 Chapter 8 of The Story of a Soul Chapter 8, Profession of Sor Terez Need I tell you, dear mother, about the retreat before my profession? Far from receiving consolation, I went through it in a state of utter dryness and as if abandoned by God. Jesus, as was his want, slept in my little bark. How rarely do souls suffer him to sleep in peace. This good master is so wearied with continually making fresh advances that he eagerly avails himself of the repose I offer him, and, no doubt, he will sleep on until my great and everlasting retreat. But, instead of being grieved at this, I am glad. In truth, I am no saint. As this frame of mind well shows, I ought not to rejoice in my dryness of soul, but rather attribute it to my wants of fervor and fidelity. That I fall asleep so often during meditation, and thanksgiving after communion, should distress me. Well, I am not distressed. I reflect that little children are equally dear to their parents whether they are asleep or awake. That in order to perform operations, doctors put their patients to sleep. And finally that, the Lord knoweth our frame, he remembereth that we are but dust. Psalm 102, 103, verse 14. Yet, apparently barren as was my retreat, and those which followed have been no less so. I unconsciously receive many interior lights on the best means of pleasing God and practicing virtue. I have often observed that our Lord will not give me any store of provisions, but nourishes me each moment with food that is ever new. I find it within me without knowing how it has come there. I simply believe that it is Jesus himself hidden in my poor heart, who is secretly at work, inspiring me with what he wishes me to do as each occasion arises. Shortly before my profession, I received the Holy Father's blessing through the hands of Brother Simeon, and this precious blessing undoubtedly helped me through the most terrible storm of my whole life. On the eve of the great day, instead of being filled with the customary sweetness, my vocation suddenly seemed to me as unreal as a dream. The devil, for it was he, made me feel sure that I was wholly unsuited for life in the Carmel, and that I was deceiving my superiors by entering on a way to which I was not called. The darkness was so bewildering that I understood but one thing. I had no religious vocation and must return to the world. I cannot describe the agony I endured. What was I to do in such a difficulty? I chose the right course, deciding to tell my novice mistress of the temptation without delay. I sent for her to come out of choir, and though full of confusion, I confessed the state of my soul. Fortunately, she saw more clearly than I did, and reassured me completely by laughing frankly at my story. The devil was put to instant flight by my humble avowal. What he wanted was to keep me from speaking, and thus draw me into his snares. But it was my turn now to ensnare him. For, to make my humiliation more complete, I also told you everything, dear mother, and your consoling words dispel my last fears. On the morning of September 8th, a wave of peace flooded my soul, and, in that peace which surpasseth all understanding, Philippians 4, verse 7, I pronounced my holy vows. Many were the graces I asked. I felt myself truly a queen, and took advantage of my title to obtain every favor from the king for his ungrateful subjects. No one was forgotten. I wish that every sinner on earth might be converted, that on that day purgatory should set its captives free, and I bore upon my heart this letter containing what I desired for myself. Oh, Jesus, my divine spouse, grant that my baptismal robe may never be sullied. Take me from this world rather than let me stay in my soul by committing the least willful fault. May I never seek or find ought but thee alone. May all creatures be nothing to me and I nothing to them. May no earthly thing disturb my peace. Oh, Jesus, I ask but peace, peace and above all love, love without limit. Jesus, I ask that for thy sake I may die a martyr. Give me martyrdom of soul or body. Or rather, give me both the one and the other. Grant that I may fulfill my engagements in all their perfection, that no one may think of me, that I may be trodden underfoot, forgotten, as a little grain of sand. I offer myself to thee, oh my beloved, that thou mayest ever perfectly accomplish in me thy holy will, without let or hindrance from creatures. When at the close of this glorious day I laid my crown of roses, according to custom, at our lady's feet, it was without regret. I felt that time would nevertheless in my happiness. It was the nativity of Mary. What a beautiful feast on which to become the spouse of Jesus. It was the little newborn Holy Virgin who presented her little flower to the little Jesus. That day everything was little except the graces I received, except my peace and joy engaging upon the beautiful starlit sky at night. And in thinking that soon I should fly away to heaven and be united to my divine spouse amid eternal bliss. On September 24 took place the ceremony of my receiving the veil. This feast was indeed veiled in tears. Papa was too ill to come and blesses little queen. At the last minute, Monsignor Hugannon, who should have presided, was unable to do so. And for other reasons also, the day was a painful one. And yet, amid it all, my soul was profoundly at peace. That day it pleased our Lord that I should not be able to restrain my tears, and those tears were not understood. It is true I had borne far harder trials without shedding a tear, but then I had been held by special graces. Whilst on this day, Jesus left me to myself, and I soon showed my weakness. Eight days after I had taken the veil, my cousin, Jean Guerin, was married to Dr. Laniel. When she came to see us afterwards, and I heard of all the little attentions she lavished on her husband, my heart thrilled and I thought, it shall never be said that a woman in the world does more for her husband than I do for Jesus, my beloved. And, filled with fresh ardor, I set myself more earnestly than ever to please my heavenly spouse, the king of kings, who had dain to honor me by a divine alliance. Having seen the letter announcing the marriage, I amused myself by composing the following invitation, which I read to the novices in order to bring home to them what has struck me so forcibly, that the glory of all earthly unions is as nothing compared to the titles of a spouse of our divine Lord. God Almighty, creator of heaven and earth, sovereign ruler of the universe, and the glorious Virgin Mary, Queen of the heavenly court, announced to you the spiritual espousals of their August Son, Jesus, King of kings, and Lord of lords, with little Therese Martin, now princess and lady of his kingdoms of the holy childhood and the passion, assigned to her as a dowry by her divine spouse, from which kingdoms she holds her titles of nobility, of the child Jesus and of the holy face. It was not possible to invite you to the wedding feast which took place on the mountain of Carmel, September 8, 1890. The heavenly court was alone admitted, but you are requested to be present at the wedding feast which will take place tomorrow, the day of eternity when Jesus, the Son of God, will come in the clouds of heaven, in the splendor of his majesty, to judge the living and the dead. The hour being still uncertain, you are asked to hold yourselves in readiness and watch. Footnote, this letter, the style of which may seem strange to English ears, is modeled closely on the formal and quaint letters whereby French parents of the better class announced to their friends the marriage of their children. Such letters of fair part are issued in the names of relatives to the third and fourth degree. Editor, end footnote. And now, mother, what more shall I say? It was through your hands that I gave myself to our Lord, and you have known me from childhood. Need I write my secrets? Forgive me if I cut short the story of my religious life. During the general retreat following my profession, I received great graces. As a rule, I find preached retreats most trying, but this one was quite an exception. I anticipated so much suffering that I prepared myself by a fervent novena. It was said that the good priests understood better how to convert sinners than to direct the souls of nuns. Well then, I must be a great sinner. For God made use of this holy religious to bring me much consolation. At that time, I had all kinds of interior trials, which I found it impossible to explain to anyone. Suddenly, I was able to lay open my whole soul. The Father understood me in a marvelous way. He seemed to divine my state, and launched me full sail upon that ocean of confidence and love in which I had longed to advance, but so far had not dared. He told me that my faults did not pain the good God, and added, At this moment I hold his place, and I assure you from him that he is well pleased with your soul. How happy these consoling words made me! I had never been told before that it was possible for faults not to pain the sacred heart. This assurance filled me with joy and helped me to bear with patience the exile of this life. It was also the echo of my inmost thoughts. In truth, I had long known that the Lord is more tender than a mother, and I have sounded the depths of more than one mother's heart. I know that a mother is ever ready to forgive her child's small, thoughtless faults. How often have I not had this sweet experience? No reproach could have touched me more than one single kiss from my mother. My nature is such that fear makes me shrink, while, under love's sweet rule, I not only advance, I fly. Two months after this happy retreat, our venerable foundress, Mother Genevieve St. Teresa, quitted our little convent to enter the heavenly carmel. Before speaking of my impressions at the time of her death, I should like to tell you what a joy it was to have lived for some years with a soul whose holiness was not inimitable, but lay in the practice of simple and hidden virtues. More than once, she was to me a source of great consolation. One Sunday I went to the infirmary to pay her a visit, but, as two of the older nuns were there, I was retiring quietly when she called me and said, with something of inspiration in her manner, Wait, my child, I have just a word for you. You are always asking me for a spiritual bouquet. Well, today I give you this one. Serve the Lord in peace and in joy. Remember that our God is the God of peace. I thanked her quite simply and went out of the room. I was moved almost to tears and was convinced that God had revealed to her the state of my soul. That day I had been sorely tried, almost to sadness. Such was the darkness that I no longer knew if I were beloved of God. And so, dear mother, you can understand what light and consolation succeeded this gloom. The following Sunday I asked her whether she had received any revelation about me, but she assured me that she had not, and this only made me admire her the more, for it showed how intimately Jesus lived in her soul and directed her words and actions. Such holiness seems to me the most true, the most holy. It is the holiness I desire, for it is free from all illusion. On the day when this revered mother ended her exile, I received a very special grace. It was the first time I had assisted at a deathbed, yet though the sight enchanted me by its beauty, my two hours of watching had made me very drowsy. I was grieved at this, but at the moment her soul took its flight to heaven, my feelings were completely changed. In an instant I was filled with an indescribable joy and fervor, as if the soul of our blessed foundress made me share in the happiness she already enjoyed. For I am quite convinced she went straight to heaven. I had said to her sometime previously, you will not go to purgatory, dear mother. I hope not, she answered sweetly. Certainly God would not disappoint a hope so full of humility, and the proof that he did not lies in the many favors we have received. The sisters hasten to claim something belonging to our beloved mother, and you know what a precious relic is mine. During her agony I had noticed a tear glistening like a beautiful diamond. That tear, the last she shed on this earth, did not fall. I still saw it shining when her body was exposed