St. Therese of Lisieux
(Jan. 2, 1873 - Sept. 30, 1897)

My father, Louis Martin, was a watchmaker of Alencon, France. My mother was Azélie-Marie Guerin, a lacemaker of the same town. My parents had nine children but only five lived to maturity. I was the youngest of the five. All five of us daughters eventually became Carmelite nuns. This is the story of my soul.

I was known in early childhood as Marie Francoise Thérèse Martin. My childhood was normally happy. The earliest memories I had were of smiles and tender caresses. I was affectionate and had much natural charm. When I was only four, my family was given the sad blow of my mother's death.

Up to the time of my entry into Carmel, the story of my soul is marked by three distinct periods. The first, though short, is not without its rich harvest of memories. It extends from the dawn of reason to the death of my dearly loved mother; that is to say, until I was four years and eight months old. God, in His goodness, did me the favor of awakening my intelligence when I was still very young, and He so deeply engraved in my mind the impressions of childhood that past events seemed to have happened but yesterday, after many years had passed.

When I was but a little child and my mother showed me such affection, I would say to her: "Oh, how I wish you would die, dear Mamma!" When mother scolded me for saying such a thing I would answer: "It is because I want you to go to heaven, and you say that to get there we must die!" In my outbursts of affection for my father I also wished for him to die so he too could go to heaven. I could not bear to think, even as a very small child, that I could grieve my beloved parents.

With Mama's death began the second period of my life, the most sorrowful of all, especially after my sister Pauline entered the Carmelite convent of Lisieux. After Mother's death, my father had given up his business and moved to Lisieux, Normandy, where we had relatives. After her death my naturally happy disposition deserted me. I became timid and shy, and so sensitive that a look was often sufficient to make me burst into tears. I could not bear to be noticed or to meet strangers, and I was only at ease with my dear ones at home. There I was always cherished with the most loving care. Papa's affectionate heart seemed endowed with a mother's love, while my sisters Pauline and Marie were no less tender and devoted. Marie, only 13, was the oldest at Mama's death and had to take over the management of the household.

I was very fond of flowers, and in a recess (which by some good fortune happened to be) in the garden wall, I used to make little altars and decorate them. When all was ready, I would run and call Papa. To give me pleasure he would appear lost in admiration over the wonderful altar that to me seemed a masterpiece. If I were to tell you of the thousand and one such incidents my memory treasured in adulthood, I should never stop. How, indeed, could words convey all the love and devotion which that best of fathers lavished upon his little Queen?

Each afternoon I went with him for a walk and made a visit to the Blessed Sacrament in one or other of the Catholic churches. It was in this way that I first saw the chapel of our Carmel, "Look, little Queen!" said Papa, "Behind that grating there are holy nuns who are always praying to Almighty God." Little did I think that nine years after Papa said those words, I should be among them and in that blessed Carmel I should receive so many graces.
Those were supremely happy days when my dear "King," as I called him, went fishing and took me with him. Sometimes I tried my hand with a small rod of my own, but more often I preferred to sit on the grass at some little distance. My reflections would then become really deep, and without knowing what meditation meant, my soul was absorbed in prayer. Far-off sounds wafted towards me on the murmuring breeze, and faint notes of music from the neighboring town tinged my thoughts with gentle melancholy. Earth seemed a land of exile, and I dreamed of heaven.

I remember, one day when we were out, how angry clouds darkened the lovely blue sky, and a storm, accompanied by vivid lightning, burst overhead. I looked around on every side so as to lose nothing of the splendid scene. A thunderbolt fell in a field close by, and far from being the least bit frightened, I was overjoyed--God seemed so near. Papa, however, less pleased than his Queen, soon put an end to my rapture, for several meadows separated us from the road, and already the grass and the great tall daisies, taller than I, were sparkling with liquid jewels. Though hampered with his fishing tackle, he carried me in his arms, while I looked down with admiration on the beautiful diamonds below.

At Lisieux, as at Alencon, in my daily walk with Papa, I often gave alms to the beggars we met by the way. Once I offered alms to a poor old man on crutches. He smiled at me but did not take the alms. That hurt me. Finally, I remembered having heard that Our Lord grants all the favors we ask on our First Communion Day. The thought instantly dispelled my grief, and though I was then only six, I resolved to pray for my poor old man when that day should come. Five years later I faithfully kept my resolution, and I have always believed that my childish prayer for this suffering member of Christ has had its blessing and reward.*

As I grew older, my love for God grew more and more, and I frequently offered Him my heart, using the words Mama had taught me. I tried very hard to please Him in all my actions and was most careful never to offend Him.
My first confession! What a consoling memory. My sister Pauline had told me that it was not to a man but to God Himself that I was going to tell my sins, and this truth so impressed me that I asked seriously if I should tell Father Ducellier I loved him "with my whole heart" since it was God I was going to speak to in his person.

