(1873-1897)

© 2001 T. G. Morrow

St Thérèse was the youngest of the five daughters of Louis Martin, a watchmaker in Alenon, France, and his wife, Marie Guerin. Four other children, two boys and two girls, died shortly after birth. Thérèse was born January 2, 1873, and spent a happy childhood with her saintly parents and her four sisters, all destined to become nuns Her life is best summarized by an incident that occurred when she was quite young which she describes in her autobiography, The Story of a Soul:

One day Leonie, no doubt thinking she was too old to play with dolls, came to us both [Thérèse and Celine] with a basket filled with their clothes, ribbons and other odds and ends. Her own doll was on top. She said: "Here you are darlings. Take what you want." Celine took a little bundle of silk braid. I thought for a moment, then stretched out my hand and declared: "I choose everything," and without more ado, I carried off the lot. Everyone thought this quite fair.

This episode sums up the whole of my life. Much later, when I understood what perfection was, I realized that to become a saint one must suffer a great deal... and that each soul was free to... make a choice among the sacrifices He demands. Then, just as when I was a child, I cried: "My God, I choose all. I do not want to be a saint by halves. I am not afraid to suffer for You. I fear only one thing—that I should keep my own will. So take it, for I choose all that You will."

Thérèse was raised in a very devout Catholic home, both her parents having tried to enter religious life before they were married. She is said to have lived a normal childhood—she had pets of silkworms, rabbits, doves, a magpie, and goldfish, and a cocker spaniel named Tom. She was quite a mimic and entertained the whole family with her imitations of their friends.

Once, while returning from school with her cousin Marie, she called to Marie, "You must guide me. I'm going to shut my eyes." Marie replied "I'm going to shut mine too," and off they went down the street, the blind leading the blind. However, their adventure was abruptly halted when they bumped into some boxes displaying goods at the door of a shop and sent them flying. "A furious shopkeeper rushed out to rescue his stuff," she wrote years later. "We scrambled to our feet and ran off as fast as we could with our eyes wide open and listening to the well-deserved scolding..."

She admits to having been a proud child. When she was quite young her mother offered her a half-penny—a fortune to her at the time—if she would kiss the ground. She replied, "Oh no, Mummy, I'd rather not have the half-penny."

Thérèse is described as having had a will of steel. She also had a violent temper when she was young. Her mother described her: "She flings herself into the most dreadful rages when things don't go as she wants them. She rolls on the ground as if she's given up hope of anything ever being right again. Sometimes she's so overcome that she chokes." As she grew older she learned to control her violence and turn it to the love of God.

When Thérèse was four her mother died and the family moved to Lisieux to be near Thérèse's aunt. This began what Thérèse calls the second and most unhappy period of her life. She turned from being a lively and cheerful child to become "timid and quiet and a bundle of nerves." Her one bright spot during this period was the love she found in her father and sisters.

At Easter time in 1883, at age 10, she became quite ill. She remained ill for some months and her family stormed heaven with prayers for her recovery. In May during a particularly painful time she looked to the statue of the Blessed Mother and saw what she described as an "enchanting smile" on the face of Mary. Her pain vanished and as two tears crept down her face she sensed she was healed. She was healed.

Thérèse spoke of this time in her life:

When I read stories about the deeds of the great French heroines—especially the Venerable Joan of Arc, I longed to imitate them and felt moved by the same inspiration which moved them... I was made to understand that the glory I was to win would never be seen during my lifetime. My glory would consist in becoming a great saint! This might seem presumptuous, seeing how weak and imperfect I was and still am, even after eight years as a nun, and yet I always feel the same fearless certainty that I shall become a great saint. I’m not relying on my own merits, as I have none, but I put my hope in Him who is goodness and holiness Himself. It is he alone who, satisfied with my feeble efforts, will raise me to Him, will clothe me with His endless merits, and will make me a saint. I did not realize then how much one had to suffer to become a saint, but God soon showed me this...

She spent four years preparing for her first communion. Her sisters instructed her. They encouraged her to offer Jesus "a bouquet of sacrifices" each day, which she did with joy. Marie, the eldest, taught her every evening and here she opened her heart to suffering for the Lord.

Her first communion day was one she never forgot. She wrote of it,

Oh, how sweet the first kiss of Jesus was! It was a kiss of love. I knew that I was loved and I declared, "I love You and I give myself to You forever!" For a long time Jesus and Thérèse [she speaks of herself here as "Thérèse" rather than "I"] had gazed at each other and they understood each other. On that day it was no longer a matter of gazing: it was union... Thérèse had disappeared like a drop of water lost in the depth of the ocean. Only Jesus remained—as Master and King. For had not Thérèse begged Him to take away her freedom? Freedom frightened her, for she knew herself to be so weak and feeble that she wished to be united with the divine Power for ever.

