I’m not Catholic. My first thought was, “Am I allowed to take a selfie with Jesus?” But everyone was super chill. An old man tipped his hat at me. A mom asked her kid, “What’s that saint holding?” The kid didn’t know. Neither did I. We just nodded at each other like we’d shared a deep secret.
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There’s a section called Lourdes, a replica of the French grotto. Water trickles down. You can fill a bottle. I filled my water bottle, took a sip, and immediately thought, “This tastes like Wisconsin tap water.” Still, it felt important. Like I was hydrating with history.
The whole place has a weird quiet. You hear kids whispering, birds chirping, and the occasional “Wow, look at that shell!” from a dad. It’s not a church-hush. It’s a “let’s not drop our phone in the holy fountain” hush. Very specific vibe.
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Father Wagner started this in 1918. He was a priest with a bad back and a good eye for trash. He collected 100,000 pieces of glass, pottery, and rock. That’s not a hobby. That’s a hoarder’s fever dream guided by divine intervention.
You see his handwriting in the cement. Little signs that say “God’s love is like this stone.” And you think, “He was right, and also, he really liked the color blue.” There are so many blue tiles. It’s like the ocean had a baby with a church.
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I spent an hour there and didn’t even see everything. There’s a miniature Golgotha. A crucifixion scene with tiny trees. It’s like a biblical diorama. I half expected a museum guard to say, “Please don’t touch the Roman soldiers.”
