This afternoon after my chores, I sat down again with my St. Thérèse book. It was so quiet in the house that I could almost hear the little pops from the stove in the next room. Mini settled herself right under my chair, and I felt ready to keep going with Thérèse’s story.
This part is about the sorrows that came into her life after her mother died, and how God began teaching her to love Him even through tears. I want to write it softly, because it feels like I’m holding something delicate.
Love,
Kathy
Kathy’s Gentle Retelling — Part 2
After the Martins moved to Lisieux, their new home at Les Buissonnets slowly filled with peace again. But even in peaceful places, a little heart can feel lonely, especially a heart like Thérèse’s, which loved deeply and noticed everything.
Her father often took her with him on quiet outings, giving her small adventures that helped heal her sorrow. Sometimes he brought her fishing. Thérèse had her own little line but was more interested in the soft grassy bank nearby. She would wander off a bit, sit among the flowers, and fall into a kind of gentle dreaming. She said she didn’t even know she was praying — her heart just lifted itself to God without words. The wind spoke, and distant sounds from the town floated to her, making her feel a kind of tender sadness, as though the world was only a place one passed through on the way to Heaven.
When she was six or seven, she saw the sea for the first time, and it struck her with a wonder she never forgot. She stood so still, watching the wide blue stretch into the distance. As the sun set, it left a golden path across the water. Thérèse sat by her sister Pauline, who told her the shining path looked like God’s grace leading souls to Him. Thérèse imagined herself as a tiny boat with a white sail, wishing only to glide straight across that golden path to Heaven. She promised Jesus she would keep her eyes fixed on Him, no matter what storms came.
But before she could reach that golden shore, she had to pass through a cold winter of trials.
The first was the hardest: her “little mother” Pauline, the sister who taught her lessons, comforted her, and became like a second mother after Zélie’s death, announced that she was entering the Carmelite convent. For Thérèse, it felt like losing her mother all over again. She loved Pauline so dearly that the separation cut deeply. But even through her tears, Thérèse knew that God was calling Pauline, and she wanted to be brave for Him.
When she received her First Communion, something beautiful happened. She said it was like Heaven opened and poured itself right into her soul. She felt loved in a way she had never felt before, and she promised Jesus that her heart would always be His. She spent the rest of that day reading the Imitation of Christ, trying to hold onto the sweetness of the moment. And at Benediction that evening, she felt Jesus rest upon her soul so gently that she never forgot the grace of it.
But where grace shines bright, suffering sometimes follows. After her First Communion, Thérèse fell into years of scruples — fears that she had offended God even in the smallest things. Her tender conscience became a weight she didn’t know how to carry. She tried so hard to please Jesus that she frightened herself, believing He was displeased with her when He wasn’t. These years were heavy for her, and she wrote later that she lived like a little bird trembling under a storm cloud.
Then, like the sudden lifting of a veil, Jesus healed her heart in an instant. Two years after her First Communion, she experienced what she called her “conversion.” In one moment, the fears that had held her captive fell away. She said it was as though Jesus bent down from Heaven and touched her soul, making her courageous and strong. From that day, she stopped relying on her own efforts and trusted in God’s mercy instead.
She began reading good books again, choosing the ones that helped her love God more simply. She realized that holiness wasn’t about doing great things, but doing small things with great love. She tried not to waste any moment, because she wanted every little action to be a gift for Jesus.
As she grew, something beautiful bloomed in her heart — a longing to give her entire life to God. She wanted to enter Carmel like Pauline. But she was still young, only fourteen, and people told her it was too soon. Still, she felt the call quietly but firmly, like sunlight drawing a flower upward. She believed Jesus was asking for her whole heart, and she could not turn away from Him.
When she finally told her father, she found him sitting in the garden one evening. The sun was making gold on the tops of the trees, and the birds were singing their last songs of the day. She sat near him and began to cry softly, resting her head on his chest as she told him everything. Her father listened with love and sorrow mixed together, but also with a noble heart. He understood that God was asking for his youngest daughter, and though it hurt, he wanted to give her freely.
To show his joy, he picked a tiny white flower from the garden and handed it to her. He told her it reminded him of her soul — delicate, simple, and belonging entirely to God. The broken stem meant God would soon gather her for Himself.
But even with her father’s blessing, more obstacles rose. The parish priest said she was too young. The Bishop wouldn’t decide. So Thérèse resolved to ask the Holy Father himself on a pilgrimage to Rome.
When she knelt before Pope Leo XIII, the guards tried to hurry her along, but she held fast. Through tears she asked permission to enter Carmel at fifteen. The Pope touched her cheek kindly and said, “If God wills it, you shall enter.” Those words filled her with peace, though he did not give the permission himself.
At last, after much waiting and praying, permission came. Her father took her to the convent on the appointed day, giving her his blessing even though his heart was breaking. Thérèse kissed her sisters, especially dear Céline, and stepped joyfully into Carmel, taking the name Sister Thérèse of the Child Jesus.
And so, the quiet dream she had since childhood began its tender unfolding.
No comments:
Post a Comment