I am going to entrust the story of my soul to you, my darling Mother, to you who are doubly my mother. When you asked me to do this, I felt it might be too great a distraction and might make me too concerned about myself, but afterwards Jesus made me realise that I should please Him by unquestioning obedience. Besides, it involves me in only one thing: to start extolling now the mercies of the Lord – which I shall go on doing throughout eternity.
Before starting, I knelt before the statue of
Mary, the one which has given us so many proofs that the Queen of Heaven looks
after us like a mother. I begged her to guide my hand so that I should not
write a line that would displease her.
Then I opened the Gospels and saw these words: “Then He went up onto the
mountainside, and called to Him those whom it pleased Him to call.” There, indeed, was the mystery of my
vocation, of my whole life, and of the special graces given me by Jesus. He does not call those who are worthy, but
those He chooses. As St. Paul says: “I
will show pity, He tells Moses, on those whom I pity; I will show mercy where I
am merciful; the effect comes, then, from God’s mercy, not from man’s will, or
man’s alacrity.”
I
had wondered for a long time why God had preferences and why all souls did not
receive an equal amount of grace. I was
astonished to see how He showered extraordinary favours on saints who had sinned against Him, saints such
as St. Paul and St. Augustine. He
forced them, as it were, to accept His graces.
I was just as astonished when I read the lives of the saints to see that
Our Lord cherished certain favoured
souls from the cradle to the grave and never allowed any kind of obstacle to
check their flight towards Him. He
bestowed such favours on them that they were unable to tarnish the spotless
splendour of their baptismal robe. I
also wondered why such vast numbers of poor savages died before they had even
heard the name of God.
Jesus
saw fit to enlighten me about this mystery.
He set the book of nature before me and I saw that all the flowers He
has created are lovely. The splendour
of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not rob the little violet of its
scent nor the daisy of its simple charm.
I realised that if every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would
lose its loveliness and there would be no wild flowers to make the meadows gay.
It
is just the same in the world of souls – which is like the garden of
Jesus. He has created the great saints
who are like the lilies and the roses, but He has also created much lesser
saints and they must be content to be the daises or the violets which rejoice
His eyes whenever He glances down.
Perfection consists in doing His will, in being that which He wants us
to be.
I
also understood that God’s love shows itself just as well in the simplest soul
which puts up no resistance to His grace as it does in the loftiest soul. Indeed, as it is love’s nature to humble
itself, if all the souls were like those of the holy doctors who have illumined
the Church with the light of their doctrine, it seems that God would not have
stooped low enough by entering their hearts.
But God has created the baby who knows nothing and can utter only feeble
cries. He has created the poor savage
with no guide but natural law, and it is to their hearts that He deigns to
stoop. They are His wild flowers whose
homeliness delights Him. By stooping
down to them, He manifests His infinite grandeur. The sun shines equally both on cedars and on every tiny
flower. In just the same way God looks
after every soul as if it had no equal.
All is planned for the good of every soul, exactly as the seasons are so
arranged that the humblest daisy blossoms at the appointed time.
I’m
sure, darling Mother, that you are wondering where I am heading, for so far
I’ve said nothing about the story of my life.
But you did ask me to write freely about whatever came into my
head. So – to be quite accurate – I am
not going to write “my life,” but put down “my thoughts” about the graces God
has given me.
I
have now reached a stage in my life when I can glance back at the past, for my
soul has matured in a crucible of inner and external trials. Now, like a flower braced by storm, I can
raise my head and see that the words of the Psalmist have been fulfilled in me:
“The Lord is my shepherd; how can I lack anything? He gives me a resting place where there is green pasture, leads
me out to the cool water’s brink, refreshed and content . . . dark be the
valley about my path, but I fear none while he is with me.” For me, the Lord has always been “pitying
and gracious, patient and rich in mercy.”
So, Mother, it is with joy that I shall sing to you of His mercies. As it is for you alone that I am going to
write the story of the Little Flower gathered by Jesus, I shall speak quite
freely, without worrying about style or all the digressions I’m sure to
make. A mother always understands her
child even though it can lisp only a few words. So I am sure you will understand me, as it was you who fashioned
my soul and offered it to Jesus.
I
believe that if a little flower could speak, it would tell very simply and
fully all that God had done for it. It
would not say that it was ungraceful and had no scent, that the sun had spoilt
its freshness, or that a storm had snapped its stem – not when it knew the
exact opposite was true.