Thérèse was so filled with joy at her first communion that she cried. Her friends, she said, "couldn’t understand that such a flood of divine joy cannot be experienced without tears."

The next day she felt a "passionate longing to suffer" for the love of Jesus. During communion she had repeated these words from the Imitation of Christ, "O God, who are unutterable sweetness, turn to bitterness for me all the comfort of earth!" She wanted "to love only God and find no joy apart from Him."

Shortly thereafter she developed scruples, that is, she was afraid everything she did might be sinful. This went on for 18 months. Finally she prayed for the intercession of her "four little angels," her four brothers and sisters who had died shortly after birth and whom she had never known. Very quickly her prayers were answered. She felt an inner peace come over her. Her scruples had left her.

On December 25, 1886, (at age 13) she received "the grace of emerging from childhood," her complete conversion. On this day, after midnight Mass she got back her "strength of soul" she had lost at the age of four.

She had always shown great glee upon returning from midnight Mass to see her shoes in the fireplace, full of presents. Her sisters continued the custom for her, even though she was beginning to grow out of it. Her father, seeing the shoes there, was annoyed, and said, "Thank goodness it’s the last time we shall have this kind of thing!" Thérèse was hurt and her sister Celine urged her not to take out the presents then because it would be too painful for her.

But that Thérèse was gone; Jesus had changed her.

I suppressed my tears, ran downstairs, and picked up my shoes. I pulled out my presents with an air of great cheerfulness. Daddy laughed and Celine thought she was dreaming! But it was no dream. Thérèse had got back for good the strength of soul which she had lost when she was four and a half. On this glorious night the third period of my life began... Jesus, satisfied with my good will, accomplished in an instant what I had been able to do in ten years.

At fourteen, she showed she had reached a spiritual advancement beyond her years in an experience she had one Sunday before the crucifix. She saw the blood of Christ coming from his hand and resolved to stay always at the foot of the cross to receive it. The cry of Jesus, "I thirst" sounded continually in her heart and, as she wrote, "I wanted to quench the thirst of my Well-Beloved and I myself was consumed with a thirst for souls," especially, "those of great sinners which I wanted to snatch from the flames of hell."

Her longings were soon fulfilled as she set about to pray for a criminal by the name of Pranzini, who had just been condemned to death for some horrible murders. She offered God the infinite merits of the Lord and the treasure of graces of the Church. Though quite certain her prayers would be answered, she asked for a small sign. The day after his execution she looked in the newspaper to read that he had mounted the executioner’s platform without confessing. But when he was ready to place his head beneath the guillotine blade, the evil Pranzini had turned, grabbed the crucifix offered to him and three times kissed the wounds of Christ.

Years later in the convent, whenever she received money on her feast day, she would seek permission from the superior to use it to have a Mass said for Pranzini. Presuming he was in purgatory still, she said, "It’s for my [spiritual] child. He must need it after all he’s done. I mustn’t abandon him now."

Her favorite book at this time was The Imitation of Christ, by St. Thomas à Kempis. She knew each chapter by heart, and was "never without it."

At fifteen she felt strongly drawn to enter the Carmelite convent where her sisters Pauline and Marie had been for some years. She received her father's permission, but her uncle was a much harder to convince. (Since the families were so close, his approval was important.) When she revealed her desire to him, he showed great tenderness, but told her he did not give her permission. He forbade her to speak of it until she was seventeen. It would be doing a great wrong to the religious life to allow a young child to enter it. For him to decide otherwise, he said, would call for a miracle. She left dejected.

She went off and begged Jesus to perform this miracle for her. After some time she went through a three-day spiritual trial, as she called it "a painful martyrdom." She received no consolations at all from her prayer. She felt she was "all alone in the garden of Gethsemani... God Himself seemed to have abandoned me."

On the fourth day, she went to see her uncle again. He invited her into his study, and told her she need not ask for a miracle. He had prayed to God to dispose his heart rightly and that prayer was answered. He would consent to her entering the Carmelites. She returned home that night overjoyed.

However, the Superior of the order would not hear of it until she was 21. Her only recourse was the bishop, whom she approached, with no better success. However, he did promise to discuss it with the Carmelite superior. This gave her little hope. Then, on a (previously planned) visit to Rome with her father, she asked the Pope! Alas, she fared no better with him. He told her to obey the authorities involved. "You will enter if God wills," he added.