Well instructed as to what I should do, I entered the confessional and knelt down. When the priest opened the slide he saw no one, for I was so small that my head came beneath the armrest. He then bade me stand up. Turning towards him in order to see him better, I made my confession and received absolution in a spirit of the most lively faith, for I had been assured that at that solemn moment the tears of the Holy Child would purify my soul. I remember he exhorted me to be devout to Our Lady, and how I determined to redouble my love for her who already filled so large a place in my heart.

Finally I passed him my rosary to bless and came out of the confessional feeling more lighthearted and happy than ever before. It was evening, and as soon as I reached a street lamp I paused, took the newly blessed rosary from my pocket, and examined it carefully, turning it over and over. "What are you looking at, Therese dear?" Pauline asked. "I am looking to see what a blessed rosary is like," I answered, and the artless reply afforded her much merriment. The influence of the grace I had received remained for a long time with me, and I went afterwards to confession for all the great feasts. These confessions, I may add, filled my young heart with transports of joy.

The feasts! What precious memories those simple words recall. I loved them, and Pauline explained the mysteries hidden in each one. They were indeed a foretaste of heaven. Above all, I loved the processions of the Blessed Sacrament. What a joy it was to strew flowers in God's path! But before letting them fall under His feet, I threw them high up in the air, and never was I more happy than when I saw my rose petals touch the sacred monstrance.
True, the great feasts came but seldom. Each week, however, brought one very dear to my heart--Sunday. What a glorious day! It was Almighty God's feast and the day of rest. First of all, the whole family went to the Sung Mass, and I remember that before the sermon we had to leave our places, which were a good way from the pulpit, and find seats in the nave.

I would become deeply engrossed in the sermons. A sermon on the Passion of Our Blessed Lord was the first I thoroughly understood, and I was profoundly touched. I was then five and a half, and from that time I understood and appreciated all the instructions. If St. Teresa of Avila was mentioned, Papa would bend down and whisper, "Listen attentively, little Queen; he is speaking of your holy patroness."
On winter evenings when our family group of five daughters and Papa gathered around the fire, Pauline would read aloud works of piety, such as The Liturgical Year by Dom Gueranger. Sometimes Marie would do the reading. I would sit on Papa's knee. At length we went upstairs for night prayers. Once again my place was beside my beloved father, and I had but to look at him to learn how the saints pray.

Pauline would then put me to bed, and I invariably would ask her, "Have I been good today? Is God pleased with me? Will the angels watch over me?"
I felt very happy on the day my sister Celine made her First Holy Communion. I was then only seven. During her last weeks of preparation Pauline talked to her every evening of the great step she was about to take. In my own eagerness to prepare, I listened to all that was said, and my heart was very sore when I was told to go away because I was still too young. Four years, I thought, was not too long a time to spend in making ready to receive Our Lord.

One evening I heard someone say to my happy little sister Celine that from the time of her First Communion she ought to begin an entirely new life. I determined to begin with her, without waiting for my First Communion.
How I suffered in my heart when I heard Pauline talking to Marie about her approaching entrance into Carmel. I did not know what this meant, but I quite understood she was leaving us to enter a convent and that she would not wait for me to enter with her. I shall never forget how tenderly Pauline tried to console me. I felt that Carmel was the desert where God wished me also to hide. It was the certainty of a divine call. It brought with it a wonderful peace.

Pauline promised to take me soon to visit the Mother Prioress that I might tell her my secret desire to enter Carmel too. A Sunday was chosen for the solemn visit. When I told Mother Mary of Gonzaga my secret, she expressed belief in my vocation. But she told me that postulants (those asking to be admitted to a religious order) were not received at the age of nine; I must wait until I was sixteen. I had to be resigned to the delay. With sorrow I saw my sister Pauline leave us, she who was later to become the spiritual mother of her sisters, as Pauline would become the Mother Superior of the Carmel we would all five eventually enter.