The
flower who is now going to tell her story rejoices at having to relate all the
kindnesses freely done her by Jesus.
She is well aware that there was nothing about her to attract His attention,
and that it is His mercy alone which has created whatever there is of good in
her. It was He who ensured that she
began to grow in a most pure and holy soil, and it was He who saw to it that
eight fair white lilies came before her.
His love made Him want to keep His little flower safe from the tainted
breezes of the world, and so she had scarcely begun to unfold her petals before
He transplanted her on to the mountain of Carmel. . .
Excerpt from Chapter Eight
. . . Now I wish for only one thing – to love Jesus even unto folly! Love alone attracts me. I no longer wish for either suffering or death and yet both are precious to me. For a long time I’ve hailed them as messengers of joy. I’ve already known suffering and I’ve thought I was approaching the eternal shore. From my earliest days I have believed that the Little Flower would be plucked in the springtime of her life. But today my only guide is self-abandonment. I have no other compass. I no longer know how to ask passionately for anything except that the will of God shall be perfectly accomplished in my soul. I can repeat these words of our Father, St. John of the Cross: “I drank deep within the hidden cellar of my Beloved and, when I came forth again, I remembered nothing of the flock I used to look after. My soul is content to serve Him with all its strength. I’ve finished all other work except that of love. In that is all my delight.”
Or
rather: “Love has so worked within me that it has transformed my soul into
itself.”
O
Mother, how sweet is the way of love!
Of course one may stumble and be guilty of small faults, but love, able
to draw good from everything, will very quickly destroy all that displeases
Jesus and will fill one’s heart with a deep and humble peace. . .
With
so many graces can I not sing with the Psalmist that “the Lord is good, that
His mercy endureth for ever”? I think
that if everyone received the favours that I have had, no one would fear God
but would love Him to excess. And
because of this love, rather than from any fear, no one would ever willingly be
guilty of the slightest fault.
I
know that every soul cannot be alike.
There must be different kinds so that each of the perfections of God can
be specially honoured. To me, He has
revealed His infinite mercy, and I can see all His other attributes in the
light of that. Thus they all seem
glowing with love: His justice, perhaps even more than the others, is clothed
with love, for how sweet a joy it is to think that God is just; that, in other
words, He makes allowances for our weaknesses and understands perfectly the
frailty of our humanity. So what have I
to be afraid of? If God, who is
perfectly just, shows such mercy in forgiving the prodigal son, must He not
also be just to me “who am always with Him”?
In
1895 I was enabled to understand more clearly than ever before how Jesus longs
to be loved. I was thinking of those
souls who offer themselves as victims to the justice of God, so that, by
drawing it down on themselves, they turn aside the punishment due to
sinners. I thought this a noble and
generous offer, but I was a long way from feeling that I should make it
myself. From the depths of my heart I
cried: “O my divine Master, must it be only Your justice which has its
victims? Hasn’t Your merciful love need
of them too? It is everywhere rejected
and ignored. Those on whom You long to
lavish it seek a wretched, fleeting happiness in other creatures instead of
flinging themselves into Your arms and welcoming the flames of Your divine
love. Must Your rejected love stay shut
up in Your Heart? It seems to me that
if You found souls offering themselves as sacrificial victims of Your love, You
would consume them speedily and would rejoice to unloose those torrents of
infinite tenderness You hold within Yourself.
If Your justice must spend itself, though it is concerned only with the
earth, how much more must Your merciful love long to inflame souls since ‘Thy
mercy reacheth even to the heavens.’ O
Jesus, let me be Your eager victim and consume Your little sacrifice in the
fire of divine love.”
You,
Mother, let me make this offering of myself to God, and you know what flames –
or rather what oceans of grace – flooded my soul immediately after I gave
myself on June 9, 1895. Ah, since that
day I have been soaked and engulfed in love.
There is not a second when this merciful love does not renew and cleanse
me, sweeping every trace of sin from my heart.
It’s impossible for me to fear purgatory. I know I do not deserve even to enter that place of expiation,
but I know also that the fire of love cleanses more than the flames of
purgatory. I know too that Jesus does
not want us to suffer uselessly, and that He would not inspire me with such
desires unless He meant to fulfil them.
And that, my beloved Mother, is all I can tell you of the life of your
little Thérèse. You know much better
than she does just what she is and what Jesus has done for her, and so you’ll
forgive me for having shortened the story of her religious life a good deal.