She was expecting that somehow she would enter by Christmas, but this was not to be. However, on January 1, 1888 she had bittersweet news: The bishop had given permission but the Mother superior had decided she should not enter until after Easter.

She felt inclined to relax a bit spiritually for those three months, but God inspired her to use this time to prepare herself instead. She took on a deeper spirit of prayer and self-denial. She explains her penances were not like those of the great saints, but simply involved breaking her self-will, holding back a hasty reply, and doing little kindnesses without making a fuss about them.

She suffered for those months of waiting, but at last, her dream was fulfilled. She entered on April 9, 1888. She wrote that on that day she received a great peace, one that was never to leave her even when she endured severe trials.

She was a wonderful nun, always following the Rule, always a joy to the others at recreation. She loved to read the Bible, and remembered a good deal of what she read. She often quoted scripture in her autobiography, The Story of a Soul which she wrote under obedience to her superiors.

When she entered, she was asked, as is the custom, why she wanted to be a Carmelite nun. She answered, "It is to save souls and to pray for priests."

Some months after entering, she met with the priest who was to be her spiritual director. She made a general confession and was deeply consoled when he declared, "You have never committed a mortal sin." Then he added, "Thank God for what He has done for you; had He abandoned you, instead of being a little angel, you would have become a little demon."

At fourteen she had wondered what more she could learn about spiritual perfection. She began to realize in the convent that the further one travels on the road to perfection, the further away the goal seems. "Nowadays," she wrote, "I’m resigned to seeing myself in a constant state of imperfection and I even delight in it." She was no doubt thinking of one of her favorite Bible passages: "I will boast most gladly of my weaknesses, in order that the power of Christ may dwell with me" (2 Cor. 12:9).

One evening after night prayer she looked for her oil lamp on the shelf where it was kept, but it was missing. Since it was during the Lenten silence, she couldn’t ask anyone for help. She thought, and rightly so, that another sister had taken it by mistake. She had to spend the hour in darkness, even though she had planned to do a lot of work that evening. She said that through an interior grace she didn’t feel sorry for herself, but rejoiced in her moment of poverty. She felt that in the darkness the Lord flooded her soul "with divine light."

Her goal was always to do little hidden things to help others. She delighted in folding the prayer mantles which the other sisters had forgotten, and in doing other little kindnesses.

She wrote that Jesus was her spiritual "Director." She was given a director when she entered the convent, but he left only a few months later for Canada. She received just one letter a year from him, to her twelve, so she turned to Jesus for most of her direction.

She suffered great spiritual trials, especially when her father's mind gave way following two paralytic attacks in 1889. He had to be placed in a private nursing home where he remained for three years. She describes these three years of her father's martyrdom (and hers) as "the dearest and most fruitful of our life. I would not exchange them for the most delightful ecstasies." She also suffered terribly from the cold but no one ever knew until she admitted it on her death bed.

Thérèse wrote that she always wanted to become a saint, but she saw the same difference between the saints and her "as between a mountain whose peak is lost in the clouds and a humble grain of sand" walked upon by travelers. Instead of being discouraged, she looked for "a little way":

The good Lord would not inspire desires beyond our reach. I may then, in spite of my littleness, aspire to holiness. I cannot make myself greater; I must bear with myself just as I am with all my imperfections. But I want to seek a way to Heaven, a new way, very short, very straight. We live in an age of inventions. The trouble of walking upstairs no longer exists; in the houses of the rich there is an elevator instead. I would like to find an elevator to raise me to Jesus, for I am too little to go up the steep steps of perfection. Then I searched Sacred Scriptures for some sign of this elevator, the object of my desire, and I read these words from the mouth of the Eternal Wisdom: "Whoever is a little one let him come to me" (Prov. 9:4).

Further on she found, "You shall be carried at the breasts and upon the knees; as one whom the mother caresses, so will I comfort you" (Is. 66:12, 13). The elevator to raise her to heaven would be the arms of Jesus. Her task was not to grow, but to "remain little, and become this more and more. Jesus," she wrote, "does not demand great actions from us, but simply surrender and gratitude."

She said she felt in her the vocation to be a priest, and also the vocation to refuse such an honor in humility.

With what love, O Jesus, I would carry You in my hands when, at my voice, You would come down from heaven And with what love I would give you to souls! But... I admire and envy the humility of St. Francis of Assisi and I feel the vocation of imitating him in refusing the exalted dignity of the priesthood.