in the choir. When evening came, I made bold to approach unseen with a little piece of linen, and I now have the happiness of possessing the last tear of a saint. I attached no importance to my dreams, and indeed they seldom have any special meaning, though I do often wonder how it is that, as I think of God all the day, my mind does not dwell on him more in my sleep. Generally I dream of the woods and the flowers, the brooks and the sea, and nearly always of pretty children, or I chase birds and butterflies such as I have never seen. But if my dreams are sometimes poetical, they are never mystical. However, one night after Mother Genevieve's death, I had a more consoling one. I thought I saw her giving to each of us something that had belonged to herself. When my turn came, her hands were empty, and I was afraid I was not to receive anything, but she looked at me lovingly and said three times, to you I leave my heart. About a month after that seraphic death, towards the close of the year 1891, an epidemic of influenza raged in the community. I only had it slightly and was able to be about with two other sisters. It is impossible to imagine the heart-rending state of our Carmel throughout those days of sorrow. The worst sufferers were nursed by those who could hardly drag themselves about. Death was all around us, and when a sister had breathed her last, we had to leave her instantly. My 19th birthday was saddened by the death of Mother's sub-priorice. I assisted with the infomerian during her agony, and two more deaths quickly followed. I now had to do the sacristy work single-handed, and I wonder sometimes how I was equal to it all. One morning, when it was time to rise, I had a pre-sentiment that Sister Magdalene was no more. The dormitory was quite in darkness. No one was leaving her cell. I decided, however, to go in to Sister Magdalene, and I found her dressed, but lying dead on her bed. I was not in the least afraid, and running to the sacristy I quickly brought a blessed candle, and placed on her head a wreath of roses. Amid all this desolation, I felt the hand of God, and knew that his heart was watching over us. Our dear sisters left this life for a happier one without any struggle, an expression of heavenly joy shown on their faces, and they seemed only to be enjoying a pleasant sleep. During all these long and trying weeks, I had the unspeakable consolation of receiving Holy Communion every day. How sweet it was! For a long time, Jesus treated me as a spoiled child. For a longer time than His more faithful spouses. He came to me daily for several months after the influenza had ceased, a privilege not granted to the community. I had not asked this favor, but I was unspeakably happy to be united day after day to my beloved. Great was my joy in being allowed to touch the sacred vessels and prepare the altar linen on which our Lord was to be laid. I felt that I must increase in fervor, and I often recalled those words addressed to deacons at their ordination. Be you holy, you who carry the vessels of the Lord. What can I tell you, dear mother, about my thanksgivings after Communion? There is no time when I taste less consolation, but this is what I should expect. I desire to receive our Lord, not for my own satisfaction, but simply to give Him pleasure. I picture my soul as a piece of waste ground and beg our blessed lady to take away my imperfections, which are as heaps of rubbish, and to build upon it a splendid tabernacle worthy of heaven, and adorn it with her own adornments. Then I invite all the angels and saints to come and sing canticles of love, and it seems to me that Jesus is well pleased to see himself receive so grandly, and I share in His joy. But all this does not prevent distractions and drowsiness from troubling me, and not unfrequently I resolve to continue my thanksgiving throughout the day, since I made it so badly, inquire. You see, dear mother, that my way is not the way of fear. I can always make myself happy and profit by my imperfections, and our Lord Himself encourages me in this path. Once, contrary to my usual custom, I felt troubled when I approached the holy table. For several days there had not been a sufficient number of hosts, and I had only received a small part of one. This morning I foolishly thought, if the same thing happens today, I shall imagine that Jesus does not care to come into my heart. I approached the rails. What a joy awaited me. The priest hesitated a moment, then gave me two entire hosts. Was this not a sweet response? I have much to be thankful for. I will tell you quite openly what the Lord has done for me. He has shown unto me the same mercy as unto King Solomon. All my desires have been satisfied, not only my desires of perfection, but even those of which I understood the vanity in theory if not in practice. I had always looked on Sister Agnes of Jesus as my model, and I wished to be like her in everything. She used to paint exquisite miniatures and write beautiful poems, and this inspired me with a desire to learn to paint. Footnote. Therese had kept this wish hidden in her heart from the days of her childhood, and later in life she made the following confidence. I was ten the day Papa told Celine that she was to begin painting lessons. I felt quite envious. Then he turned to me and said, Well little queen, would you like to learn painting too? I was going to say, yes indeed I should. When Marie remarked that I had not the same taste for it as Celine, she carried her point and I said nothing, thinking it was a splendid opportunity to make a big sacrifice for our Lord. I was so anxious to learn that even now I wonder how I was able to keep my silence. End footnote. And express my thoughts in verse, that I might do some good to those around me. But I would not ask for these natural gifts, and my desire remained hidden in my heart. Jesus too had hidden himself in this poor little heart, and he was pleased to show me once more the vanity of all that passes. To the great astonishment of the community, I succeeded in painting several pictures and in writing poems which have been a help to certain souls. And just as Solomon, turning to all the works which his hand had wrought, and to the labors wherein he had labored in vain, saw in all things vanity and vexation of mind. Ecclesiastes 2, verse 11. So experience showed me that the soul happiness of earth consists in lying hidden, and remaining in total ignorance of created things. I understood that without love, even the most brilliant deeds count for nothing. These gifts which our Lord lavished upon me, far from doing me any harm, drew me towards him. I saw that he alone is unchangeable. He alone can fill the vast abyss of my desires. Talking of my desires, I must tell you about others of quite a different kind, which the Divine Master has also been pleased to grant. Childish desires, like the wish for snow on my clothing day. You know, dear mother, how fond I am of flowers. When I made myself a prisoner at the age of fifteen, I gave up forever the delights of rambling through meadows bright with the treasures of spring. Well, I never possessed so many flowers as I have had since entering the Carmel. In the world, young men present their bechothed with beautiful bouquets, and Jesus did not forget me. For his altar I received in abundance all the flowers I loved best, cornflowers, poppies, margarites. One little friend only was missing, the purple vetch. I longed to see it again, and at last it came to gladden me and show that, in the least as in the greatest, God gives a hundred fold, even in this life, to those who have left all for His love. But one desire, the dearest of all, and for many reasons the most difficult, remained unfulfilled. It was to see Selene enter the Carmel of Lissue. However, I had made a sacrifice of my longing, and committed to God alone the future of my loved sister. I was willing she should be sent to far distant lands if it must be so, but I wanted above all things to see her like myself, the spouse of Jesus. I suffered deeply, aware that she was exposed in the world to dangers I had never even known. My affection for her was maternal rather than sisterly, and I was filled with solicitude for the welfare of her soul. She was to go one evening with my aunt and cousins to a dance. I know not why, but I felt more anxious than usual, and I shed many tears, imploring our Lord to hinder her dancing. And this was just what happened, for he did not suffer his little spouse to dance that evening, although as a rule she did so most gracefully. And, to the astonishment of everyone, her partner too, found that he was only able to walk gravely up and down with Mademoiselle. The poor young man slipped away in confusion, and did not dare appear again that evening. This unique occurrence increased my confidence in our Lord, and showed me clearly that he had already set his seal on my sister's brow. On July 29, 1894, God called my saintly and much-tried father to himself. For the last two years of his life he was completely paralyzed, so my uncle took him into his house and surrounded him with the tenderest care. He became quite helpless and was only able to visit us once during the whole course of his illness. It was a sad interview. At the moment of parting, as we said goodbye, he raised his eyes and pointing upwards said in a voice full of tears, in heaven. Now that he was with God, the last ties which kept his consoling angel in the world were broken. Angels do not remain on this earth. When they have accomplished their mission, they return instantly to heaven. That is why they have wings. Selene tried therefore to fly to the Carmel. But the obstacles seemed insurmountable. One day, when matters were going from bad to worse, I said to our Lord after Holy Communion, Thou knowest, dear Jesus, how earnestly I have desired that the trials my Father endured should serve as his purgatory. I long to know if my wish is granted. I do not ask thee to speak to me. I only want a sign. Thou knowest how much opposed is Sister N to Selene's entering. If she withdraws her opposition, I shall regard it as an answer from thee, and in this way I shall know that my Father went straight to heaven. God who holds in His hand the hearts of His creatures and inclines them as He will. Dain in His infinite mercy and ineffable condescension to change that sister's mind. She was the first person I met after my thanksgiving, and, with tears in her eyes, she spoke of Selene's entrance, which she now ardently desired. Shortly afterwards, the bishop set every obstacle aside, and then you were able, dear mother, without any hesitation, to open our doors to the poor little exile. Footnote. Selene entered the convent on September 14, 1894, and took the name of Sister Genevieve of St. Teresa. Footnote. Now I have no desire left, unless it be to love Jesus even unto folly. It is love alone that draws me. I no longer wish either for suffering or death, yet both are precious to me. Long did I call upon them as the messengers of joy. I have suffered much, and I have thought my little bark near indeed to the everlasting shore. From earliest childhood, I have imagined that the little flower would be gathered in its springtime. Now, the spirit of self-abandonment alone is my guide. I have no other compass, and know not how to ask anything with eagerness, save the perfect accomplishment of God's designs upon my soul. I can say these words of the canticle of our Father, St. John of the Cross. I drank deep in the cellar of my friend, and, coming forth again, knew not of all this plain, and lost the flock I urged was want to tend. My soul and all its wealth I gave to be his own. No more I tend my flock, all other work is done, and all my exercise is love alone. Spiritual canticle stands as 18 and 20, or rather, love has so wrought in me, since I have known its sway, that all within me, whether good or ill, it makes subservient to the end it seeks, and soon transforms my soul into itself. Hymn to the deity. Full sweet is the way of love. It is true one may fall and be unfaithful to grace, but love, knowing how to profit by everything, quickly consumes whatever is displeasing to Jesus, leaving in the heart only a deep and humble peace. I have obtained many spiritual lights