How
will this “story of a little white flower” end? Perhaps the Little Flower will be gathered in her freshness and
transplanted to some other shore. I
don’t know, but what I am sure of is this: the mercy of God will be with her
always and she will never cease to bless the mother who gave her to Jesus. For all eternity she will rejoice to be one
of the flowers in her crown, and for all eternity she will sing with her that
hymn of love and gratitude which is always new.
Excerpts from Chapter
Nine
You, Reverend Mother, have said that I should write – for you – the end of my hymn to the mercies of the Lord. I do not want to argue, but I must smile as I pick up my pen to tell you of things you know as well as I do. Yet I obey you. I will not ask what can be the use of this manuscript. And I assure you that I should not be a bit upset if you burnt it in front of me without troubling to read it.
The nuns think that you have spoilt me in every possible way from the very moment I entered Carmel, but “man seeth those things that appear, but the Lord beholdeth the heart.” I thank you for not having spared me. Jesus knew very well that His little flower needed the life-giving water of humiliation. She was not strong enough to take root without it, and she owes that priceless favour to you.
For several months Jesus has completely changed His method of cultivating His little flower. He found, no doubt, that she had had enough of that bitter water, so now He sees to it that she grows beneath the warmth of a genial sun. Now He gives her only smiles – something entirely owing to you, Reverend Mother. Thus sun never withers the Little Flower. It makes her grow wonderfully. Deep within her petals she treasures the precious drops of dew she received in days gone by. They always remind her how small and weak she is. Everyone can stoop down over her, admire her, and shower flattery on her, but it won’t give her a scrap of that foolish self-satisfaction which would spoil the real happiness she has in knowing that is nothing but a poor little nonentity in God’s eyes. When I saw that all praise leaves me unmoved, I’m not thinking of the love and confidence you show me. I’m very moved by it, but I feel that I now need have no fear of praise and that I can accept it calmly. For I attribute to God all the goodness with which He has endowed me. It is nothing to do with me if it pleases Him to make me seem better than I am. He is free to do what He wants.
How different, Lord, are the paths along which You guide souls! In the lives of the saints we find many who left nothing behind them, not the smallest souvenir or a scrap of writing. But there are others, like our Mother St. Teresa, who have enriched the Church by their teaching. They were not afraid to reveal “the secrets of the King,” so that souls, by knowing Him better, would love Him more. Which kind of life is most pleasing to Our Lord? I think both are equally acceptable. All those loved by God have followed the prompting of the Holy Ghost, who made the prophet write: “Tell the just man that all is well.” Yes, all is well when one tries to do nothing but God’s will, and that is why I obey Jesus by trying to please you who are to me His representative on earth.
You know, Mother, that I have always wanted to become a saint. Unfortunately when I have compared myself with the saints, I have always found that there is the same difference between the saints and me as there is between a mountain whose summit is lost in the clouds and a humble grain of sand trodden underfoot by passers-by. Instead of being discouraged, I told myself: God would not make me wish for something impossible and so, in spite of my littleness, I can aim at being a saint. It is impossible for me to grow bigger, so I put up with myself as I am, with all my countless faults. But I will look for some means of going to heaven by a little way which is very short and very straight, a little way that is quite new. We live in an age of inventions. We need no longer climb laboriously up flights of stairs; in well-to-do houses there are lifts. And I was determined to find a lift to carry me to Jesus, for I was far too small to climb the steep stairs of perfection. So I sought in Holy Scripture some idea of what this lift I wanted would be, and I read these words from the very mouth of eternal Wisdom: “Whosoever is a little one, let him come to me.” I drew nearer to God, fully realising that I had found what I was looking for. I also wanted to know how God would deal with a “little one,” so I continued my search and found this: “You shall be carried at the breasts and upon the knees; as one whom the mother caresseth, so I will comfort you.” Never before had I been gladdened by such sweet and tender words. It is Your arms, Jesus, which are the lift to carry me to heaven. And so there is no need for me to grow up. In fact, just the opposite: I must stay little and become less and less. O God, You have gone beyond anything I hoped for and I will sing of Your mercies: “Thou hast taught me, O Lord, from my youth, and till now I have declared Thy wonderful works and shall do so unto old age and grey hairs.”
When shall I reach old age? It seems to me that it may just as well be now as later, for two thousand years are no more than twenty in God’s sight – or than a single day!