Once during community meditation she was distracted by another sister playing with her rosary. It bothered her so much she began to sweat. Finally she gave up on trying not to hear it and, as she put it, "I set myself to listen as though it had been some delightful music, and my meditation... was passed in offering this music to our Lord."

Thérèse gloried not only in God’s mercy, but his justice as well:

What a sweet joy it is to think that God is just, that is, that He takes into account our weakness, that he is perfectly aware of our fragile nature. What should I fear then? Ah! Must not the infinitely just God, who shows such mercy in forgiving the prodigal son, must He not also be just to me "who am always with Him?"

In June 1895 Thérèse asked her sister, who had already been in the convent for several years and was prioress, permission to offer herself as a victim of the merciful love of God. She wrote out a fairly long formula for her dedication, and it included two extraordinary elements: First, she asked Jesus, "I cannot receive holy communion as often as I would like to, Lord; but are you not all-powerful? Stay in me as you do in the tabernacle, and never leave this little host of yours." The second had involved thanking Jesus for letting her share His Cross: "I hope that when I get to heaven I will be like you and will see the sacred marks of your Passion shining on my glorified body."

There was one nun who upset Thérèse no matter what she did. She didn’t want to give in to her negative feelings about her so She tried to do for her what she might do for someone she really liked. Each time she met this nun she prayed for her and offered God all her virtues and good qualities. She thought this would please Jesus since, as she wrote, "Every artist likes to have his works praised." She tried to do things for the sister, and when she wanted to say something unpleasant to her, she would instead smile and change the subject. When she was terribly tempted, if she could do so politely, she would excuse herself and escape the situation.

One day the sister asked the young nun with a big smile, "Sister Thérèse, will you please tell me what attracts you so much to me? You give me such a charming smile whenever we meet."

Thérèse replied that she was smiling because she was so happy to see her. She left out the fact that she was happy to see her from a supernatural point of view. I other words, she was happy to see her so she, (Thérèse) could exercise self-denial for the love of Jesus!

When Mother Genevieve, the foundress of the convent at Lisieux died, Thérèse’s relatives and people who worked there sent many flowers. Thérèse arranged them all around the coffin. When one of the other sisters saw how she had arranged them she said in a nasty way, "You’re well able to put the wreaths sent by your own relatives in a prominent place, aren’t you! And you put those of the poorer families in the background." Thérèse was very hurt by this but responded, "Thank you, sister; you’re right. Give me that cross of moss the workers sent, and I’ll put it out in front." From then on the sister thought of Thérèse as a saint, and admitted as much later.

She told her sister that the Lord showed her that true wisdom was found in desiring to be ignored. She wrote during her retreat at age 19, "...contempt attracted me; but I found even that brought me too much notice, and I longed to be forgotten." The more she advanced spiritually, her sister said, the humbler she became. Though she failed to overcome some involuntary faults, she wasn’t discouraged. "I am resigned to being always imperfect."

Right from her first entry into the convent, her humility was tested, especially with regard to food. She worked hard to overcome her delicacy about food and was successful. They would often serve her fish heads, or other horrible food, reheated several days in a row. In the kitchen they would say, "No one will eat that. Let’s give it to Sister Thérèse. She never refuses anything."

As mentioned earlier, she obeyed the rule in a heroic way. Once during the last week of her life she was telling some of her life story to her sister to write down. When the bell rang, her sister wanted to write what she had just told her lest she forget, but Thérèse said, "It would much better to lose it, and be obedient."

The superior, Mother Marie de Gonzague, recommended many things according to her latest whim. Most of the sisters ignored these things after a few days, and Mother forgot she had said them. Thérèse didn’t forget. Her sister found her going a round about way or closing a door that was generally left open months or even years after Mother had made a recommendation. For all the others these things were a forgotten issue. For Thérèse they were an opportunity to exercise the virtue of holy obedience.

She obeyed all the sisters, being pulled in one direction and then the other, without becoming upset. When she was sick once she dragged herself to the chapel to join the others as they sang a hymn. One of the sisters invited her to come and sing, which she did. Her sister questioned her over her blind obedience. She replied simply, "I’ve gotten into the habit of obeying everybody out of a spirit of faith."

Her sister Leonie commented, "...it was a joy to watch her pray: completely dedicated in God’s presence... kneeling upright and still... I cannot describe her happiness."

Thérèse had a wonderfully reasonable approach to spirituality. She said, "...one gets tired of doing something over a period of time. So, in the matter of practices, it is better to take on only what you think you can persevere in." How important to follow this rule in developing a strong prayer life!