through the works of St. John of the Cross. When I was 17 and 18 they were my only food, but, later on, and even now, all spiritual authors leave me cold and dry. However beautiful and touching a book may be, my heart does not respond, and I read without understanding, or, if I understand, I cannot meditate. In my helplessness the Holy Scriptures and the imitation are of the greatest assistance. In them I find a hidden manna, genuine and pure, but it is from the Gospels that I find most help in the time of prayer. From them I draw all that I need for my poor soul. I am always discovering in them new lights and hidden mysteries of meaning. I know and I have experienced that the Kingdom of God is within us. Luke 17 verse 21, Our Lord has no need of books or teachers to instruct our souls. He, the teacher of teachers, instructs us without any noise of words. I have never heard Him speak, yet I know He is within me. He is there, always guiding and inspiring me, and just when I need them, the lights, hitherto unseen, break in. This is not a rule during my prayers, but in the midst of my daily duties. Sometimes, however, as this evening, at the close of a meditation spent in utter dryness, a word of comfort is given to me. Here is the Master I give thee. He will teach thee all that thou should us do. I wish thee to read in the book of life in which is contained the science of love. Footnote, Revelation of our Lord to blessed Margaret Mary, and footnote, the science of love. How sweetly do these words echo in my soul. That science alone do I desire. Having given all my substance for it, like the spouse in the canticles, I think that I have given nothing. Canticles 8 verse 7. After so many graces, may I not sing with the psalmist that the Lord is good, that His mercy endureth forever? Psalm 103, 104 verse 1. It seems to me that if everyone were to receive such favors, God would be feared by none, but love to excess, that no one would ever commit the least willful fault, and this through love, not fear. Yet all souls cannot be alike. It is necessary that they should differ from one another in order that each divine perfection may receive its special honor. To me, He has given His infinite mercy, and it is in this ineffable mirror that I contemplate His other attributes. Therein all appear to me radiant with love. His justice, even more perhaps than the rest, seems to me to be clothed with love. What joy to think that our Lord is just, that is to say, that He takes our weakness into account, that He knows perfectly the frailty of our nature. Of what, then, need I be afraid? Will not the God of infinite justice, who deigns so lovingly to pardon the sins of the prodigal son, be also just to me, who am always with Him? Luke 15, verse 31, In the year 1895 I received the grace to understand more than ever how much Jesus desires to be loved. Thinking one day of those who offer themselves as victims to the justice of God, in order to turn aside the punishment reserved for sinners by taking it upon themselves, I felt this offering to be noble and generous, but was very far from feeling myself drawn to make it. O my divine master, I cried from the bottom of my heart, shall thy justice alone receive victims of holocaust? Has not thy merciful love also need thereof? On all sides it is ignored, rejected, the hearts on which thou wouldest lavish it turn to creatures, there to seek their happiness in the miserable satisfaction of a moment, instead of casting themselves into thine arms, into the unfathomable furnace of thy infinite love. O my God, must thy love which is disdain lie hidden in thy heart? Me thinks, if thou shouldest find souls offering themselves as victims of holocaust to thy love, thou wouldest consume them rapidly, thou wouldest be well pleased to suffer the flames of infinite tenderness, to escape that are imprisoned in thy heart. If thy justice, which is of earth, must needs be satisfied, how much more must thy merciful love desire to inflame souls, since thy mercy reaches even to the heavens? Footnote, cross reference Psalm 35, 36, verse 6, and footnote. O Jesus, let me be that happy victim, consume thy holocaust with the fire of divine love. Dear Mother, you know the love, or rather the oceans of grace which flooded my soul, immediately after I made that act of oblation on June 9, 1895. From that day I have been penetrated and surrounded with love. Every moment this merciful love renews me and purifies me, leaving in my soul no trace of sin. I cannot fear purgatory. I know I do not merit to enter, even into that place of expiation with the holy souls, but I also know that the fire of love is more sanctifying than the fire of purgatory. I know that Jesus could not wish useless suffering for us, and he would not inspire me with the desires I feel. Were he not willing to fulfill them? End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of The Story of a Soul This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Anne Boulet. The Story of a Soul, the autobiography of Saint Therese of Lissue, translated by Thomas Taylor. Chapter 9 The Night of the Soul Dear Mother, I thought I had written enough, and now you wish for more details of my religious life. I will not argue, but I cannot help smiling when I have to tell you things that you know quite as well as I do. Nevertheless, I will obey. I do not ask what use this manuscript can be to anyone. I assure you that even were you to burn it before my eyes, without having read it, I should not mind in the least. The opinion is not uncommon in the community that you have always indulged me, ever since I entered the convent. However, man seeeth those things that appear, but the Lord beholdeth the heart. 1 Kings 16 verse 7 Dear Mother, once again I thank you for not having spared me. Jesus knew well that his little flower needed the life-giving water of humiliation. It was too weak to take root otherwise, and to you it owes so great a blessing. But for some months the Divine Master has entirely changed his method of cultivating his little flower. Finding no doubt that it has been sufficiently watered, he now allows it to expand under the warm rays of a brilliant sun. He smiles on it, and this favor also comes through you, Dear Mother, but far from doing it harm, those smiles make the little flower grow in a wondrous way. Deep down in its heart it treasures those precious drops of dew, the mortifications of other days, and they remind it that it is small and frail. Even were all creatures to draw near to admire and flatter it, that would not add a shade of idle satisfaction to the true joy which thrills it. On realizing that in God's eyes it is but a poor worthless thing and nothing more. When I say that I am indifferent to praise, I am not speaking, Dear Mother, of the love and confidence you show me. On the contrary, I am deeply touched thereby, but I feel that I have now nothing to fear, and I can listen to those praises unperturbed, attributing to God all that is good in me. If it please Him to make me appear better than I am, it is nothing to me. He can act as He will. My God, how many ways does Thou lead souls? We read of saints who left absolutely nothing at their death, not the least thing by which to remember them, not even a single line of writing. And there are others like our Holy Mother, St. Teresa, who have enriched the church with their sublime teaching and have not hesitated to reveal the secrets of the King. Tobias 12, verse 7, that he may be better known and better loved. Which of these two ways is more pleasing to our Lord? It seems to me that they are equally so. All those beloved by God have followed the inspiration of the Holy Ghost, who commanded the prophets to write, Tell the just man that all is well. Footnote, cross reference Isaiah 3, verse 10, and footnote, Yes, all is well when one seeks only the Master's will, and so I, poor little flower, Obey my Jesus when I try to please you, who represent him here on earth. You know it has ever been my desire to become a saint, but I have always felt, in comparing myself with the saints, that I am as far removed from them as the grain of sand, which the passer by tramples underfoot, is remote from the mountain whose summit is lost in the clouds. Instead of being discouraged, I conclude that God would not inspire desires which could not be realized, and that I may aspire to sanctity in spite of my littleness. For me to become great is impossible. I must bear with myself and my many imperfections, but I will seek out a means of getting to heaven by a little way, very short and very straight, a little way that is wholly new. We live in an age of inventions. Nowadays, the rich need not trouble to climb the stairs. They have lifts instead. Well, I mean to try and find a lift by which I may be raised unto God, for I am too tiny to climb the steep stairway of perfection. I have sought to find in Holy Scripture some suggestion as to what this lift might be, which I so much desired. And I read these words uttered by the eternal wisdom itself. Whosoever is a little one, let him come to me. Proverbs 9, verse 4, Then I drew near to God, feeling sure that I had discovered what I sought, but wishing to know further what he would do to the little one. I continued my search, and this is what I found. You shall be carried at the breast and upon the knees, as one whom the mother caresseth. So will I comfort you. Isaiah 66, verse 12, 13, Never have I been consoled by words more tender and sweet. Thine arms, then, O Jesus, are the lift which must raise me up even unto heaven. To get there I need not grow. On the contrary, I must remain little. I must become still less. Oh my God, thou hast gone beyond my expectation, and I will sing thy mercies. Thou hast taught me, O Lord, from my youth, until now I have declared thy wonderful works, and thus unto old age and gray hairs. Footnote, cross reference Psalm 70, 71, verse 17, 18, and footnote. What will this old age be for me? It seems to me that it could as well be now as later. Two thousand years are no more in the eyes of the Lord than twenty, than a single day. But do not think, dear mother, that your child is anxious to leave you, and deems it a greater grace to die in the morning rather than in the evening of life. To please Jesus is what she really values and desires above all things. Now that he seems to come near and draw her to his heavenly home, she is glad. She has understood that God has need of no one to do good upon earth, still less of her than of others. Meanwhile, I know your will, dear mother. You wish me to carry out, at your side, a work which is both sweet and easy, and this work I shall complete in heaven. Footnote, sore therese had charged of the novices without being given the title of novice mistress. End footnote. You have said to me, as our Lord said to St. Peter, Feed my lambs. I am amazed, for I feel that I am so little. I have entreated you to feed your little lambs yourself and to keep me among them. You have complied in part with my reasonable wish, and have called me their companion rather than their mistress, telling me nevertheless to lead them through fertile and shady pastures, to point out where the grass is sweetest and best, and warn them against the brilliant but poisonous flowers, which they must never touch except to crush underfoot. How is it, dear mother, that my youth and inexperience have not frightened you? Are you not afraid that I shall let your lambs stray afar? In acting as you have done, perhaps you remember that our Lord is often pleased to give wisdom to little ones. On this earth, it is rare indeed to find souls who do not measure God's omnipotence by their own narrow thoughts. The world is always ready to admit exceptions everywhere here below. God alone has denied this liberty. It has long been the custom among men to reckon experience by age, for in his youth the Holy King David sang to his Lord, I am young and despised. Psalm 118, 119, verse 141. But in the same Psalm he does not fear to say, I have had understanding above old men, because I have sought thy commandments. Thy word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my paths. I have sworn and I am determined to keep the judgments of thy justice. Psalm 118, 119, verse 100, 105, 106. And you did