But you must not believe, Mother, that your child wishes to leave you, Mother, because she considers it a greater grace to die in the morning of her life rather than at the close of day. What she values and all she longs for is to give Jesus pleasure. Her heart rejoices now that He seems to be coming near to take her to heaven, for she knows and fully understands that God needs no one – her least of all – to do good on earth. . .
My soul has known many trials and I have suffered a great deal. When I was a child, I was sad when I suffered, but now I relish every bitter fruit with peace and joy. Dear Mother, if you are not to smile as you read these pages, you have, I admit, to know me inside out, for is there anyone who seems to have suffered less? How astonished everyone would be if the martyrdom I have endured for the past year became known. As you want me to, I shall describe it, but words are quite inadequate to express such things and whatever I write will always fall short of the reality.
In Lent last year I felt stronger than ever and kept perfectly healthy until Holy Week – in spite of the fasting which I observed in all its strictness. But during the first hour of Good Friday Jesus roused my hopes of soon going to join Him in heaven. How wonderful the memory of it is! On Thursday I went to my cell at midnight, as I had been refused permission to stay by the Altar of Repose throughout the night. I had scarcely put my head on the pillow when a warm gush of something filled my mouth. I thought I was dying and my heart almost burst with joy. But as I had just put out my lamp, I restrained my curiosity until morning and went peacefully to sleep. When the bell for getting up rang at five o’clock, I remembered at once that I’d some good news to check. I went to the window and saw the good news was true – my handkerchief was sodden with blood. What hope I had, Mother! I was absolutely sure that, on this anniversary of His death, my Beloved had let me hear His first call, like a gentle, far-off murmur which heralded His joyful arrival.
I assisted at Prime and Chapter with great fervour and rushed to knell before you and tell you of my happiness. I felt not the least bit tired nor had I the slightest pain, and so I easily got permission to finish Let as I had begun. On that Good Friday I shared to the full all the austerities of Carmel and they had never seemed so delightful. The hope of going to heaven transported me with joy.
On the evening of that happy day I went back joyfully to my cell and was going to fall quietly asleep when my dear Jesus gave me, as on the night before, the same sign that I should soon be entering eternal life. In those days my faith was so clear and vigorous that I found perfect happiness in the thought of heaven. I could not believe that there were people without faith and I was convinced they did not mean what they said when they denied the existence of another world. But during those radiant days of Easter Jesus made me realise that there really are people who by the abuse of grace have lost those precious treasures of faith and hope which are the source of the only real and innocent joy. He allowed pitch-black darkness to sweep over my soul and let the thought of heaven, so sweet to me from infancy, destroy all my peace and torture me. This trial was not something lasting a few days or weeks. I suffered it for months and I am still waiting for it to end. I wish I could express what I feel, but it is impossible. One must have travelled through the same sunless tunnel to understand how dark it is. But I will do my best to explain.
Imagine that I was born in a country wrapped in dense fog and that I had never seen the smiling face of nature nor a single ray of sunlight. It is true that from my early childhood I heard these wonders spoken of and I knew that this country where I lived was not my native land, and that there was another I must never cease to long for. This was not a tale invented by another dweller in the fog: it was an undeniable truth, for the King of that sun-bathed land had spent thirty-three years in the land of darkness and “the darkness did not understand that He was the Light of the World.” But, Lord, Your child knows that You are the Light. She asks You to forgive her unbelieving brethren; she will willingly eat the bread of sorrow for as long as You wish; she will, for love of You, sit at this table where the wretched sinners eat their bitter food and will not leave it until You give her the sign. But may she not say in her own name and in the name of her guilty brethren: “O God, be merciful to us sinners. Send us away justified! May all those who have never been illumined by the light of faith see it shine at last! O God, if the table defiled by them must be cleansed by one who loves You, I will gladly stay there alone and eat the bread of sorrow until You are pleased to lead me to Your kingdom of light. I ask of You only one favour: that I may never displease You.”
I told you, Mother, that I had been certain from childhood that I should one day leave this land of darkness. I believed this not only because of what I was told, but also because, deep down within me, I felt that one day I should dwell for ever in another and more beautiful country. I was like Christopher Columbus whose genius sensed the existence of a new world. Then, quite suddenly, the mists which surrounded me sank into my soul and smothered it so that I could not even picture this lovely country. . . everything about it had vanished!