She had a great love for the Eucharist as a child. Whenever she went for her daily walk with her father, she would never fail to make a visit to the Blessed Sacrament in church. When she was a little girl at school she would use her fifteen minutes of recreation time at 1:30 p.m. to pray before the Blessed Sacrament. When she was sacristan at the convent Thérèse would treat the chalice and other sacred vessels with great respect, and the sacred linens as well.

Her penances were mostly hidden, small things to deny her self-will. She would not wipe perspiration from her forehead, thinking it would be a way of drawing attention to the fact that she was too hot. In winter she rarely used gloves, despite the fact that her hands would be swollen in the cold.

She wanted to be able to do good after she died. She made a novena to St. Francis Xavier in March 1896 and after the novena she told her sister she was now sure that God would grant her this grace since through this novena "one obtains all that one wants." In one mealtime reading it was related from the life of St. Aloysius Gonzaga that a man who prayed for a cure saw a shower of roses fall on his bed as a sign that his prayer would be answered. Later Thérèse told her sister, "I, too, will let fall a shower of roses after my death. During her last illness Thérèse repeated this prophecy, saying, "I have given the good Lord nothing but love and it is with love he will repay... I will spend my Heaven in doing good upon earth." Those who have prayed for her intercession have discovered this "shower of roses" which she sends when the answer is to be yes.

She always had a great devotion to and confidence in Mary, especially after her childhood cure. To encourage the novices to strive for virtue she would write them little letters signed by the Blessed Mother. Late in her last illness she told her sister she must express her feelings for Mary before she died. She did, in a poem called "Why I love you, Mary."

She had a great love for St. Joseph as well. It was through prayers for his intercession that she was healed of an intestinal disease a few weeks after her birth. This was the same disease that had claimed the lives of her two brothers shortly after their births.

In 1896 she caught tuberculosis, and as she put it, she heard "the Bridegroom" coming to take her. During the next 18 months she suffered terribly, both physically and spiritually. She offered her sufferings for the salvation of souls, especially priests.

As she lay dying, she rejoiced in the fact that although she had been a nun for nine years, she was still a novice. As such she never had a vote in the convent elections and was always seen as "a little one."

She suffered greatly on the day she died. She was in such pain and so short of breath the sisters felt they couldn’t leave her. She cried, "If that’s the agony, what is death like?... O poor little Mother, I assure you the chalice is full to the brim. Yes, God, but have pity on me!... I could never have believed it was possible to suffer so much... There are no consolations, not even one!... It is because of my desire to save souls."

As her end approached she gazed at her crucifix and cried out "Oh! I love Him!... My God I love you.!" Her eyes fixed on a spot just above the statue of Mary and her face seemed to glow. After this she closed her eyes and died. It was 7:20 PM, September 30, 1897. During June she had written, "I am not dying; I am entering into life." Then began that life after death of this unknown Carmelite nun.

Thérèse was canonized in 1925. In 1927 she was made patron saint of all foreign missions with St. Francis Xavier, and of all works for Russia. Her feast day is celebrated on October 1st. Pope Pius X, later declared a saint himself, called her "the greatest saint of modern times." She was named a Doctor of the Church in 1998.

In 1910 Thérèse’s sister, Mother Agnes, reported that virtually all those who had entered the convent in Lisieux since her death had done so because of Thérèse. There were so many applying that they had to refer them to other convents. Mother Agnes came to know of many who patterned their life after Thérèse’s "little way," especially priests. She could not count the people who, after reading The Story of A Soul moved from lukewarmness to strong devotion, from devotion to striving for perfection, even from sinfulness to the state of grace. Many priests came to visit the convent to tell of how their devotion had been reawakened or increased by praying to her.

REFLECTION

Thérèse, thanks to her holy parents and sisters, was given a huge head start in holiness right from her childhood. She understood the cost of discipleship—the cross—from an early age, and she "chose all" the crosses Jesus would give her. She said she never denied him anything he asked her. She was kind to and sought the company of the nuns who were unpleasant; she obeyed the Rule with great energy (O how pleasing to God—obedience!); she never complained of the bitter cold she had to endure. How many other little trials she accepted in silence.

And we, could we not endure without complaint, some of the trials in our lives as did Thérèse? It was not in doing great things that Thérèse became a saint, but in doing small things with great love. By accepting her littleness, she became great in heaven. This "Little Way," this way of recognizing how small we are before God, is one that any of us could follow to sanctity, if we have the humility...