not even consider it imprudent to assure me one day that the Divine Master had enlightened my soul and given me the experience of years. I am too little now to be guilty of vanity. I am likewise too little to endeavor to prove my humility by fine-sounding words. I prefer to own in all simplicity that, he that is mighty hath done great things to me. Luke 1, verse 49. And the greatest is that he has shown me my littleness and how incapable I am of anything good. My soul has known trials of many kinds. I have suffered much on this earth. In my childhood I suffered with sadness, but now I find sweetness in all things. Anyone but you, dear mother, who know me thoroughly, would smile at reading these pages, for has ever a soul seemed less tried than mine? But if the martyrdom which I have endured for the past year were made known, how astonished everyone would be, since it is your wish I will try to describe it. But there are no words really to explain these things. The words will always fall short of the reality. During Lent last year, I felt much better than ever and continued so until Holy Week, in spite of the fast which I observed in all its rigor. But in the early hours of Good Friday, Jesus gave me to hope that I should soon join him in his beautiful home. How sweet is this memory? I could not obtain permission to remain watching at the altar of repose throughout the Thursday night, and I returned to our cell at midnight. Scarcely was my head laid on the pillow when I felt a hot stream rise to my lips. I thought I was going to die, and my heart nearly broke with joy. But as I had already put out our lamp, I mortified my curiosity until the morning and slept in peace. At five o'clock, when it was time to get up, I remembered at once that I had some good news to learn. And going to the window I found, as I had expected, that our handkerchief was soaked with blood. Dearest mother, what hope was mine? I was firmly convinced that on this anniversary of his death, my beloved had allowed me to hear his first call, like a sweet distant murmur, heralding his joyful approach. I assisted at prime and chapter most fervently, and then I hastened to cast myself at my mother's knees and confide to her my happiness. I did not feel the least pain, so I easily obtained permission to finish land as I had begun, and on this Good Friday, I shared in all the austerities of the Carmel without any relaxation. Never had these austerities seemed sweeter to me. The hope of soon entering heaven transported me with joy. Still full of joy, I returned to our cell on the evening of that happy day, and was quietly falling asleep, when my sweet Jesus gave me the sign as on the previous night, of my speedy entrance to eternal life. I felt such a clear and lively faith that the thought of heaven was my sole delight. I could not believe it possible for men to be utterly devoid of faith, and I was convinced that those who deny the existence of another world really lie in their hearts. But during the past school days, so full of light, our Lord made me understand that there really are in truth souls bereft of faith and hope, who, through the abuse of grace, lose these precious treasures, the only source of pure and lasting joy. He allowed my soul to be overwhelmed with darkness, and the thought of heaven, which had consoled me from my earliest childhood, now became a subject of conflict and torture. This trial did not last merely for days or weeks. I have been suffering for months, and I still await deliverance. I wish I could express what I feel, but it is beyond me. One must have passed through this dark tunnel to understand his blackness. However, I will try to explain it by means of a comparison. Let me suppose that I had been born in a land of thick fogs, and had never seen the beauties of nature, or a single ray of sunshine, although I had heard of these wonders from my early youth, and knew that the country wherein I dwelt was not my real home. There was another land, unto which I should always look forward. Now this is not a fable, invented by an inhabitant of the land of fog. It is the solemn truth, for the king of that sunlit country dwelt for three and thirty years in the land of darkness, and alas, the darkness did not understand that he was the light of the world. Footnote, cross-reference John 1, verse 5, and footnote, but, dear Lord, thy child has understood thou art the light divine. She asks thy pardon for her unbelieving brethren, and is willing to eat the bread of sorrow as long as thou mayest wish. For love of thee, she will sit at that table of bitterness where these poor sinners take their food, and she will not stir from it until thou give us the sign. But may she not say in her own name, and the name of her guilty brethren, O God, be merciful to us sinners. Footnote, cross-reference Luke 18, verse 13, and footnote, send us away justified. May all those whom faith does not shine see the light at last. O my God, if that table which they profane can be purified by one that loves thee, I am willing to remain there alone to eat the bread of tears, until it shall please thee to bring me to thy kingdom of light. The only favor I ask is that I may never give thee cause for offense. From the time of my childhood, I felt that one day I should be set free from this land of darkness. I believe it, not only because I had been told so by others, but my heart's most secret and deepest longings assured me that there was in store for me another and more beautiful country, an abiding dwelling place. I was like Christopher Columbus, whose genius anticipated the discovery of the new world, and suddenly the myths about me have penetrated my very soul, and have enveloped me so completely that I cannot even picture to myself this promised country. All has faded away. When my heart, weary of the surrounding darkness, tries to find some rest in the thought of a life to come, my anguish increases. It seems to me that out of the darkness I hear the mocking voice of the unbeliever. You dream of a land of light and fragrance. You dream that the creator of these wonders will be yours forever. You think one day to escape from these myths where you now languish, nay, rejoice in death, which will give you not what I hope for, but a night darker still, the night of utter nothingness. Dear Mother, this description of what I suffer is far removed from reality as the first rough outline is from the model, but I fear that to write more were to blaspheme. Even now I may have said too much, may God forgive me. He knows that I try to live by faith, though it does not afford me the least consolation. I have made more acts of faith in this last year than during all the rest of my life. Each time that my enemy would provoke me to combat, I behave as a gaunt soldier. I know that a duel is an act of cowardice, and so without once looking him in the face, I turn my back on the foe, then I hasten to my Savior and vow that I am ready to shed my blood in witness of my belief in heaven. I tell him if only he will deign to open it to poor unbelievers, I am content to sacrifice all pleasure in the thought of it as long as I live. And in spite of this trial, which rose me of all comfort, I still can say, Thou hast given me, O Lord, delight in all Thou dust. Psalm 91, 92, verse 5. For what joy can be greater than to suffer for Thy love? The more the suffering is, and the less it appears before men, the more it is to Thy honor and glory. Even if, but I know it to be impossible, Thou shouldest not deign to heed my sufferings, I should still be happy to bear them. In the hope that by my tears I might perhaps prevent or atone for one sin against faith. No doubt, dear mother, will you think I exaggerate somewhat the night of my soul. If you judge by the poems I have composed this year, it must seem as though I have been flooded with consolations, like a child for whom the veil of faith is almost rent ascender. And yet it is not a veil. It is a wall which rises to the very heavens and shuts out the starry sky. When I sing of the happiness of heaven and the eternal possession of God, I do not feel any joy therein, for I sing only of what I wish to believe. Sometimes I confess, a little ray of sunshine illumines my dark night, and I enjoy peace for an instant. But later, the remembrance of this ray of light, instead of consoling me, makes the blackness thicker still. And yet never have I felt so deeply how sweet and merciful is the Lord. He did not send me this heavy cross when it might have discouraged me, but at a time when I was able to bear it. Now it simply takes from me all natural satisfaction I might feel in my longing for heaven. Dear mother, it seems to me that at present there is nothing to impede my upward flight, for I have no longer any desire saved to love him till I die. I am free, I fear nothing, not even what I dreaded more than anything else, a long illness which would make me a burden to the community. Should it please the good God, I am quite content to have my bodily and mental sufferings prolong for years. I do not fear a long life, I do not shrink from the struggle. The Lord is the rock upon which I stand. Who teaches my hands to fight and my fingers to war? He is my protector and I have hoped in Him. Psalm 143, 144, verse 1, 2, I have never asked God to let me die young. It is true I have always thought I should do so, but it is a favor I have not tried to obtain. Our Lord is often content with the wish to do something for His glory and you know the immensity of my desires. You know also that Jesus has offered me more than one bitter chalice through my dearly loved sisters. The Holy King David was right when he sang, Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity. Psalm 132, 133, verse 1, But such unity can only exist upon earth in the midst of sacrifice. It was not in order to be with my sisters that I came to this holy caramel. On the contrary, I knew well that in curbing my natural affection I should have much to suffer. How can it be said that it is more perfect to separate oneself from home and friends? Has anyone ever reproached brothers who fight side by side or together win the martyr's palm? It is true, no doubt. They encourage each other. But it is also true that the martyrdom of each is a martyrdom to them all. And so it is in the religious life. Theologians call it a martyrdom. A heart given to God loses nothing of its natural affection. On the contrary, this affection grows stronger by becoming purer and more spiritual. It is with this love, dear mother, that I love you and my sisters. I am glad to fight beside you for the glory of the King of Heaven. But I am ready to go to another battlefield. Did the Divine Commander but express a wish? An order would not be necessary. A simple look, a sign, would suffice. Ever since I came to the caramel, I have thought that if our Lord did not take me quickly to Heaven, my lot would be that of Nose Dove. And that one day He would open the window of the ark and bid me fly to heathen lands, bearing the olive branch. This thought has helped me to store above all created things. Knowing that even in the caramel there must be partings, I tried to make my abode in Heaven. And I accepted not only exile in the midst of an unknown people, but what was far more bitter. I accepted exile for my sisters. And indeed, two of them were asked for by the caramel of Saigon, our own foundation. For a time there was serious question of their being sent. And I would not say a word to hold them back, though my heart ached at the thought of the trials awaiting them. Now all that is at an end. The superiors were absolutely opposed to their departure. And I only touched the cup with my lips long enough to taste of its bitterness. Let me tell you, dear mother, why if our lady cures me, I wish to respond to the call from our mothers of Hanoi. It appears that to live in foreign caramels, a very special vocation is needed. And many souls think they are called without being so in reality. You have told me that I have this vocation and that my health alone stands in the way. But if I am destined one day to leave this caramel, it will not be without a paying. My heart is naturally sensitive. And because this is a cause of much suffering, I wish to offer Jesus whatsoever