The Miracles of Fourvière

“There are places where prayer becomes breath, and hope becomes a path.

For me, that place was Fourvière.”

Ever since I first heard the story of the plague and the vow made by the people of Lyon, something stirred deep inside me. It felt as if that ancient promise was somehow the beginning of my own life in this city. From that moment on, I began to believe in miracles tied to the hill of Fourvière.

Chapter: The Miracles of Fourvière

Ever since I first heard the story of the plague and the vow made by the people of Lyon, something stirred deep inside me. It felt as if that ancient promise was somehow the beginning of my own life in this city. From that moment on, I began to believe in miracles tied to the hill of Fourvière.

At that time, I wasn’t living in Lyon. I was in the hills of Pilat, in a small village called Saint-Romain-en-Gal, with my daughter. My husband and sons were far away, and for the first time in my life I had to do everything on my own. Before, my husband and boys had always been there, helping, supporting. But now, I had to rely only on myself.

I made the decision to remain in France illegally. It was risky, but in my heart, I carried a strange confidence: I would manage. There was also a wound, a resentment toward my husband, pushing me forward. Yet the difficulties were real loneliness, integration, the barrier of language. I tried to learn French through apps, at a beginner’s level but the silence of isolation weighed heavily.

That summer, I invited my cousin. She came with her son and became my very first guest in France. How joyful it was to share with her our “fairy-tale cottage” at the foot of the mountain! It looked like the grandmother’s house from Little Red Riding Hood only without the wolves, and without the grandmother. The three days we spent together passed far too quickly.

When we accompanied her to the train station early in the morning, I felt an emptiness return inside me. Yet that very day, my daughter and I had a doctor’s appointment in Lyon. We needed to spend some time in the city before the visit, and I decided to be brave: to drive to Fourvière.

I admit, I was afraid. Driving alone to an unfamiliar place was daunting. But I turned on the GPS, and it led us straight to the church. We arrived just in time for morning Mass.

As I stepped inside, I froze in awe: the light, the silence, the solemnity. I felt victorious. I had brought my daughter here by myself, I had conquered my fear, and I had entered this sacred place. We sat down, and for the first time in a long time, I felt pure happiness.

I had only one wish: to live in this city. I prayed that one day, when stepping out of my home, I would see the hill of Fourvière with its church crowning the skyline. It seemed impossible, a dream too fragile to hold. But I prayed with all my heart.

And then the miracle came. Three years later, I returned to Lyon. Now, every day when I step outside, I truly see the hilltop and the shining basilica above it. My prayer was answered.

From that moment, I knew: Fourvière is a place of power. Here, mysteries breathe, and prayers are heard.

I still return there often. Sometimes with guided tours, sometimes alone. And every time I recall that centuries ago, during plague and cholera, the people of Lyon came here to beg for life for their children, for their families, for their city.

And I too continue to pray. No longer for myself, but for my children. When my son in America faced struggles with documents, with work, with love I made a vow and began a prayer of discipline for him.

On the twenty-first day, something astonishing happened. A long-lost friend suddenly called. He had become a businessman in the U.S., and he unexpectedly offered help. He invited my son to work with him. And on that very day, the twenty-first day of my prayers, my son left Chicago, where nothing had worked out, and flew to North Carolina. He began a new life there, under the guidance of someone who became both mentor and protector.

I saw a miracle again. And once more, it came through Fourvière.