My sufferings increased whenever I grew wearied by the surrounded darkness and tried to find peace and strength by thinking of eternal life. For the voice of unbelievers came to mock me out of the darkness: “You dream of light, of a fragrant land, you dream that their Creator will be yours for ever and you think you will one day leave behind this fog in which you languish. Hope on! Hope on! And look forward to death! But it will give you, not what you hope for, but a still darker night, the night of annihilation!
Dear Mother, this story of my suffering is as inadequate as an artist’s sketch compared with his model, but I do not want to write any more about it lest I should blaspheme. I am afraid I have already said too much. May God forgive me! He knows very well that although I had not the consolation of faith, I forced myself to act as if I had. I have made more acts of faith in the last year than in the whole of my life.
I behaved bravely whenever the devil tried to provoke me. I know it is cowardly to fight a duel, so I turned my back on him and never looked at him face to face. I ran towards Jesus and told Him I was ready to shed my last drop of blood to declare there was a heaven, and that I was well content during my stay on earth never to see with the eyes of the spirit the heaven which awaited me, provided He would open it for the wretched unbelievers. And so, in spite of this trial which robs me of all sense of pleasure, I can still say: “Thou hast given me, O Lord, a delight in Thy doings.” For is there any greater joy that to suffer for love of You? The more intense and hidden the suffering is, the more pleasing it is to You. And if – which is impossible – You knew nothing of it, I should still be happy to suffer in the hope that, by my tears, I could prevent or perhaps atone for a single sin against the Faith.
I am sure, Reverend Mother, that you will think I am slightly exaggerating this night of my soul. If you think of the poems I have written this year, I must have seemed overwhelmed with spiritual consolation and like a child for whom the veil of faith is almost torn apart. But there is no veil, but instead a wall which towers to the sky and hides the stars.
When I sing of the bliss of heaven and the eternal possession of God, I get no joy from it, for I am singing only of what I want to believe. Sometimes, I admit, a tiny ray of sunshine pierces the darkness, and then, for a second, my suffering stops. Instead of comforting me, the memory of this makes the darkness blacker.
I have never before felt so strongly how gentle and merciful God is. He sent me this heavy cross just at the time when I was strong enough to bear it. At any other time it would have disheartened me. Now it has only one result: it removes all natural satisfaction from my longing for heaven.
It seem to me, Mother, that nothing now hinders me from flying there. I no longer want anything except to love until I die of love. I am free and fear nothing. I am not even afraid – and it used to be my greatest fear that my illness will drag out and make me a burden to the community. If it pleases God, I am willing for my suffering, both bodily and spiritual, to last for years. I am not afraid of a long life. I do not refuse the struggle: “The Lord is a rock upon which I stand; He teaches my hands to fight and my fingers to war. He is my protector and I have hoped in Him.” I have never asked God to let me die young, but I have always thought He would, even though I have not asked.
God is often content with the mere longing to work for His glory, and you are aware, Mother, of how intense my longing has been. You know too that Jesus has offered me more than one bitter cup in connection with my beloved sisters. David was right when he sang: “Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.” But on earth this unity can be achieved only by sacrifice. I did not enter Carmel to live with my sisters; on the contrary, I clearly foresaw how much I should suffer when I could not give way to my natural affection for them. I do not understand people saying that it is holier to keep aloof from one’s relatives. No one ever blames brothers for fighting side by side on the same battlefield or for winning the palm of martyrdom together. It is quite true they encourage each other, but the sufferings of one hurt all the others. It is exactly the same in life in religion, that life which theologians call a martyrdom. To offer oneself to God does not mean that one loses anything at all of one’s natural tenderness. It is just the opposite, for this tenderness deepens as it becomes purified by centering on divine things. It is with this deepened tenderness, Mother, that I love you and my sisters. I am glad to fight as one of a family for the glory of God, but I am also ready to depart to another battlefield if He wishes. No order would be necessary. A sign or a look would be enough.
. . . now I am ill and I shall not get better. Yet I am at peace. For a long time I have not belonged to myself, but have completely abandoned myself to Jesus. . . So He is free to do whatever He wants with me. He gave the desire for exile and asked if I would drink from that chalice. I tried at once to grasp it, but He withdrew it, satisfied with my willingness.