it can bear. Here, I am loved by you and all the sisters. And this love is very sweet to me. And I dream of a convent where I should be unknown, where I should taste the bitterness of exile. I know only too well how useless I am. And so it is not for the sake of the services I might render to the caramel of Hanoi, that I would leave all that is dearest to me. My sole reason would be to do God's will and sacrifice myself for Him. And I should not suffer any disappointment, for when we expect nothing but suffering, then the least joy is a surprise. And later on, suffering itself becomes the greatest of all joys when we seek it as a precious treasure. But I know I shall never recover from this sickness, and yet I am at peace. For years I have not belonged to myself. I have surrendered myself wholly to Jesus, and He is free to do with me whatsoever He pleases. He has spoken to me of exile, and has asked me if I would consent to drink of that chalice. At once I assayed to grasp it, but He, withdrawing His hand, showed me that my consent was all He desired. Oh my God, from how much disquiet do we free ourselves by the vow of obedience? Happy is the simple religious. Her one guide being the will of her superiors. She is ever sure of following the right path, and has no fear of being mistaken, even when it seems that her superiors are making a mistake. But if she ceases to consult the unerring compass, then at once her soul goes astray in barren waste, where the waters of grace quickly fail. Dear mother, you are the compass Jesus has given me to direct me safely to the eternal shore. I find it most sweet to fix my eyes upon you, and then do the will of my Lord. By allowing me to suffer these temptations against faith, He has greatly increased the spirit of faith, which makes me see Him living in your soul, and through you communicating His holy commands. I am well aware that you lighten the burden of obedience for me. But deep in my heart I feel that my attitude would not change, nor would my filial affection grow less, were you to treat me with severity. And this because I should still see the will of God manifesting itself in another way for the greater good of my soul. Among the numberless graces that I have received this year, not the least of which is an understanding of how far-reaching is the precept of charity. I had never before fathomed these words of our Lord. The second commandment is like the first, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. Matthew 22, verse 39. I had set myself above all to love God, and it was in loving Him that I discovered the hidden meaning of these other words. It is not those who say Lord, Lord, who enter into the kingdom of heaven, but He who does the will of my Father. Footnote, cross-reference Matthew 7, verse 21. End footnote. Jesus revealed me this will when at the Last Supper He gave His new commandment in telling His apostles to, love one another as He had loved them. Footnote, cross-reference John 13, verse 34. End footnote. I set myself to find out how He had loved His apostles, and I saw that it was not for their natural qualities, for they were ignorant men, full of earthly ideas, and yet He calls them His friends, His brethren. He desires to see them near Him in the kingdom of His Father, and in order to admit them to this kingdom, He wills to die on the cross, saying, greater love than this no man hath, than a man lay down his life for his friends. John 15, verse 12. As I meditated on these divine words, I saw how imperfect was the love I bore my sisters in religion. I understood that I did not love them as our Lord loves them. I know now that true charity consists in bearing all our neighbor's defects, not being surprised at their weakness, but edified at their smallest virtues. Above all, I know that charity must not remain shut up in the heart. For no man lighteth a candle, and puteth it in a hidden place, nor under a bushel. But upon a candlestick, that they who came in may see the light. Luke 11, verse 33. It seems to me, dear mother, this candle represents that charity which enlightens and gladdens, not only those who are dear to us, but all those who are of the household. In the old law, when God told His people to love their neighbor as themselves, He had not yet come down upon earth, and knowing full well how man loves himself, He could not ask anything greater. But when our Lord gave His apostles a new commandment, His own commandment, John 15, verse 12. He was not content with saying, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself, but would have them love even as He had loved, and as He will love till the end of time. O my Jesus, thou dost never ask what is impossible, thou knowest better than I, how frail and imperfect I am, and thou knowest that I shall never love my sisters as thou hast loved them, unless within me thou lovest them, dear Lord. It is because thou dost desire to grant me this grace that thou hast given a new commandment. O how I love it! Since I am assured thereby that it is thy will to love in me, all those thou dost bid me love. Yes, I know when I show charity to others, it is simply Jesus acting in me, and the more closely I am united to Him, the more dearly I love my sisters. If I wish to increase this love in my heart, and the devil tries to bring before me the defects of a sister, I hasten to look for her virtues, her good motives. I call to mind that though I may have seen her fall once, no doubt she has gained many victories over herself, which in her humility she conceals. It is even possible that what seems to me a fault may very likely, on account of her good intention, be an act of virtue. I have no difficulty in persuading myself of this, because I have had the same experience. One day, during recreation, the Portress came to ask for a sister to help her. I had a childish longing to do this work, and it happened the choice fell upon me. I therefore began to fold up our needlework, but so slowly that my neighbor, who I knew would like to take my place, was ready before me. The sister who had asked for help, seeing how deliberate I was, said laughingly, I thought you would not add this pearl to your crown. You are so extremely slow. And all the community thought I had yielded to natural reluctance. I cannot tell you what profit I derived from this incident, and it made me indulgent towards others. It still checks any feelings of vanity when I am praised, for I reflect that since my small acts of virtue can be mistaken for imperfections, why should not my imperfections be mistaken for virtue? And 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 judges me is the Lord. 1 Corinthians 4, verse 3, 4. And it is the Lord, it is Jesus who is my judge. Therefore I will try always to think leniently of others, that he may judge me leniently, or rather not at all, since he says, Judge not and ye shall not be judged. Luke 6, verse 37. But returning to the Holy Gospel where our Lord explains to me clearly in what his new commandment consists, I read in St. Matthew. You have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor and hate thy enemy. But I say unto you, love your enemies and pray for them that persecute you. Matthew 5, verse 43, 44. There are, of course, no enemies in the Carmel, but after all, we have our natural likes and dislikes. We may feel drawn towards one sister and may be tempted to go a long way round to avoid meeting another. Well, our Lord tells me that this is the sister to love and pray for, even though her behavior may make me imagine she does not care for me. If you love them that love you, what thanks are to you? For sinners also love those who love them. Luke 6, verse 32. And it is not enough to love. We must prove our love. Naturally, one likes to please a friend, but that is not charity. For sinners do the same. Our Lord also taught me, give to everyone that asketh thee, and of him that taketh away thy goods. Ask them not again. Luke 6, verse 30. To give to everyone who asks is not so pleasant as to give a one's own accord. If we are asked pleasantly, it is easy to give, but if we are asked discreetly, then, unless we are in perfect charity, there is an inward rebellion, and we find no end of excuses for refusing. Perhaps after first pointing out the rudeness of the request, we make such a favor of consenting thereto that the slight service takes far less time to perform than was lost in arguing the point. And if it is difficult to give to whosoever asks, it is far more difficult to let what belongs to us to be taken without asking it again. Dear mother, I say this is hard, but I should rather say that it seems hard, for the yoke of the Lord is sweet and his burden light. Matthew 11, verse 30. And when we submit to that yoke, we at once feel its sweetness. I have said Jesus does not wish me to ask again for what is my own. This ought to seem quite easy, for in reality, nothing is mine. I ought then to be glad when an occasion arises which brings home to me the poverty to which I am vowed. I used to think myself completely detached, but since our Lord's words have become clear, I see that I am indeed very imperfect. For instance, when starting to paint, if I find the brushes in disorder, and a ruler or pen knife gone, I feel inclined to lose patience and have to keep a firm hold over myself not to betray my feelings. Of course, I may ask for these needful things, and if I do so humbly, I am not disobeying our Lord's command. I am then like the poor who hold out their hands for the necessaries of life and if refused, are not surprised, since no one owes them anything. Deep peace inundates the soul when it soars above mere natural sediments. There is no joy equal to that which is shared by the truly poor in spirit. If they ask with detachment for something necessary, and not only is it refused, but an attempt is made to take away what they already possess, they are following the Master's advice. If any man will take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also. Matthew 5 verse 40 To give up one's cloak is, it seems to me, to renounce every right, and to regard oneself as the servant, the slave of all. Without a cloak it is easier to walk or run, and so the Master adds, and whosoever shall force thee to go one mile, go with him other two. Matthew 5 verse 41 It is therefore not enough for me to give to whoever asks. I ought to anticipate the wish, and show myself glad to be of service. But if anything of mine be taken away, I should show myself glad to be rid of it. I cannot always carry out to the letter the words of the Gospel, for there are occasions when I am compelled to refuse some request. Yet when charity is deeply rooted in the soul, it lets itself be outwardly seen, and there is a way of refusing so graciously what one is unable to give, that the refusal affords as much pleasure as the gift would have done. It is true that people do not hesitate to ask from those who readily oblige. Nevertheless, I ought not to avoid inopportune sisters on the pretext that I shall be forced to refuse. The Divine Master has said, From him that would borrow of thee, turn not away. Matthew 5 verse 42 Nor should I be kind in order to appear so, or in the hope that the sister will return the service, for once more it is written, if you lend to them of whom you hope to receive, what thanks are to you. For sinners also lend to sinners for to receive as much. But you do good and lend, hoping for nothing thereby, and your reward shall be great. Luke 6 verse 34 35 Verily the reward is great even on earth. In this path it is only the first step which costs. To lend without hope of being repaid seems hard. One would rather give outright, for what you give is no longer yours. When a sister says confidently, I want your help for some hours, I have our mothers leave, and be assured I will do as much for you later. One may know well that these hours lent will not be repaid, and be sorely tempted to say, I prefer to give them. But that would gratify self-love, besides letting the sister feel that you do not rely much on her promise. The Divine Precepts run contrary to our natural inclinations, and without the help of grace it would be impossible to understand them. Far less to put them in practice. Dear mother, I feel that I have expressed