthy enough to take his place. Now I would be allowed to be away from home all day, seeing that the sheep found good grazing land, that they did not stray into neighbors' fields, that they came to no harm from other animals. And if I did my work well, nine-year-old Francis could be spared for still other duties on the farm.

So it was that I became a shepherd. Frequently my little sister Marguerite (who was seventeen months younger than I and whose pet name was Gothon) accompanied me into the fields. Then, when the sheep were peacefully grazing, we played games with neighboring shepherd children who came to visit us. However, there were many days when the other children did not come. At such times Gothon and I played by ourselves or knitted stockings.

Perhaps to children in America it may seem strange that a boy should know how to knit. In my day this was not considered strange at all. Every country child was expected to make hismelf useful, even when he was quite small. And since we were very hard on our stockings, our mother taught us how to make new ones with the wool from our own sheep.

I had been born in 1786. Shortly afterwards, many political disturbances arose throughout France. In the year when I was given charge of my father's flocks, godless men had long been in control of the government. Churches and monasteries were closed. All priests and nuns who acknowledged the pope as Head of the Church were hunted down as though they were wild beasts, and cruelly murdered. Finally, unless one were willing to pay with his life, it was no longer possible to attend the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, or to receive the Sacraments.

"Children, our cuontry is being punished for its sins," said my mother sorrowfully. "Oh, what a dreadful thing it is to offend the good God! See what hardship and pain it brings, even to the innocent!"

I was just a seven-year-old boy, but my mother's words made a deep impression on me. And I was even more grieved when I heard that there were priests who, to protect themselves, had sworn to uphold the new government. These continued to say Mass publicly, although of course no good Catholic would attend.

"There are many brave priests, though, who refuse to have anything to do with the wicked government," my mother told us. "They are in hiding."

"In hiding?" I asked curiously, not quite understanding what this phrase meant.

"Yes. They dress like farmers or peddlers or tramps. But they are priests just the same. Perhaps it will be possible for us to go to their Masses."

For several years we managed to do just that. Late at night (as though we were bent on committing some great crime) we would creep from our beds and walk the mile or more to the barn or farmhouse which had been selected as a meeting place. All of us children were sworn to the utmost secrecy, and never would we have dreamed of mentioning to any stranger what we were doing or where we were going at that hour of the night without so much as a candle or a lantern to guide us over the rough country road. We would rather have died than betray the whereabouts of a priest who had remained faithful to the Pope, and who that very night would hear Confessions, offer Mass and give Holy Communion to his little flock.

Of course I was all eyes and ears when we finally reached the makeshift church--especially for the priest, who was risking death to bring us farmer folk the consolations of our Holy Faith. What a brave man he was! How wise! How holy! And yet in appearance he was just like anyone else...

"But he isn't just like anyone else," my mother whispered. "Even in Heaven he will be set apart from other men."

And then as best she could, she explaiend about the priesthood--how it is a supernatural state of life to which God calls certain men, so that they may become channels for His grace. Through these men, who take the place of Christ on earth, God pours forth His love and mercy. Through them He receives the greatest prayer the world can ever know - the Sacrifice of the Mass. Through them He takes away the stain of Original Sin in Baptism, in Confession forgives any sin it is possible for man to commit, in the Holy Eucharist gives Hismelf as food to struggling mankind, and in Confirmation sends the Holy Spirit to help souls profess and spread the Catholic Faith. Through priests He unites men and women in the holy partnership of marriage, prepares the souls of the dying to enter into eternity, and in Holy Orders gives the same powers to other men, so that the priesthood will last as long as the world itself.

I often thought about my mother's words. How wonderful to be chosen by God to be a priest! How fortunate were those boys who, having received the call, had the chance to study the many things necessary to fulfill this vocation! So carried away was I by such thoughts that before long an idea for a fine new game had presented itself. I, seven-year-old John Marie Vianney, would make believe that God was calling me to be a priest. Even more. I would not be simply a student. I woudl be already ordained. I would have the right to preach and to conduct church services.

Witha little coaxing, Gothon and the other shepherd children joined in the new pastime and agreed to be my congregation. Thus, each day while the sheep were peacefully grazing, we said the Rosary, sang hymns and marched in procession through the fields behind a makeshift cross. Later I preached a sermon - but only a short one, because my listeners were not partial to long speeches. Occasionally we also gathered before a little clay statue of the Blessed Virgin which I had made (I kept it hidden in a tree turnk near the brook) and decorated it with moss and wildflowers.

So the years passed - 1793, 1794, 1795. Religious persecution still went on in France, and although certain loyal Catholic families managed to attend Mass, they still had to do so in secret. As a result, it was impossible for us younger country children to make our First Confessions, or to receive Holy Communion, since there was no way for us to have regular instructions from the various priests who moved from one village to another under constant threat of death. Indeed, I was eleven years old before I went to Confession, and thirteen years old before I received my First Communion.

Probably this great even woudl have been postponed even longer had I not been able to spend some months visiting Aunt Marguerite, my mother's sister, in the neighboring town of Ecully. Here lived several priests (although a stranger would have taken one for a cook, another for a shoemaker, a third for a carpenter, so successfully had these servants of God disguised themselves in order to escape capture by the police). These were also two good women in Ecully who had been nuns in the Cognregation of Saints Charles before the government had driven them into exile.

"My nephew John Marie has never been to school," Aunt Marguerite told these faithful souls. "Do you suppose you coudl teach him a little reading and writing? And something about Catechism?"

Father Groboz (who worked as a cook) and Father Balley (who worked as a carpenter) agreed to do what they could for me. So did the two women who had been nuns.

"John Marie may join the First Communion class," they said. "There are fifteen other children already enrolled."

The time and place for the meetings of the First Communion class were as secret as those for the Holy Sacrifice, and the danger was as great for both teachers and pupils. For instance, what would happen if the police came when we were studying our Catechism? How could we explain why we were gathered there? Suppose we became excited and let slip some information about the priests and nuns who were our teachers? Yet the weeks passed, no police came, and finally the beautiful day of First Communion arrived.

How happy I was to receive Our Lord! What did it matter that there were no white dresses for the girls, no new suits for the boys? That the great event was not taking place in a flower-decked church but in a farmhouse with wagonloads of hay drawn up before the windows so that no godless stranger could tell what was going on inside? I did not think of any of these things. All that mattered was that at last Our Lord had come - He, who could make my soul clean and pleasing to Him...Who could help me to do my work well..

"I love You, dear Lord," I said. "But I know that I can love You still more if only You will show me how. Will You? Please?"