O God, from what trouble are we freed by the vow of obedience! How happy simple nuns are! The will of their superiors is their only compass and so they are always certain of travelling in the right direction. They can never feel mistaken, even if they are certain their superiors are wrong. If, though, one stops being guided by this compass for a single moment, the soul strays into a desert where the waters of grace quickly fail. You, Mother, are the compass Jesus has given me to guide me surely to the eternal shore. It gives me such delight to gaze at you and so fulfil the will of God. By letting my faith be tempted, God has greatly increased my spirit of faith which makes me see Him living in your soul and giving me, through you, His commands. I know very well, Mother, that you make the burden of obedience light and pleasant, but I am just as well aware that my behaviour would be the same and my love for you would remain unchanged if you treated me harshly. For I should still see in your attitude the will of God manifesting itself for the good of my soul.
Among the countless graces I have received this year, perhaps the greatest has been that of being able to grasp in all its fulness the meaning of charity. I had never before fathomed Our Lord’s words: “The second commandment is like to the first: Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.” I had striven above all to love God, and in loving Him I discovered the secret of those other words: “Not everyone that saith to me: Lord, Lord! Shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth the will of my Father.” Jesus made me understand what this will was by the words He used at the Last Supper when He gave His “new commandment” and told His apostles “to love one another as He had loved them.” I began to consider just how Jesus had loved His disciples. It was not for their natural qualities, for I recognised that they were ignorant men and often preoccupied with earthly affairs. Yet He calls them His friends and His brethren. He wants to see them near Him in the kingdom of His Father and to open this kingdom to them He wills to die on the Cross, saying, “greater love than this no man hath, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” As I meditated on these words of Jesus, I saw how imperfect was my love for the other nuns and I knew that I did not love them as Jesus loved them. But now I realise that true charity consists in putting up with all one’s neighbour’s faults, never being surprised by his weakness, and being inspired by the least of his virtues. Above all, I learnt that charity is not something that stays shut up in one’s heart for “no man lighteth a candle and putteth it in a hidden place, nor under a bushel; but upon a candlestick, that they who come in may see the light.” This candle represents that charity which must illumine and cheer not only those dearest to me but “all those who are of the household.”
When God, under the old law, told His people to love their neighbours as themselves, He had not yet come down to earth. As He knew how much we love ourselves, He could not ask us to do more. But when Jesus gave His apostles “a new commandment, His own commandment,” He did not ask only that we should love our neighbours as ourselves but that we should love them as He loves them and as He will love them to the end of time. O Jesus, I know You command nothing that is impossible. You know how weak and imperfect I am, and You know only too well that I could never love the other nuns as You love them if You Yourself did not love them within me. It is because You wish to grant me this grace that You have given a new commandment. How I cherish it, for it assures me that it is Your will to love in me all those whom You command me to love.
When I act and think with charity, I feel it is Jesus who works within me. The closer I am united to Him, the more I love all the other dwellers in Carmel. If I want this love to grow deeper and the devil tries to show me the faults of a sister, I hasten to think of all her virtues and of how good her intentions are. I tell myself that though I have seen her commit a sin, she may very well have won many spiritual victories of which I know nothing because of her humility. What seems a fault to me may very well be an act of virtue because of the intention behind it. I have experienced that myself. During recreation one day the portress came to ask for a sister to help her with a certain job. I wanted to take a hand in that particular work and sure enough I was chosen. I at once began to fold up my sewing, but I was slow about it so that the nun next to me was able to fold hers before me, for I knew how pleased she would be to take my place. When she saw me in so little of a hurry, the portress said with a smile: “Ah! I felt sure you would not add this pearl to your crown. You are too slow.” And the whole community thought this slowness was natural. I benefitted tremendously from this little incident. It has made me very understanding. It still stops my having any feeling of pride when people think well of what I do, for I say to myself: Since any small good deed I do can be mistaken for a fault, the mistake of calling a fault a virtue can be made just as easily. Then I say with St. Paul: “To me it is a very small thing to be judged by you, or by man’s day. But neither do I judge myself. He that judgeth me is the Lord.” As it is Jesus who judges me, and as He said: “Judge not and ye shall not be judged,” I want always to have charitable thoughts so that He will judge me favourably – or, rather, not judge me at all.
To return to the Gospels where Our Lord teaches me so clearly what His new commandment is. In St. Matthew I read: “You have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour and hate thy enemy: but I say unto you, love your enemies and pray for them that persecute you.” In Carmel, of course, one has no enemies, but one certainly has natural likes and dislikes. One feels attracted to a certain sister and one would go out of one’s way to dodge meeting another. Jesus tells me that it is this very sister I must love, and I must pray for her even though her attitude makes me believe she has no love for me. “If you love them that love you, what thanks are to you? For sinners also love those that love them.” It is not enough to love. We must prove that we do. We naturally like to please a friend, but that is not charity, for so do sinners.
