ALL SAINTS: ⛪ Saint Benedict Joseph Labre - Beggar of Perpetual Adoration

Saint Benedict Joseph Labre—sometimes called the Beggar of Perpetual Adoration or just Benedetto Giuseppe Labre—came into the world on March 25, 1748. He was born in a little village called Amettes, in northern France, not far from a busy town named Boulogne. His dad, Jean-Baptiste Labre, worked hard as a shopkeeper or farmer. His hands were rough from selling things or digging in the dirt. His mom, Anne-Barbe Gransire, had fifteen kids, and Benedict was the oldest. They lived in a small house made of stone and straw. The wind whistled through the cracks, and inside it smelled of wet hay, burning wood, and the earthy fields outside. Amettes was a plain place—muddy paths ran past farms growing wheat and flax, and a small church called Saint-Sulpice stood in the middle, its bell ringing for prayers. The air was cold and damp most of the time, especially in winter when the family huddled close to stay warm.

Back then, in the 1700s, France was a big country ruled by a fancy king, Louis XV. Rich people lived in big palaces, but folks like Benedict’s family didn’t have much. They worked hard and paid a lot to the king, while some smart people started saying they didn’t need God. But in Amettes, God was still important. Benedict was a skinny kid with pale skin, dark messy hair, and eyes that looked like they saw far away. As a boy, he wandered around, watching geese waddle through the grass, carrying water in a bucket that splashed his legs, or sitting quietly while his brothers and sisters played. His mom and dad taught him about God early. Every night, they’d sit by a little candle next to a wooden cross on the wall. Benedict would say prayers with them, like “Our Father,” in their simple French way. His tiny hands held a rosary made of wood beads, worn smooth from touching them so much. This tells us: God loves simple people, and even a little kid’s prayer can grow big.

The Labre family didn’t have a lot. They ate porridge made from barley, maybe with a carrot or two, and sometimes a bit of cheese if it was a special day. Their fire was small, and the cold snuck in through the walls. When he was six, in 1754, things got harder. France was fighting a war with England, and it took food and money from villages like Amettes. He didn’t have an easy time, with so many brothers and sisters to feed. At 10, in 1758, he started learning, going to live with his uncle, a priest in a nearby village called Érin. His uncle had a little house next to the church, with some old books—ones for learning Latin, a Bible with crinkly pages, and songs about God. Benedict sat at a wobbly table, trying to write Latin words while his breath puffed out in the chilly air. He didn’t like Latin much—it was boring—but he loved reading about God and the saints. At 12, in 1760, he started loving God more. His uncle saw him sit still in the church for a long time, just looking at the little light by the altar, praying quietly. France was changing—fancy ideas were spreading—but Benedict stayed quiet inside. At 16, in 1764, he heard God calling him, wanting to be alone with Him—Readers, look here: hard times make saints, and a quiet boy can find God’s voice.

Trying to Find His Place

Benedict didn’t fit in like other kids. At 18, in 1766, he wanted to be a monk, so he went to a place called La Trappe where monks lived tough and silent lives. He showed up in old clothes, skinny and tired, asking to join. He wasn’t strong enough, though—his chest hurt from coughing—and they said no. At 19, in 1767, he tried again, this time at a monk house in Montreuil called the Carthusians. He thought their quiet life was perfect, but they wouldn’t let him in either—he was too young and didn’t know enough. He walked to another Carthusian place in Longuenesse, and they let him try. But being locked inside made him feel trapped, not peaceful, and soon they told him to go. God talked to him in dreams, a soft voice saying, “Follow My way”—it scared him a little, but it kept him going. At 20, in 1768, he went to Sept-Fonts, another monk place that wasn’t so strict. He stayed eight months, liking it best so far, but he wanted to be even poorer than they were. He got sick—hot with fever and sores—and they sent him away too. France was getting noisy—smart men like Voltaire stopped believing in God—but at 22, in 1770, he decided to walk the world, leaving home with just rags on his back, heading for Rome—This says loud: when people say no, God says yes, and walking free can make you holy.

