Basil C.
Google
The moment I walked into the Church of Our Lady Victorious something gentle settled over me, as if the city outside had been placed on mute. The Baroque arches curled like open arms and the world narrowed into a single point of light at the center of the chapel. There stood the Holy Infant of Prague, small in stature yet impossibly commanding, a serene child whose presence seemed to breathe with warmth and quiet authority. It felt like entering a conversation that has been going on for centuries, whispered in the language of faith and longing.
The history of this little figure carries the weight of a wandering relic that refused to let itself be forgotten. Born in Spain in the sixteenth century as a simple devotional gift, it crossed borders and households until it finally reached the Carmelites of Prague. War ravaged the city and the statue was left damaged, its hands broken, its beauty dimmed. Yet tradition tells of a soft voice speaking to a humble priest, asking to be restored and promising blessings in return. From that moment the Infant became a beacon for the desperate, the hopeful, the grieving, the grateful. Miracles were reported. Families were consoled. Entire continents grew attached to this gentle child in royal robes.
Standing before Him in His ornate sanctuary, surrounded by glowing gold and soft candlelight, I felt a strange paradox unravel in my heart. He is a child, tender and unassuming, yet His raised hand offers a blessing that seems to pass straight through the noise of human life and land in the quiet place where the soul listens. In His other hand rests the world itself, a reminder that love can be both delicate and overwhelmingly powerful.
The changing robes, embroidered with devotion by countless hands across generations, give the sense that this is not a relic of the past but a living presence cared for by people who bring their whole hearts into the work. Pilgrims kneel with the same sincerity whether they come from Prague, Manila, Lisbon, Mumbai, Singapore, or São Paulo. Their prayers seem to linger in the air like incense, woven into the very fabric of the chapel.
I found myself lingering far longer than I expected. The Infant seems to invite you into a very quiet kind of surrender, the kind that asks for nothing but gives everything. It is the gentleness of God made small enough to meet you face to face, so that even the tired and the doubtful can find rest.
When I finally stepped back into the streets of Malá Strana the world felt unchanged yet somehow softened. I carried with me the calm radiance of that tiny sanctuary, the sense of blessing that settles not with thunder but with the calm certainty of a child offering peace in the palm of His hand. The experience stayed with me as a quiet light, steady and comforting, long after I left the church behind.
Sunday Mass in English at 12.00 pm.