Looking forward to when I would enter Carmel myself, I wondered what name would be given to me later on. I knew there was already a Sister Teresa of Jesus; but I could not bear to lose my beautiful name of Therese. Suddenly I thought of the Holy Child to whom I bore such devotion, and I felt how happy I should be if I could be called Teresa of the Child Jesus. I was careful not to tell of my wish. What was my surprise and joy at hearing Reverend Mother say when we went to visit Pauline at Carmel: "When you come to us, little one, you will be known as 'Teresa of the Child Jesus.' " This happy coincidence of thought appeared to me as a special mark of favor from the Divine Child.

Already when I was very young Our Lord made me understand that the only true glory is the glory that lasts forever and that to attain it there is no necessity to do brilliant deeds; rather we should hide our good works from the eyes of others, and even from ourselves, so that "the left hand knows not what the right hand does" (Matt. 6:3). Then, as I reflected that I was born for great things and sought the means to attain them, it was made known to me interiorly that my personal glory would never reveal itself before the eyes of men but would consist in becoming a saint.

This aspiration may very well appear rash, seeing how imperfect I was, but even after entering religious life, I still felt the same daring confidence that one day I should become a great saint. I was not trusting in my own merits, for I felt I had none; but I trusted in Him who is Virtue and Holiness itself. It is He alone who, I felt, pleased with my poor efforts, would raise me to Himself and, by clothing me with His merits, make me a saint. At that time I did not realize that to become one it is necessary to suffer a great deal; but God soon disclosed this secret to me through trials.

I always remembered my First Communion Day as one of unclouded happiness. It seems to me that I could not have been better prepared. At least three months before my First Communion I started making, every day, a number of little sacrifices and acts of love which were to be transformed into so many flowers; violets or roses, cornflowers, daisies, forget-me-nots--in a word, all nature's blossoms were to form within me a cradle for the Holy Child.
At last there dawned the most beautiful day of all the days of my life. How perfectly I remember even the smallest details of those sacred hours! The joyful awakening, the reverent and tender embraces of my companions, the room filled with white frocks, like so many snowflakes, where each child was dressed in turn, and, above all, our entrance into the chapel and the melody of the morning hymn:

"O Altar of God, where the Angels are hovering. "
How sweet was the first embrace of Jesus! It was indeed an embrace of love. I felt that I was loved, and I said: "I love Thee, and I give myself to Thee forever." That day our meeting was more than simple recognition; it was perfect union. We were no longer two, I thought. Therese had disappeared like a drop of water lost in the immensity of the ocean; Jesus alone remained--He was the Master, the King. Had not Therese asked Him to take away the liberty which frightened her? She felt herself so weak and frail, that she wished to be forever united to the Divine Strength.

And then my joy became so intense, so deep, that it could not be restrained; tears of happiness welled up and overflowed. My companions were astonished and asked each other afterwards, "Why did she cry? Had she anything on her conscience? . . . No, it is because she has not her mother here, or the Carmelite sister of whom she is so fond." And no one understood that all the joy of heaven had come down into one heart, and that heart--exiled, weak, and mortal--could not contain it without tears.

How could our darling mother's absence grieve me? Since heaven itself dwelt in my soul, in receiving the visit of Jesus I received one from her as well.
In the afternoon of my First Holy Communion, I read the Act of Consecration to Our Lady in the name of all the First Communicants. Probably the choice fell upon me because my own earthly mother had been taken from me while I was still so young. I put my whole heart into the reading of the prayer and besought Our Blessed Lady always to watch over me. It seemed to me that she looked down lovingly and once more smiled on her Little Flower.

I recalled the visible smile which had cured me, and my heart was full of all I now owed her, for it was no other than she who, on that very May morning, had placed in the garden of my soul her Son Jesus, "the flower of the field and the lily of the valleys" (Song of Songs 2:1).
It was at the close of the year 1882, when Papa had gone to Paris with Marie and Leonie, leaving Celine and me to the care of our uncle and aunt, that I was seized with a strange shivering which lasted all night. When my father resumed he found me in a hopeless state and was convinced that I was going to die.

The devil tempted me during my serious illness. But God also sent His angels to console and to strengthen me. I was so sick that I acted as if I had lost my reason. The serious sickness lasted many days. An extraordinary miracle was necessary if I were to be restored to health. Papa arranged to have a novena of Masses offered for me at the Shrine of Our Lady of Victories in Paris. *
My sisters Leonie, Celine and Marie implored Our Blessed Mother to make me well. There was a statue of Our Lady beside my bed.

