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This is an antique. This is not a new bracelet sold by the dozens. The wood beads are extremely old and the charm is so rare it’s most likely the only one you will ever see. Here is the info. Don’t let this one get away. 
Whispers from the Thorns.The Lost Relic of the Confrérie des Saintes Épines
I’ve always been drawn to objects that carry secrets older than memory. Not the flashy antiques that shout their stories from museum cases, but the quiet ones—the ones that wait for the right hand to awaken them. This bracelet came to me that way. This was slipped into my hand by an angry woman. She was French but a true weirdo! I had met her years ago in New Orleans and she acted like I was going to rob her. On various trips I would look for her and sometimes her shop would be there and sometimes not. Yeah, it was like the Mantua house! It would disappear.  Finally I got inside. The woman had to unlock the door for you. She slipped into a plain envelope these bracelets. They came from an estate sale in rural France she told me. The seller, an elderly woman with eyes like smoked glass, only said, “It belonged to someone who no longer needs protection.” Then she closed the door. She is rude!!! If you have been to New Orleans you know the types of shops I’m talking about. One place has a chair made out of a tree that Jesus sat in. I got two of these but they are different in what they do and what they are. Both are EXTREMELY RARE! You can try to find them and you will see that.
I learned what it was later, through nights spent chasing fragments in forgotten archives. The medal is from the Confrérie des Saintes Épines—the Confraternity of the Holy Thorns—a lay order that existed in the shadows of the French Church from the late seventeenth century until it vanished sometime after the Revolution. Officially, they were a pious association devoted to venerating authenticated fragments of the Crown of Thorns worn by Christ during His Passion. Unofficially… the records grow strangely silent, as though someone deliberately erased them.
The confraternity was never large. Membership was by invitation only, extended to those who had already proven themselves through acts of hidden charity or inexplicable survival. They met in side chapels at dawn, or in private oratories behind walled gardens. Their central relic was said to be a single thorn—blackened, impossibly sharp—kept in a reliquary that was moved constantly to avoid seizure during turbulent times. Some whispered that the thorn still bled on Good Friday, a single crimson bead that granted visions to whoever kept vigil.
What made the order truly mysterious was the belief—never written down, only passed mouth to ear—that prolonged contact with authentic thorns of the Crown carried a lingering grace. Not mere indulgence, but something rarer: a direct conduit to the moment of the Passion itself. Members claimed the thorns retained an echo of Christ’s willingness to suffer, and that this echo could be awakened in times of great need. Protection against despair. Clarity in the face of deception. Even, in the oldest accounts, the turning aside of physical danger as though an unseen hand intervened.
The saints tied to the confraternity were an unusual constellation. Primary devotion went to Longinus, the centurion who pierced Christ’s side and was healed of blindness by the blood that fell on him—he became the patron of sudden conversion and impossible healing. Then there was Saint Mary Jacobe and Saint Mary Salome, the “holy women” who stood beneath the Cross and later carried relics to the shores of Provence; they were invoked for safe passage through peril and for the revelation of hidden truths. Finally, Saint Catherine of Siena, who bore invisible stigmata and received a mystical crown of thorns from Christ Himself—she lent the confraternity its reputation for piercing spiritual insight that could cut through lies like a blade.
The bracelet’s charm was issued only to full members, and only during a brief period in the 1780s when the order briefly surfaced before going underground again. Fewer than a hundred are believed to have been made. Most were melted down or lost in the chaos of 1793. This one survived—how, no one knows. Perhaps it protected its wearer too well to be taken.
Since it came to me, certain things have shifted in ways I cannot fully explain. Decisions that once felt clouded now arrive with unnatural certainty. Twice, I’ve woken a moment before danger—a car running a red light, a falling branch in a storm—as though something nudged me aside. And once, holding it during a sleepless night, I saw—not in dream, but in waking vision—a darkened chapel where robed figures knelt around a single flickering candle, and a thorn resting on purple silk pulsed like a dying heart.
I don’t claim miracles. I only know that some objects are doors. This bracelet is one of them—ancient, exceedingly rare, and still listening to prayers spoken centuries ago. The Confrérie des Saintes Épines may be gone, scattered by revolution and time, but their relic endures. And sometimes, when the world grows too loud, I feel the faintest prick against my wrist—not pain, but reminder: that suffering willingly borne can still, against all reason, redeem. This is truly supernatural and to each person different gifts are given.