The Little Flower of Humility was No Shrinking Violet

Lessons offered by All Saints are often surprising.

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.

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Make new friends without keeping the old

When friends drop us, even the pragmatic realization that all things have a season—even love—is cold company. But new friends will arrive, green leaves growing in our hearts.

By Jean P. Kelly

I WALKED FOR the first time into a multi-day ecumenical faith festival on my own, not knowing a soul and unsure what to expect as a newcomer. Within 15 minutes of arriving, I met a fellow podcaster, then her son, then her brother and by the end of the day I was part of their friends & family group enjoying a musician on stage. Throughout the next three days all were reliable companions, bearing out what I had heard about the authentic hospitality offered annually at the Wild Goose Festival. As one veteran attendee told me “I always make friends I don’t even know I need.”

Just a few days before I drove six hours to North Carolina, a friend of more than 30 years ghosted my invitation to dinner. A voicemail left for another long-time buddy during my return drive likewise went unanswered. That neither was an anomaly, yet I persisted in my attempts to connect, was all the proof needed to affirm how much easier it is to preach detachment than to practice it. My talk at the festival about the importance of establishing boundaries with loved ones, based on my book, Less Helping Them, More Healing You, concluded with a quote from a favorite spiritual teacher, Fr. Anthony DeMello: “When I die to the need for people, then I am right in the desert…. It is solitude, it is aloneness, and the desert begins to flower.”

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The Transformative Power of Spiritual Reading for Healing and Self-Reflection

Excerpt from Less Helping Them, More Healing You: The Transcendent Gifts of an Ancient Spiritual Practice, by Jean P. Kelly

AT ONE TIME, I pictured myself in a nursing home of the future where family and friends would complain about my pockets full of notes—shreds of paper with handwritten quotes—stashed there and everywhere in case I forgot good advice. I also imagined an avalanche of books, anthologies, and memoirs bristling with post-its, on a bedside stand, never shelved just in case I needed to find, in doubt-filled moments, an inspirational passage, paragraph, or prayer.

Words of others—especially in books—have always offered solace to me: comfort, companionship, escape, insight, and challenge. So when some ten years ago I learned that reading can be prayer, I was hooked. Ever since discovering the ancient spiritual discipline Lectio Divina, “Spiritual Reading,” I’ve been on an intentional path back to myself, one page at a time.

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