Joan of Arc: A Lifelong Companion in Courage

 

First Encounter

When I was about ten years old, my mother handed me a slim paperback from St. Pauls Publishers. It was a short biography of Joan of Arc. I remember curling up on the floor with it one lazy Sunday afternoon, the fan whirring above, my homework conveniently forgotten. I’d never read anything quite like it.

Here was a girl not so much older than me who heard saints speak to her and had the audacity to believe them. And not just believe them; she acted on what they said. She got on a horse, led an army, defied bishops, defied kings.

“One life is all we have and we live it as we believe in living it.” — Joan of Arc

At an age when I was being told off for arguing with the class monitor, Joan was persuading grown men to follow her into battle. That was enough to impress any ten-year-old girl with a stubborn streak and an imagination prone to drama.

That first book planted a seed. I didn’t grasp the politics of 15th-century France, but I knew she made me feel braver, just for existing.

Teenage Defiance

Like most teenagers, I went through a phase of quiet rebellion. I remember being told well-meaningly that I was “too opinionated for a girl.”

That night, I dug out my old St Pauls Joan and reread the trial scenes. There was my girl again, being interrogated by a roomful of clerics, outmaneuvering them with clarity and calm.

“I am not afraid. I was born to do this.” — Joan of Arc

I underlined that sentence. It landed like a sword in my spine. Maybe being a little opinionated wasn’t the worst thing after all.

Rediscovering Joan in Twain

Years passed. Joan quietly faded into the background of my bookshelf until she came galloping back in, quite unexpectedly, in the form of a much thicker book I stumbled upon in a second-hand shop. It was Mark Twain’s ‘Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc’; a curious title for an author I knew better for riverboats and mischief than for medieval saints.

I picked it up out of curiosity, but stayed for the sheer surprise of it.

Twain, ever the sceptic and satirist, had spent more than a decade researching and writing this book. He considered it his best work; quite something coming from the man who gave us Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. Twain’s Joan is tender, quick-witted, full of fire and humility. Through the fictional voice of her childhood friend Sieur Louis De Conte, he defends her with all the power of his pen.

“She was the only entirely unselfish person, man or woman, that I have ever known.” — Mark Twain on Joan

I read it while my newborn son slept beside me. Exhausted, overwhelmed, I turned pages long after midnight. I cried over Joan’s unshakable hope:

“Go forward bravely. Fear nothing. Trust in God; all will be well.” — Joan of Arc

She had no child of her own, but she mothered a nation. And I, holding my son close, felt a strange kinship; the kind that comes from knowing you’d fight a thousand invisible battles for someone you love.

Joan in the Everyday

Now, my son is eight. He once told me, quite seriously, that Joan of Arc must have been a Jedi like in Star Wars. When I said no, she didn’t have a lightsaber, just a banner and her voice, he looked puzzled. “But how did she win, then?”

Exactly.

That’s the question, isn’t it?

How did a peasant girl with no sword, no formal education, no army of her own win hearts, shift the tide of war, stand up to powerful men, and die for what she believed in?

I think the thing about Joan is that she keeps finding her way back into my life, like a hymn you half-forgot but can still hum without thinking. She’s been a quiet companion in moments both mundane and meaningful; not so much a guardian angel but as a stubborn older sister who refuses to let you wallow.

Like several women I know, sometime after I got married, life settled into a new rhythm; working during the day, trying to stay afloat at home, making endless to-do lists and forgetting half of them. It was the season of packed lunches, misplaced bank passwords, and “what’s for dinner?” asked far too often.

Those nights when prayer feels like silence, and silence feels like failure. I’ve often turned, not to thunderous miracles or lofty theology, but to Joan.

Not the blazing warrior on horseback, but the girl in prison; abandoned, barefoot, alone. Still praying. Still believing. That version of her comforts any woman juggling the quiet struggles of home life, who feels unseen yet keeps going anyway.

I sometimes wonder if Joan knew, in those final days, that her story would last. That centuries later, women in worlds she couldn’t imagine; women across continents would look to her not just as a saint, but as proof that faith and fire can live in ordinary people.

A Chance Encounter in Westminster

I remember standing in Westminster Cathedral, that great red and white Byzantine giant nestled in the heart of London, its cavernous hush wrapped around me like a cloak. I had wandered in on one of those spontaneous, in-between moments on a family trip, when you duck into a church not out of any grand plan, but because your feet hurt and the world outside is a little too noisy.

I walked toward the Blessed Sacrament Chapel, craving a few minutes of silence.

And then…there she was.

A mosaic of St Joan of Arc, radiant and defiant, tucked quietly to one side in the north transept, beside the Blessed Sacrament Chapel. Not grandiose, not flashy. Just there. Watching. Waiting.

My breath caught.

She wasn’t on horseback, no sword drawn; just standing, holding her banner, eyes lifted as if she could already see what no one else could. Her expression was so familiar it felt like being recognised by someone I hadn’t seen in years. A reunion across centuries.

I stood rooted. The monstrance glowed softly beyond the chapel gate, and beside it, my childhood saint; the girl who had shaped my sense of faith and fire long before I had words for either was standing guard.

It was all too much and not enough. I whispered, “You again.”

Because truly, that’s how it felt. She was there as if to remind me that the saints we carry in our hearts sometimes appear quite literally to tell us we’re still walking the right path.

I left that cathedral quieter. Steadier. And with a strange, burning sense that she hadn’t just been part of my story; she had been watching over it all along.

And the best part? I only realised afterwards, over a slightly overpriced afternoon tea in London, that it was May 30th — her feast day. I nearly dropped my pastry. Of all the days to accidentally stumble into a side chapel and bump into St Joan… classic her, really.

If You’re Still Reading

If you’ve read this far, thank you. I don’t know what Joan means to you or if she means anything at all. But if you’ve ever had a quiet certainty no one else quite got… if you’ve ever stood your ground and taken a few knocks for it… if you’ve ever wished for a voice that says, “You’re not completely bonkers, you’re just brave”; then perhaps she’s your saint too.

And like the fleur-de-lis, that elegant little lily that adorned her banner and has become the unofficial mascot of French pluck and pride, Joan’s spirit still lingers. She’s a proof that strength doesn’t always roar; sometimes it shows up as a stubborn teenage girl with a mission and zero chill about giving up.

So whether you’re navigating the chaos of everyday life; work emails, mismatched socks, existential dread over what's for dinner or just looking for a little light on an ordinary day, perhaps Joan would meet you there. Not with fanfare or angelic choirs (she was far too practical for that), but with a steady gaze, a slight smirk, and a look that says, “You’ve got this.”

Because she did. Against all odds. With nothing but faith, fire, and a banner flapping in the wind.

Joan didn’t wait to be qualified or liked or understood; she showed up, trusted what she heard, and carried on, even when the world called her mad.

And maybe that’s the takeaway: courage isn’t always a battle cry. Sometimes, it’s just showing up again tomorrow. Sometimes, it’s believing your voice matters; even if it shakes. Or reheating your coffee for the third time and muttering, 'Right, let’s try that again.”

So here’s to the Joans in all of us; fierce, frazzled, faithful and figuring it out one quiet miracle at a time.

Who Was Joan of Arc?

[A story for those who’ve never met her before.]

Joan of Arc was a teenage peasant girl from 15th-century France who claimed to hear divine voices urging her to save her country. At just 17, she led French troops to a critical victory at Orléans during the Hundred Years’ War, helping crown Charles VII as king.

A year later, she was captured, tried for heresy by a pro-English court, and burned at the stake at 19. She was later declared innocent and canonized as a saint in 1920.

“Act, and God will act.” — Joan of Arc