myself with more than usual confusion, and I do not know what you can find to interest you in these rambling pages, but I am not aiming at a literary masterpiece, and if I weary you by this discourse on charity, it will at least prove your child's good will. I must confess I am far from living up to my ideal, and yet the very desire to do so gives me a feeling of peace. If I fall into some fault, I arise again at once, and for some months now I have not even had to struggle. I have been able to say with our Holy Father, Saint John of the Cross, my house is entirely at peace, and I attribute this interior peace to a victory I gained over myself. Since that victory, the hosts of heaven have hastened to my aid, for they will not allow me to be wounded, now that I have fought so valiantly. A holy none of our community annoyed me in all that she did. The devil must have had something to do with it, and he, it was undoubtedly, who made me see in her so many disagreeable points. I did not want to yield to my natural antipathy, for I remember that charity ought to betray itself in deeds, and not exist merely in the feelings, so I set myself to do for this sister all I should do for the one I loved most. Every time I met her I prayed for her, and offered to God her virtues and merits. I felt that this was very pleasing to our Lord, for there is no artist who is not gratified when his works are praised, and the divine artist of souls is pleased when we do not stop at the exterior, but penetrating to the interior sanctuary he has chosen, admire its beauty. I did not rest satisfied with praying for this sister, who gave me such occasions for self-mastery. I tried to render her as many services as I could, and when tempted to answer her sharply, I made haste to smile and change the subject, for the imitation says, it is more profitable to leave everyone to his way of thinking than to give way to contentious discourses. And sometimes when the temptation was very severe, I would run like a deserter from the battlefield if I could do so without letting the sister guess my inward struggle. One day she said to me with a beaming face, my dear sore Therese, tell me what attraction you find in me, for whenever we meet, you greet me with such a sweet smile. Ah, what attracted me was Jesus hidden in the depths of her soul, Jesus who maketh sweet even that which is most bitter. I spoke just now, dear mother, of the flight that is my last resource to escape defeat. It is not honorable, I confess, but during my novitiate, whenever I had recourse to this means, it invariably succeeded. I will give you a striking example, which will, I am sure, amuse you. You had been ill with bronchitis for several days, and we were all uneasy about you. One morning in my duty as sacri-stand, I came to put back the keys of the communion grating. This was my work, and I was very pleased to have an opportunity of seeing you, though I took good care not to show it. One of the sisters, full of solicitude, feared I should awake you and tried to take the keys from me. I told her as politely as I could, that I was quite as anxious as she was there should be no noise, and added that it was my right to return them. I see now that it would have been more perfect simply to yield, but I did not see it then, and so I followed her into the room. Very soon what she feared came to pass. The noise did awaken you. All the blame fell upon me. The sister I had argued with began a long discourse, of which the point was, Sore Therese made all the noise. I was burning to defend myself, but a happy inspiration of grace came to me. I thought that if I began to justify myself, I should certainly lose my peace of mind, and as I had too little virtue to let myself be unjustly accused without answering, my last chance of safety lay in flight. No sooner thought than done. I hurried away, but my heart beat so violently. I could not go far, and I was obliged to sit down on the stairs to enjoy in quiet the fruit of my victory. This is an odd kind of courage, undoubtedly, but I think it is best not to expose oneself in the face of certain defeat. When I recall these days of my novitiate, I understand how far I was from perfection, and the memory of certain things makes me laugh. How good God has been to have trained my soul and given it wings. All the snares of the hunter can no longer frighten me. For a net is spread in vain before the eyes of them that have wings. Proverbs 1 verse 27 It may be that someday my present state will appear to me full of defects, but nothing now surprises me, and I do not even distress myself because I am so weak. On the contrary, I glory therein, and expect each day to find fresh imperfections. Nay, I must confess, these lights on my own nothingness are of more good to my soul than lights on matters of faith. Remembering that charity covereth a multitude of sins. Proverbs 10 verse 12 I draw from this rich mine, which our Savior has opened to us in the Gospels. I search the depths of His adorable words and cry out with David, I have run in the way of Thy commandments since Thou hast enlarged my heart. Psalms 118, 119 verse 32 And charity alone can make wide the heart. O Jesus, since its sweet flame consumes my heart, I run with delight in the way of Thy new commandment, and I desire to run therein until that blessed day when, with Thy company of virgins, I shall follow Thee through Thy boundless realm, singing Thy new canticle, the canticle of love. End of chapter 9 Chapter 10 of the Story of a Soul This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Anne Boulet. The Story of a Soul, the autobiography of St. Therese of LeSue, translated by Thomas Taylor. Chapter 10 The New Commandment Dear Mother, God in His infinite goodness has given me a clear insight into the deep mysteries of charity. If I could but express what I know, you would hear a heavenly music, but alas, I can only stammer like a child, and if God's own words were not my support, I should be tempted to beg leave to hold my peace. When the Divine Master tells me to give to whosoever asks of me, and to let what is mine be taken without asking it again, it seems to me that He speaks not only of the goods of earth, but also of the goods of heaven. Besides, neither one nor the other are really mine. I renounce the former by the vow of poverty, and the latter gifts are simply lent. If God withdraw them, I have no right to complain. But our very own ideas, the fruit of our mind and heart, form a treasury on which none dare lay hands. For instance, if I reveal to a sister some light given me in prayer, and she repeats it later on as though it were her own, it seems as though she appropriates what is mine. Or, if during recreation someone makes an apt and witty remark, which her neighbor repeats to the community, without acknowledging once it came, it is a sort of theft, and the person who originated the remark is naturally inclined to seize the first opportunity of delicately insinuating that her thoughts have been borrowed. I could not so well explain all these weaknesses of human nature had I not experienced them. I should have preferred to indulge in the illusion that I was the only one who suffered thus, had you not bitten me advised the novices in their difficulties. I have learned much in the discharge of this duty, and especially I feel bound to put in practice what I teach. I can say with truth that by God's grace, I am no more attached to the gifts of the intellect than to material things. If it happens that a thought of mine should please my sisters, I find it quite easy to let them regard it as their own. My thoughts belong to the Holy Ghost. They are not mine. St. Paul assures us that, without the spirit of love, we cannot call God our Father. Footnote, cross-reference Romans 8, verse 15, and footnote. And besides, though far from deprecating those beautiful thoughts which bring us nearer to God, I have long been of opinion that we must be careful not to overestimate their worth. The highest inspirations are of no value without good works. It is true that others may derive much profit therefrom if they are duly grateful to our Lord for allowing them to share in the abundance of one of His privileged souls. But should this privileged soul take pride in spiritual wealth and imitate the Pharisee, she becomes like a hostess dying of starvation at a well-spread table. While her guests enjoy the richest fair and perhaps case envious glances at the possessor of so many treasures, verily it is true that God alone can sound the heart. How short-sighted are His creatures? When they see a soul whose lights surpass their own, they conclude that the Divine Master loves them less. Since when has He lost the right to make use of one of His children in order to supply the others with the nourishment they need? That right was not lost in the days of Pharaoh. For God said unto him, And therefore I have raised thee, That I may show my power in thee, And my name may be spoken throughout all the earth. Exodus 9, verse 16. Generations have passed away since the Most High spoke these words, and His ways have not changed. He has ever chosen human instruments for the accomplishment of His work. If an artist's canvas could but think and speak, surely it would never complain of being touched and retouched by the brush, nor would it feel envious thereof, knowing that all His beauty is due to the artist alone. So, too, the brush itself could not boast of the masterpiece it had helped to produce, for it must know that an artist is never at a loss. That difficulties do but stimulate him, and that at times it pleases him to make use of instruments the most unlikely and defective. Dear Mother, I am the little brush that Jesus has chosen to paint His likeness in the souls you have confided to my care. Now an artist has several brushes, two at least. The first, which is more useful, gives the ground tints and rapidly covers the whole canvas. The other, and smaller one, puts in the lesser touches. Mother, you represent the big brush which our Lord holds lovingly in His hand when He wishes to do some great work in the souls of your children, and I am the little one He deans to use afterwards, to fill in the minor details. The first time the Divine Master took up His little brush was about December 8, 1892. I shall always remember that time as one of special grace. When I entered the Carmel, I found in the novitiate a companion about eight years older than I was. In spite of this difference of age, we became the closest friends, and to encourage an affection which gave promise of fostering virtue, we were allowed to converse together on spiritual subjects. My companion charmed me by her innocence and by her open and frank disposition, though I was surprised to find how her love for you differed from mine, and besides, I regretted many things in her behavior. But God had already given me to understand that there are souls for whom in His mercy He waits unwiredly, and to whom He gives His light by degrees. So I was very careful not to forestall Him. One day when I was thinking over the permission we had to talk together, so that we might, as our holy constitutions tell us, incite ourselves more ardently to the love of our divine spouse. It came home to me sadly that our conversations did not attain the desired end, and I understood that either I must no longer fear to speak out, or else I must put to an end what was degenerating into mere worldly talk. I begged our Lord to inspire me with words, kind and convincing, or better still, to speak Himself for me. He heard my prayer, for those who look upon Him shall be enlightened. Footnote, cross-reference Psalms 33, 34, verse 6, and footnote. And to the upright a light is risen in the darkness. Psalms 111, 112, verse 4. The first of these texts I apply to myself, the other to my companion, who was truly upright in heart. The next time we met, the poor little sister saw it once that my manner had changed, and, blushing deeply, she sat down beside me. I pressed her to my heart, and told her gently what was in my mind. Then I pointed out to her in what true love consists, and proved that in loving her priorus with such natural affection she was in reality loving herself. I confided to her the sacrifices of this kind, which