by Jean P. Kelly

“HE SHOWED ME the book of nature, and I understood that every flower created by Him is beautiful, that the brilliance of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not lessen the perfume of the violet or the sweet simplicity of the daisy.”—Therese of Lisieux’s account of a mystical vision

Thanks to the miracle of electronic books, I now know that the word “flower” or its plural occurs almost 100 times in a memoir entitled by its author “The Story of the Springtime of a Little White Flower.” The young woman, who was encouraged to write her life story at the tender age of 23 because of several divine visions like the one above, early in the text shares details of her lifelong love of blooms and buds. The saint who became known as both Therese of Lisieux and Therese of the Child Jesus and the Holy Face recounts a childhood spent picking wildflowers near her home in the Normandy region of France, creating tiny altars in the garden wall or pretend tea offered to her father.

My own fawning over flora likewise began at an early age. When tied together into crowns for my hair, even purple clover in the yard made me feel like a queen. Most vivid of all is a joyous memory of clutching a fistful of tulips collected with the help of my mother, then wrapped carefully in wet paper towels and aluminum foil for the bus ride to school.  My beloved first-grade teacher, Sister Collista, gasped and gushed when she saw my bouquet, though by then the red and pink heads drooped down as if taking a morning nap. That didn’t stop me from proudly choosing a vase and installing my offering on the classroom May altar where a statue of the Virgin Mary presided. Only moments later I was humbled by the appearance of another bouquet, one surely purchased from a florist. The stems of Jennifer’s three yellow roses—Sister’s favorite flower—were straight and the tight buds perfectly perky.

As an adult, planting flowers and other fauna became both an escape and portal to peace and beauty in an otherwise angst-ridden home. Across nine acres, I plowed and plotted perennial beds, vegetable gardens, and lavish landscaping, respite with the latest variations and varietals. Unlike Therese, my fascination was focused more on outcomes than openness, success defined as perfect produce.  I applied the same approach to raising flora as I did three daughters, relying on what seemed like loving control because life with an alcoholic co-parent often veered out of control. I fertilized and fussed, scolded and sacrificed, but because our property had long been a soybean field and my husband uninterested in changing, the weeds usually won out.

I first took up Therese’s memoir convinced I was the problem in my toxic relationship, sure her example would fortify me to make evermore sacrifices for the sake of my family. She was, after all, respected as the authority on humility, her work such a significant contribution to theology and doctrine that, in addition to the title of saint, she was a “Doctor of the Church.” But I could not get past Thérèse’s scrupulosity, a pathological anxiety about religious morality, which at the time seemed pitiful and self-flagellating. I wrote off Therese’s example as dangerous and anti-feminist, returning the paperback to my library with disappointment.

Timing is important for the regular practice of Spiritual Reading, as is reckoning with a text repeatedly, willing to see in it nothing much to savor on one day or one week but returning later to find its insights. After years of misinterpreting the Church’s teachings on sacrifice, which sentenced me to self-imposed exile in a one-sided relationship, I returned to the book, this time reckoning with what was likely the inevitable breakup of my family. I came to Therese’s words vulnerable without judgment—my own form of humility. Only after giving up offense as the best defense did my literal interpretation of the young, cloistered nun’s experiences fall away to reveal the metaphysical, the universal.

“The only way I have of proving my love is to strew flowers before Thee – that is to say, I will let no tiny sacrifice pass, no look, no word. I wish to profit by the smallest actions, and to do them for Love. I wish to suffer for Love’s sake, and for Love’s sake even to rejoice.”

When I practiced Spiritual Reading every day with Therese’s testimony, her plain words and simple sentences seemed steeped in mystery. Instead of extreme humility bordering on an earthly self-martyrdom that might guarantee heaven–as many “good Christians” I know seem to believe—Therese’s strength, self-confidence, and self-determination became evident. Not only did the young sister freely admit aspirations to priesthood and designation as Doctor of the Church, but she also warned that “self-abasement would be taken for weakness.” I had learned that the hard way, manipulated when I subverted my needs to earn the love of troubled people in my life. Re-reading her famous teaching that embracing our status as simple flowers leads to perfection, yielded another lesson: we are meant to obey God’s will, not the will of every other human in our life.

After several sessions of Spiritual Reading, slowly following all the steps, did I come to understand that Therese’s sacrifices were never made because she felt “less-than.”  Just the opposite. Her mystical visions made her confident in God’s love, not just for her but for all souls. That love made her flexible, forgiving, and accepting, never self-righteous nor scolding her sisters for falling asleep during contemplative prayer, for example: “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.” Instead of setting impossible standards of perfection, she encouraged self-acceptance. “Now I am resigned to be always imperfect, and I even find joy therein.” 

Thanks to Therese’s example, I recognized my definitions of
both pride and humility were disordered. …
I failed to question my understanding until suffering taught me that
expecting reward for sacrifice was pure folly.

Jean P. Kelly

 

The saint’s Little Way, I discovered, was never manipulative, never motivated by the ulterior motive of soliciting either internal or external reassurance and affirmation. Months of reading The Story of a Soul failed to uncover in that text a single instance of self-pity and not a whiff of egoism masked as altruism. Therese demonstrated to me that if we are truly beloved, chosen, and innately valued, no earthly confirmation nor validation is necessary.

Thanks to Therese’s example, I recognized my definitions of both pride and humility were disordered. They had not matured beyond what I had learned in that first-grade classroom so many years before. Into adulthood, I failed to question my understanding until suffering taught me that expecting reward for sacrifice was pure folly. Any time the words “I was only trying to help” (often uttered with a whine) came from my lips, I was in fact manipulating, not helping at all.

As Therese writes to her Mother Superior in the introduction to the third version of her memoir, just as rainstorms beat down flowers of the field, life’s trials threaten our self-perceived value. But thanks to the unstoppable cycles of growth, budding flowers continue their metamorphosis even after the rain, straightening their stems heavenward, without rush or effort, until they bloom. In the same way Therese opened herself to the needs of others, unfolding the beauty of her soul, especially when presented in a moment the opportunity for kindness seen only by God.

Thanks to Therese’s loving example, I no longer want or need weedless, manicured gardens in my life. Rather I approach each day with openness, attuned for the opportunity “to scatter flowers” in the form of one small sacrifice known to God alone. I might refrain from complaint or impulse to gossip, distract myself from negative emotions or self-pity, or ignore an unintentional unkindness, all unseen and unremarked. If ever tempted to congratulate myself for following Therese’s “Little Way”—to feel superior or to expect anything but a softened heart in return—instead of giving in and giving up, I simply give it a go again the next day.

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