Jesus also teaches me: “Give to everyone that asketh thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods, ask them not again.” It is not so pleasant to give to everyone who asks as it is to offer something freely and spontaneously; and it is easy to give when you are asked nicely, but if we are asked tactlessly, we at once want to refuse unless perfect charity strengthens us. We find a thousand reasons for saying not, and it is not until we have made the sister aware of her bad manners that we give her what she wants as a favour, or do her a slight service which takes a quarter of the time needed to tell her of the obstacles preventing our doing it or of our fancied rights.
If it is hard to give to anyone who asks, it is much harder to let what belongs to use be taken without asking for it back. I say that it is hard, but I should really say that it seems hard, for “the yoke of the Lord is sweet and His burden light.” The moment we accept it, we feel how light it is. . .
Formerly one of our nuns managed to irritate me whatever she did or said. The devil was mixed up in it, for it was certainly he who made me see so many disagreeable traits in her. As I did not want to give way to my natural dislike for her, I told myself that charity should not only be a matter of feeling but should show itself in deeds. So I set myself to do for this sister just what I should have done for someone I loved most dearly. Every time I met her, I prayed for her and offered God all her virtues and her merits. I was sure this would greatly delight Jesus, for every artist likes to have his works praised and the divine Artist of souls is pleased when we do not halt outside the exterior of the sanctuary where He has chosen to dwell but go inside and admire its beauty.
I did not remain content with praying a lot for this nun who caused me so much disturbance. I tried to do as many things for her as I could, and whenever I was tempted to speak unpleasantly to her, I made myself give her a pleasant smile and tried to change the subject. The Imitation says: “It is more profitable to leave to everyone his way of thinking than to give way to contentious discourses.”
When I was violently tempted by the devil and if I could slip away without her seeing my inner struggle, I would flee like a soldier deserting the battlefield. And after all this she asked me one day with a beaming face: “Sister Thérèse, will you please tell me what attracts you so much to me? You give me such a charming smile whenever we meet.” Ah! It was Jesus hidden in the depth of her soul who attracted me, Jesus who makes the bitterest things sweet!
I have just told you, Mother, of my last resolve for avoiding a defeat in the struggles of life – desertion. I used this rather dishonourable trick when I was a novice and it was always completely successful. I will give you a striking example which, I think, will make you smile.
You had been ill for some days with bronchitis and we were very worried. One morning I came very guiltily to the infirmary to put back the keys of the Communion grille, for I was sacristan. I was feeling delighted at having this opportunity of seeing you, but I took good care not to let it be seen. One of the sisters, full of zeal, thought I was going to waken you and tried to take the keys quietly from me. I told her, as politely as possible, that I was just as eager as she was to make no noise, and added that it was my duty to return the keys. Nowadays I realise that it would have been far better simply to have given her them, but I did not understand that then and tried to push my way into the room in spite of her.
Then what we feared happened. The noise we made woke you and all the blame fell on me! The sister I had opposed hastened to make quite a speech, the gist of which was: “It was Sister Thérèse of the Child Jesus who made the noise.” I burned to defend myself, but fortunately I had a bright idea. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if I began to speak up for myself I should lose my peace of soul; I knew too that I was not virtuous enough to let myself be accused without saying a word, my only hope of safety was to run away. No sooner thought than done: I fled. . . but my heart beat so violently that I could not go far and I sat down on the stairs to enjoy in peace the fruits of my victory. It was undoubtedly a queer kind of courage, but I think it is better not to fight when defeat is certain. . .
In the days to come it may be that my present state will seem most imperfect, but I am no longer surprised by anything and I feel no distress at seeing my completely helplessness. On the contrary, I glory in it and every day I expect to discover fresh flaws in myself. In fact, this revelation of my nothingness does me much more good than being enlightened on matters of faith.
I remember that “charity covereth a multitude of sins” and I draw from the rich mine opened by the Lord in the Gospels. I ransack the depths of His adorable words and I cry with David: “I have run the way of Thy commandments when Thou didst enlarge my heart.” Charity alone can enlarge my heart. . . O Jesus, ever since its flame has consumed my heart, I have run with delight along the way of Your “new commandment” and I want to continue until that blessed day when, with Your company of virgins, I shall follow You through infinite realms singing your new canticle – the canticle of LOVE.