I had been obliged to make at the beginning of my religious life, and before long her tears were mingled with mine. She admitted very humbly that she was in the wrong and that I was right, and, begging me as a favor always to point out her faults, she promised to begin a new life. From this time our love for one another became truly spiritual. In us were fulfilled the words of the Holy Ghost. A brother that is helped by his brother is like a strong city. Proverbs 18 verse 19, Dear mother, you know very well that it was not my wish to turn my companion away from you. I only wanted her to grasp that true love feeds on sacrifice, and that, in proportion, as our souls renounce natural enjoyments, our affections become stronger and more detached. I remember that when I was a postulate, I was sometimes so violently tempted to seek my own satisfaction by having a word with you that I was obliged to hurry past your cell and hold onto the banisters to keep myself from turning back. Numerous permissions I wanted to ask, and a hundred pretexts for yielding to my desires suggested themselves, but now I am truly glad that I did not listen. I already enjoy the reward promised to those who fight bravely. I no longer feel the need of refusing myself these consolations, for my heart is fixed on God. But it has loved him only, it has grown little by little, and now it can give to those who are dear to him a far truer and deeper love than if it were centered in a barren and selfish affection. I have told you of the first piece of work which you accomplished together with our Lord by means of the little brush, but that was only the prelude to the masterpiece which was afterwards to be painted. From the moment I entered the sanctuary of souls, I saw at a glance that the task was beyond my strength. Throwing myself without delay into our Lord's arms, I imitated those tiny children who, when they were frightened, hide their faces on their father's shoulder, and I said, Dear Lord, thou seeest that I am too small to feed these little ones, but if through me thou wilt give to each what is suitable, then fill my hands, and without leaving the shelter of thine arms, or even turning away, I will distribute thy treasures to the souls who come to me asking for food. Should they find it to their taste, I shall know that it is due not to me, but to thee. And if, on the contrary, they find fault with its bitterness, I shall not be cast down, but try to persuade them that it cometh from thee, while taking good care to make no change in it. The knowledge that it was impossible to do anything of myself rendered my task easier. My one interior occupation was to unite myself more and more closely to God, knowing that the rest would be given to me over and above. And indeed, my hope has never been deceived. I have always found my hands filled when sustenance was needed for the souls of my sisters, but had I done otherwise and relied on my own strength, I should very soon have been forced to abandon my task. From afar it seems so easy to do good to souls, to teach them to love God more, and to model them according to one's own ideas. But, when we draw nearer, we quickly feel that without God's help, this is quite as impossible as to bring back the Son when once it has set. We must forget ourselves and put aside our tastes and ideas, and guide souls not by our own way, but along the path which our Lord points out. Even this is not the most difficult part. What costs me more than all is having to observe their faults, their slightest imperfections, and wage war against them. Unhappily for me, I was going to say, but that would be cowardly, so I will say, Happily for my sisters, ever since I placed myself in the arms of Jesus, I have been like a watchman on the lookout for the enemy from the highest turret of a fortified castle. Nothing escapes my vigilance. Indeed, I am sometimes surprised at my own clear-sightedness, and I think it was quite excusable in the prophet Jonas to fly before the face of the Lord, that he might not have to announce the ruin of Nineveh. Rather than make one single reproach, I would prefer to receive a thousand, yet I feel it is necessary that the task should cause me pain, for if I spoke only through natural impulse, then the soul in fault would not understand its defects and would simply think, this sister is displeased and her displeasure falls on me, although I am full of the best intentions. But in this, as in all else, I must practice sacrifice and self-denial. Even in the matter of writing a letter, I feel that it will produce no fruit, unless I am disinclined to write and only do so from obedience. When conversing with a novice, I am on the watch to mortify myself, and I avoid asking questions which would satisfy my curiosity. If she begins to speak on an interesting subject and, leaving it unfinished, passes on to another that wearies me, I take care not to remind her of the interruption, for it seems to me that no good can come of self-seeking. I know, dear mother, that your little lambs find me severe. If they were to read these lines, they would say that, so far as they can see, it does not distress me to run after them, and show them how they have soiled their beautiful white fleece, or torn it in the brambles. Well, the little lambs may say what they like. In their hearts, they know I love them dearly. There is no fear of my imitating the hireling who seeeth the wolf coming and leaveeth the sheep, and flyeth. John 10, verse 12, I am ready to lay down my life for them, and my affection is so disinterested that I would not have my novices know this. By God's help, I have never tried to draw their hearts to myself, for I have always understood that my mission was to lead them to Him and to you, dear mother, who on this earth hold his place in their regard, and whom, therefore, they must love and respect. I said before that I have learned much by guiding others. In the first place, I see that all souls have more or less the same battles to fight, and on the other hand, that one soul differs widely from another. So each must be dealt with differently. With some, I must humble myself and not shrink from acknowledging my own struggles and defeats. Then they confess more readily the faults into which they fall, and are pleased that I know by experience what they suffer. With others, my only means of success is to be firm and never go back on what I have once said. Self abasement would be taken for weakness. Our Lord has granted me the grace never to fear the conflict. At all costs, I must do my duty. I have more than once been told, if you want me to obey, you must be gentle and not severe. Otherwise, you will gain nothing. But no one is a good judge in his own case. During a painful operation, a child will be sure to cry out and say that the remedy is worse than the disease. But if after a few days he is cured, then he is greatly delighted that he can run about and play. And it is the same with souls. They soon recognize that a little bitter is better than too much sweet, and they are not afraid to make the acknowledgment. Sometimes the change which takes place from one day to another seems almost magical. A novice will say to me, you did well to be severe yesterday. At first I was indignant, but when I thought it all over, I saw that you were quite right. I left your cell thinking, this ends it. I will tell our mother that I shall never go to sort her as again. But I knew this was the devil's suggestion, and then I felt you were praying for me, and I grew calm. I began to see things more clearly, and now I come to you for further guidance. I am only too happy to follow the dictates of my heart and hasten to console with a little sweetness, but I see that one must not press forward too quickly. A word might undo the work that costs so many tears. If I say the least thing which seems to tone down the hard truths of the previous day, I see my little sister trying to take advantage of the opening thus given her. At once I have recourse to prayer. I turn to our blessed lady, and Jesus always triumphs. Verily in prayer and sacrifice lies all my strength. They are my invincible arms. Experience has taught me that they touch hearts far more easily than words. Two years ago during Lent, a novice came to me smiling and said, you would never imagine what I dreamt last night. I thought I was with my sister, who is so worldly, and I wanted to withdraw her from all vain things. To this end, I explained the words of your hymn. They richly lose those who love thee, dearest Lord. Thine are my perfumes, thine forever more. I felt that my words sank deep into her soul, and I was overjoyed. This morning it seems to me that perhaps our Lord would like me to gain him this soul. How would it do if I wrote at Easter and described my dream, telling her that Jesus desires to have her for his spouse? I answered that she might certainly ask permission. As Lent was not nearly over, you were surprised, your mother, at such a premature request, and evidently guided by God, you replied that Carmelites should save souls by prayer rather than by letters. When I heard your decision, I said to the little sister, you must set to work and pray hard if our prayers are answered at the end of Lent. What a joy it will be! O infinite mercy of our Lord, at the close of Lent, one soul more had given herself to God. It was a real miracle of grace, a miracle obtained through the fervor of a humble novice. How wonderful is the power of prayer! It is like unto a queen, who, having free access to the king, obtains whatsoever she asks. In order to secure a hearing, there is no need to recite set prayers composed for the occasion. Were it so, I ought indeed to be pitied. Apart from the divine office, which in spite of my unworthiness is a daily joy, I have not the courage to look through books for beautiful prayers. I only get a headache because of their number, and besides, one is more lovely than the other. Unable, therefore, to say them all, and lost in choice, I do as children who have not learnt to read. I simply tell our Lord all that I want, and He always understands. With me, prayer is an uplifting of the heart, a glance towards heaven, a cry of gratitude and love, uttered equally in sorrow and in joy. In a word, it is something noble, supernatural, which expands my soul and unites it to God. Sometimes, when I am in such a state of spiritual dryness that not a single good thought occurs to me, I say very slowly the Our Father or the Hail Mary, and these prayers suffice to take me out of myself and wonderfully refresh me. But what was I speaking of? Again, I am lost in amaze of my reflections. Forgive me, dear mother, for wandering thus. My story is like a tangled skein, but I fear I can do no better. I write my thoughts as they come. I fish at random in the stream of my heart and offer you all that I catch. I was telling you about the novices. They often say, you have an answer for everything. This time I thought I should puzzle you. Where do you find all that you teach us? Some are even simple enough to think I can read their souls, because at times it happens I discover to them, without revelation, the subject of their thoughts. The senior novice had determined to hide from me a great sorrow. She spent the night in anguish, keeping back her tears lest her eyes might betray her. Yet she came to me with a smile next day, seeming even more cheerful than usual, and when I said, you are in trouble, I am sure. She looked at me in inexpressible amazement. Her surprise was so great that it reacted on me and imparted a sense of the supernatural. I felt that God was close to us, unwittingly, for I have not the gift of reading souls. I had spoken as one inspired and was able to console her completely. And now, dear mother, I will tell you wherein I gain most with the novices. You know they are allowed without restriction to say anything to me, agreeable or the reverse. This is all the easier since they do not owe me the respect due to a novice mistress. I cannot say that our Lord makes me walk in the way of exterior humiliation. He is satisfied with humbling me in my inmost soul. In the eyes of creatures all is success, and I walk in the dangerous path of honor. If a religious may so speak, I understand