The 1770s were busy years—people traveled all over Europe, some looking for God like Benedict. At 25, in 1773, he got to Rome, tired and dirty, wearing a beat-up cloak tied with a rope, a cross hanging on his chest, and big beads around his neck. He slept under the old Colosseum, where stones were falling apart, with a sack that held a Bible, a prayer book, and a broken bowl he’d fixed with wire. He lived with almost nothing, eating bread people gave him, bugs crawling in his hair—by 1775, at 27, he visited holy places, like Loreto and Assisi, walking miles in shoes that let in rocks and rain. People laughed at him, calling him “Tramp!” or worse—but he smiled, happy to be left alone. Strange things happened, some saying he glowed a little—Benedict just said, “I’m nobody.” At 30, in 1778, his body hurt, sores growing from not washing—Europe was changing fast—big fights were coming, like the one that killed a king in 1793—Benedict kept praying, holding his rosary tight, sometimes wearing a funny three-cornered hat and giving away what little he had. This tells us: being poor can make you strong, and a walker’s dirt can help others.

Living Simple in Rome

Benedict found his way—at 32, in 1780, he stayed in Rome, going to churches every day, especially one called Santa Maria ai Monti. He’d kneel there for hours, his knees getting sore on the hard floor, praying to Jesus in the little box on the altar. He felt hungry and hurt, his stomach empty—he kept praying anyway, loving church more than food—God showed him things, like Mary smiling at him—by 1782, at 34, he met a priest, who didn’t like his smell but saw his good heart—at 35, in 1783, he got weaker, sores all over—on April 16, 1783, he died, falling down after church, taken to a butcher’s house—his last word was, “Mercy”—they buried him in that church, and his body didn’t rot—he became a saint on June 8, 1881, his day is April 16—Rome went wild—kids shouted, “The Saint is dead!”—This shows: dying poor can make you big, and a beggar’s end helps people.

Helping People Even Now

Benedict’s story didn’t stop—Rome cried for him, so many people came to his grave they had to lock the church—he helps lots of people: folks who feel crazy inside, single guys, poor people with no home, ones who can’t join holy groups, walkers looking for God—he’s a picture, a beggar in a funny hat giving away coins—his family found out late, happy their boy was a saint—In those wild days—big changes hit France, but God stayed—Benedict picked God’s way, quiet in the streets. Today, he says: live simple, friends, let go of stuff. This sings: one poor guy can shine bright, and being small beats being big.

A Friend for Today

Benedict’s life talks to us now—he didn’t care about things, people, or even himself, just God. That shows how empty it is to grab stuff or worry about me, me, me. You don’t have to live on the street, but you can copy him by letting go of what keeps you from God. He made every life holy, a poor guy showing God loves everyone—his name spread fast, even in England by 1784, when travel was slow—he helps you find your way, good for people who feel lost, love praying to Jesus, or see God in quiet—God can make a saint from a homeless man, and He can make one from you too. All He needs is your heart—This says: God turns simple into special, and you can be holy if you try.

How He Helps You

Benedict’s story pulls you in—his poor days say look for God, hard times open doors; his walking says stay free, God’s close. His laughs from others say be tough—stand up when people push you down, faith keeps you going. His end says believe—die happy, God’s your prize. He left in rags—live so you shine at the end, and rest with Him. Walk his way: take less, pray when it’s tough, let God lift you up.

A Prayer to Saint Benedict Joseph Labre

Dear Saint Benedict Joseph, friend of the poor, you walked with nothing for God, your life a song in hard times. Show me how to let go, so I can follow with your brave heart. Teach me to trust easy, stay strong when people laugh, and feel peace when life’s messy. Help me drop my wants, my worries, and sit close to God, my heart ready for Him. Give me your love for the simple, your brightness, so my days help Him shine. By your grave, listen to me, and with your holy words, let me live small, brave, and real, showing His light till I’m done. Amen.

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Apr 16, 2024

⛪ Saint Benedict Joseph Labre - Beggar of Perpetual Adoration