Nagasaki is now a bustling modern city. Trees and flowers were blooming, and people were going about their business. The thought came to me: underneath everything is indestructible life.

I was nine years old when the bomb fell on Nagasaki. For me at that time and for most of my young life, it simply meant the end of the war, which I saw as a good thing. It brought my oldest brother as well as thousands of others who fought in the Pacific theater home safe and alive.

Since then I’ve read some of the enormous amount of literature that has been written about the bombing.

For a few years prior to my trip to Japan, I had also been reading about the extraordinary history of Catholicism in Japan, especially in Nagasaki, which has been from the beginning and still is, the most Catholic part of the country.

I read about the fifteenth century missionaries, about the martyrs who died for the faith during almost 300 years of unremitting persecution, and about the "hidden Christians" who preserved their faith during those centuries.

I also read about Takashi Nagai, the great Catholic doctor, who became a spiritual leader after the bombing, not only of the Catholics of Nagasaki, but also of all the people of Japan.

Nagasaki was a place I had to visit.

Early in the morning on the day after I arrived, I concelebrated Mass with Fr. Francis, a Japanese Franciscan. As I looked out at the elderly congregation, I wondered if any of them were descended from the hidden Christians or from the martyrs. I wish I could have asked them. And surely some of them had experienced the bomb.

After each Mass I handed out copies of the prayer to Our Lady of Combermere in Japanese. As people silently prayed it, I experienced Our Lady of Combermere arriving in the hearts of her Japanese children.

I stayed with three Japanese Franciscan Friars, and one of them, Fr. Bernard, graciously became my tour guide.

Our first stop was the Cathedral of the Assumption, which had been rebuilt after the original one was destroyed by the bomb.

Though the cathedral had been almost completely obliterated, two large statues, one of Our Lady and one of St. John standing together at the foot of the cross, had been left standing. I saw these statues at the A-Bomb Museum; the cross that had been between them had been destroyed. It was a powerful image—this empty space between the two figures.

The A-Bomb Museum was very painful to see. An attendant told me that most of the people who visit it are American.

After reading some of the documents of those who counseled for and against the decision to use the bomb, and reading some comments of the citizens of Nagasaki, I simply decided that I have no clear understanding of why it happened or whether or not the bomb should have been used.

One priest, a Japanese, had some interesting observations about the aftermath of the bombing. He said most of those now demonstrating for peace and nuclear disarmament are not those who experienced the bomb.

Like me, he was nine years old at the time of the bombing. He told me his father said that the bomb happened through the providence of God, and that Japan needed to be defeated. I’m sure, however, that this was not the opinion of everyone.

This priest also said that it is their faith that has enabled the Catholics of Nagasaki to come to terms with the bomb.

The religious high point of my visit was the shrine of the 26 martyrs of Nagasaki. On February 5, 1596, after a grueling 30-day walk from Kyoto to Nagasaki, 26 Jesuits, Franciscans, and Japanese lay people (including one seminarian, Paul Miki, who would have been the first Japanese priest) were tied to crosses and killed with a sword.

These first martyrs of Japan are now memorialized in a magnificent granite monument that looks as if it was built to last until the Lord’s second coming.

The museum at this shrine is one of the best places to learn about the history of the Catholic Church in Japan. There are many documents, portraits of the missionaries and martyrs, and memorabilia of various kinds.

Three of the objects on display were especially inspiring for me: the relics of the martyrs, some of the original Maria Kannon statues, and the efumi.

Maria Kannon was a statue of a female Buddha holding a child. Throughout the almost 300 years of continual persecution, the Catholics, who had no statues of Our Lady, used these for their devotions to her.

Efumi were religious pictures made of bronze that the government used to find the Christians. Every New Year’s Day, everyone in Nagasaki was required to put his or her foot on an efumi of Christ or Our Lady to prove they were not Christians.

Those who refused underwent horrible torture and were killed. Some Christians compromised, making the distinction between an exterior act and what they really believed in their hearts. It was a way of surviving; only God can judge them.

I was given a replica of one of these efumi of Our Lady. I consider it to be one of the holiest objects I own.

Now that I am home, I sometimes play a CD of Carmelite nuns singing hymns in Japanese. I place my hand on the efumi and I think about the thousands of people who stamped on these images, most in hatred for the faith, some to save their lives.

While doing so, I think of the countless unknown martyrs who stood before the image and refused to do so. It’s a moving experience to do this. I see these nuns as blossoms watered by the blood of the martyrs.

Afterwards we went to the Oura Catholic Church, the oldest church in Japan. Built in 1865, it is famous as the church where the hidden Christians made their first contact with a Catholic priest in over 250 years.

In 1865, it was still illegal to be Catholic. Japan had just opened its doors to foreign trade, and the government had allowed this church to be built, but only for the use of the foreigners. In fact, a huge sign in front of the church forbade the Japanese to enter it.

But on March 17th, a small group of hidden Christians did enter it. It was very moving for me to stand on the very spot where they stood when they first spoke to Fr. Petitjean, the pastor—the spot where, fearful and shaken with emotion, they questioned him to determine if he was indeed a Catholic priest.

But of all my experiences in Japan, the one that touched me most occurred, not when I was visiting the sights, but on the morning I departed from Nagasaki.

It happened when I heard the church bells of the cathedral summoning people to Mass. After the martyrdom, after the centuries of persecution, and after the bomb, the eternal sacrifice was being celebrated in the quiet of the morning hours.

The grass is indeed thrusting through the winter snow.