God's way and that of my superiors in this respect. For if the community thought me incapable, unintelligent, and wanting in judgment, I could be of no possible use to you, dear mother. This is why the Divine Master has thrown a veil over all my shortcomings, both interior and exterior. Because of this veil, I receive many compliments from the novices, compliments without flattery, for they really mean what they say, and they do not inspire me with vanity, for the remembrance of my weakness is ever before me. At times my soul tires of this over sweet food, and I long to hear something other than praise. Then our Lord serves me with a nice little salad, well spiced with plenty of vinegar, oil alone is wanting, and this it is which makes it more to my taste. And the salad is offered to me by the novices at the moment I least expect. God lifts the veil that hides my faults, and my dear little sisters, beholding me as I really am, do not find me altogether agreeable. With charming simplicity they tell me how I try them and what they dislike in me. In fact, they are as frank as though they were speaking of someone else, for they are aware that I am pleased when they act in this way. I am more than pleased. I am transported with delight by this splendid banquet set before me. How can anything so contrary to our natural inclinations afford such extraordinary pleasure? Had I not experienced it, I could not have believed it possible. One day, when I was ardently longing for some humiliation, a young postulate came to me and sated my desire so completely that I was reminded of the occasion when some day cursed David, and I repeated to myself the words of the Holy King. Yay, it is the Lord who hath bidden him say all these things. Footnote, cross reference 2 Kings 16 verse 10. End footnote. In this way, God takes care of me. He cannot always provide that strength-giving bread, exterior humiliation, but from time to time he allows me to eat of the crumbs from the table of the children. Mark 7 verse 28. How magnificent are his mercies. Dear mother, since that infinite mercy is the subject of this, my earthly song, I ought also to discover to you one real advantage, reaped with many others in the discharge of my task. Formerly, if I saw a sister acting in a way that displeased me and was seemingly contrary to rule, I would think, ah, how glad I should be if I could only warn her and point out where she is wrong. Since, however, this burden has been laid upon me, my ideas have changed, and when I happen to see something not quite right, I say with a sigh of relief, thank God it is not a novice and I am not obliged to correct. And at once I tried to find excuses and credit the doer with the good intentions she no doubt possesses. Your devotedness, dear mother, now that I am ill, has also taught me many a lesson of charity. No remedy is too costly, and if one does not succeed, you unhesitatingly try something new. When I am present at recreation, how careful you are to shield me from drafts. I feel that I ought to be as compassionate for the spiritual infirmities of my sisters as you are for my bodily ills. I have noticed that it is the holiest nuns who are most deeply loved. Everyone is anxious to seek their company and do them service, without even being asked. These very souls, who are well able to bear with want of affection and little attentions, are always surrounded by an atmosphere of love. Our Father, St. John of the Cross, says with great truth, all good things have come unto me since I no longer sought them for myself. Imperfect souls, on the contrary, are left alone. They are treated, it is true, with the measure of politeness which religious life demands, yet their company is avoided, lest a word might be said which would hurt their feelings. When I say imperfect souls, I am not referring to souls with spiritual imperfections only, for the holiest souls will not be perfect till they are in heaven. I mean those who are also afflicted with want of tact and refinement, as well as ultra-sensitive souls. I know such defects are incurable, but I also know how patient you would be, in nursing and striving to relieve me, were my illness to last for many years. From all this I draw the conclusion, I ought to seek the companionship of those sisters towards whom I feel a natural aversion and try to be their good Samaritan. A word or a smile is often enough to put fresh life in a despondent soul, and yet it is not merely in the hope of giving consolation that I try to be kind. If it were, I know that I should soon be discouraged, for well-intentioned words are often totally misunderstood. Consequently, not to lose my time or labor, I try to act solely to please our Lord, and follow this precept of the gospel. When thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not thy friends or thy brethren, lest perhaps they also invite thee again and a recompense be made to thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the main, the blind, and the lame, and thou shalt be blessed, because they have not wherewith to make thee recompense, and thy father, Huseith, in secret will repay thee. Footnote, cross reference Luke 14, verses 12, 13, and 14. And footnote. What feast can I offer my sisters but a spiritual one of sweet and joyful charity? I know none other, and I wish to imitate St. Paul, who rejoiced with those who rejoiced. It is true that he wept with those who wept, and at my feast, too, the tears must sometimes fall. Still, I shall always try to change them into smiles, for God loveth a cheerful giver. 2 Corinthians 9, verse 7. I remember an act of charity with which God inspired me while I was still a novice, and this act, though seemingly small, has been rewarded even in this life by our Heavenly Father. Huseith, a secret. Shortly before Sister St. Peter became quite bedridden, it was necessary every evening, at ten minutes to six, for someone to leave meditation and take her to the refectory. It cost me a good deal to offer my services, for I knew the difficulty, or I should say the impossibility, of pleasing the poor invalid. But I did not want to lose such a good opportunity, for I recalled our Lord's words, as long as you did it to one of these, my least brethren, you did it to me. Matthew 25, verse 40. I therefore humbly offered my aid. It was not without difficulty I induced her to accept it, but after considerable persuasion I succeeded. Every evening, when I saw her shake her sand glass, I understood that she meant, let us go! Summoning up all my courage I rose, and the ceremony began. First of all, her stool had to be moved and carried in a particular way, and on no account must there be any hurry. The solemn procession ensued. I had to follow the good sister, supporting her by her girdle. I did it as gently as possible, but if by some mischance she stumbled, she imagined I had not a firm hold, and that she was going to fall. You are going too fast, she would say. I shall fall and hurt myself. Then when I tried to lead her more quietly, come quicker, I cannot feel you. You are letting me go. I was right when I said you were too young to take care of me. When we reached the refractory without further mishap, more troubles were in store. I had to settle my poor invalid in her place, taking great pains not to hurt her. Then I had to turn back her sleeves, always according to her own special rubric, and after that I was allowed to go. But I soon noticed that she found it very difficult to cut her bread, so I did not leave her till I had performed this last service. She was much touched by this attention on my part, for she had not expressed any wish on the subject. It was by this unsought-for-kindness that I gained her entire confidence, and chiefly because, as I learned later, at the end of my humble task, I bestowed upon her my sweetest smile. Dear mother, it is long since all this happened, but our Lord allows the memory of it to linger with me like a perfume from heaven. One cold winter evening, I was occupied in the lowly work which I have just spoken. When suddenly I heard in the distance the harmonious strains of music outside the convent walls, I pictured a drawing room, brilliantly lighted and decorated, and richly furnished. Young ladies, elegantly dressed, exchanged a thousand compliments, as is the way of the world. Then I looked on the poor invalid I was tending. Instead of sweet music I heard her complaints. Instead of rich-guilding I saw the brick walls of our bare cloister, scarcely visible in the dim light. The contrast was very moving. Our Lord so illuminated my soul with the rays of truth, before which the pleasures of the world are but as darkness, that for a thousand years of such worldly delights, I would not have bartered even the ten minutes spent in my act of charity. If even now, in days of pain and amid the smoke of battle, the thought that God has withdrawn us from the world is so entrancing, what will it be when, in eternal glory and everlasting repose, we realize the favor beyond compare he has done us here, by singling us out to dwell in his carmel, the very portal of heaven. I have not always felt these transports of joy in performing acts of charity, but at the beginning of my religious life, Jesus wished to make me feel how sweet to him is charity, when found in the hearts of his spouses. Thus, when I led Sister St. Peter, it was with so much love that I could not have shown more were I guiding our Divine Lord Himself. The practice of charity has not always been so pleasant as I have just pointed out, dear mother, and to prove it, I will recount some of my many struggles. For a long time, my place at meditation was near a sister who fidgeted continually, either with her rosary or something else. Possibly, as I am very quick of hearing, I alone heard her, but I cannot tell you how much it tried me. I should have liked to turn round, and by looking at the offender, make her stop the noise. But in my heart, I knew that I ought to bear it tranquilly, both for the love of God and to avoid giving pain. So I kept quiet, but the effort cost me so much that sometimes I was bathed in perspiration, and my meditation consisted merely in suffering with patience. After a time, I tried to endure it in peace and joy, at least deep down in my soul, and I strove to take actual pleasure in the disagreeable little noise. Instead of trying not to hear it, which was impossible, I set myself to listen, as though it had been some delightful music, and my meditation, which was not the prayer of quiet, was passed in offering this music to our Lord. Another time, I was working in the laundry, and the sister opposite, while washing handkerchiefs, repeatedly splashed me with dirty water. My first impulse was to draw back and wipe my face. To show the offender, I should be glad if she would behave more quietly. But the next minute, I thought how foolish it was to refuse the treasures God offered me so generously, and I refrained from betraying my annoyance. On the contrary, I made such efforts to welcome the shower of dirty water, that at the end of half an hour I had taken quite a fancy to this novel kind of aspiration, and I resolved to come as often as I could to the happy spot where such treasures were freely bestowed. Dear mother, you see that I am a very little soul who can only offer very little things to our Lord. It still happens that I frequently let slip the occasion of these slender sacrifices, which brings so much peace. But this does not discourage me. I bear the loss of a little peace, and I try to be more watchful for the future. How happy does our Lord make me, and how sweet and easy is His service on this earth. He has always given me what I desired, or rather has made me desire what He wishes to give. A short time before my terrible temptation against faith, I had reflected how few exterior trials, worthy of mention, had fallen to my lot, and that if I were to have interior trials, God must change my path, and this I did not think He would do. Yet I could not always live at ease. Of what means, then, would He make use? I had not long to wait for an answer, and it showed me that He whom I love is never at a loss. For without changing my way, He sent me this great trial, and thus mingled a healing bitterness with all the sweet.