Suddenly the statue became animated and radiantly beautiful--with a divine beauty that no words of mine can ever convey. The look upon Our Lady's face was unspeakably kind and sweet and compassionate, but what penetrated to the very depths of my soul was her gracious smile. Instantly all my pain vanished, my eyes filled, and big tears fell silently, tears of purest heavenly joy.
"Our Blessed Lady has come to me, she has smiled on me! How happy I feel! But I shall tell no one, for if I do my happiness will leave me." Then I looked down and recognized Marie, who was watching me lovingly and seemed overcome with emotion, as though she guessed the great favor I had just received.

It was indeed to her and her earnest prayer I owed that wonderful grace--a smile from the Blessed Virgin. When Marie saw me gaze fixedly on the statue, she said to herself, "Therese is cured!" It was true. The Little Flower had come back to life . . . The dark winter was now past, the rain was over and gone (cf. Song of Songs 2:11).
You can understand better now why on my First Communion Day, when I made the Act of Consecration to Our Lady, I recalled the day Our Lady smiled on me and cured me that May. It was May 13, the Feast of Our Lady of the Holy Eucharist.

When I made my second Holy Communion, my tears flowed with inexpressible sweetness while I recalled and repeated again and again the words of St. Paul: "I live now not I, but Christ lives in me" (Gal. 2:20).
Soon after my First Communion, I went into retreat again to prepare for Confirmation. It was with the greatest care that I made ready for the coming of the Holy Spirit, and I could not understand how anyone could do otherwise before receiving this Sacrament of Love.

Like the Apostles, I looked with joy for the promised Comforter, gladdened by the thought that I should soon be a perfect Christian and have the Holy Cross, the symbol of that wondrous Sacrament, traced upon my forehead for all eternity.
I did not feel the mighty wind of the first Pentecost, but rather the gentle breeze which the prophet Elias heard on Mount Horeb.
On that day I received the gift of fortitude in suffering--a gift I needed sorely, for the martyrdom of my soul was soon to begin.

On Christmas Eve, just a few days before my fourteenth birthday, I underwent an experience which I ever after referred to as "my conversion." It was to have a profound influence on my life.
On that blessed night the sweet Infant Jesus, scarcely an hour old, filled the darkness of my soul with floods of light. By becoming weak and little for love of me, He made me strong and brave. He put His own weapons into my hands so that I went on from strength to strength, beginning, if I may say so, "to run as a giant."

An indelible impression had been made on this attuned soul of mine. The Holy Child had healed me of undue sensitiveness and girded me with His weapons.
The next year when I was 15 years old I told my father of my wish to become a Carmelite. He consented. The Carmelite authorities and Bishop Hugonin of Bayeux refused to consider me so young.
A few months later, in November, to my delight, my father took me and Celine to visit Notre Dame des Victoires in Paris, then on pilgrimage to Rome for the Jubilee. We were accompanied by the Abbe Reverony of Bayeux.

My sister Pauline was now Sister Agnes of Jesus in the Carmelite convent. I wrote her the following:
"The Pope was sitting on a great chair; M. Reverony was near him; he watched the pilgrims kiss the Pope's foot and pass before him and spoke a word about some of them. Imagine how my heart beat as I saw my turn come; I didn't want to return without speaking to the Pope. I spoke, but I did not get it all said because M. Reverony did not give me time. He said immediately, 'Most Holy Father, she is a child who wants to enter Carmel at fifteen, but its superiors are considering the matter at the moment.' I would have liked to be able to explain my case, but there was no way. The Holy Father said to me simply, 'If the good God wills, you will enter.' Then I was made to pass on to another room. Pauline. I cannot tell you what I felt. It was like annihilation, I felt deserted . . . Still God cannot be giving me trials beyond my strength. He gave me the courage to sustain this one."

I did not have to wait long. The Pope's blessing and the earnest prayers I offered at many shrines during the pilgrimage had the desired effect. At the end of the year Bishop Hugonin gave his permission, and on April 9, 1888, I joined my sister in Carmel at Lisieux.
From the time of my entrance I "astonished the community" by my bearing, "which was marked by a certain majesty that one would not expect in a child of fifteen." So testified my novice mistress at the time of my beatification.

Monday, April 9, 1888--Feast of the Annunciation, transferred from passiontide--was the day chosen for me to enter Carmel. I embraced all my loved ones, then I knelt for Papa's blessing, and he too knelt as he blessed me through his tears. To see this old man giving his child to God while she was still in the springtime of life was a sight to gladden the angels.
At length the door closed upon me, and I found a loving welcome in the arms of those dear Sisters who, each in her turn, had been to me a mother, and likewise from the family of my adoption, whose tender devotedness is not dreamed of by the outside world. My desire was now accomplished, and my soul was filled with so deep a peace that it baffles all attempt at description. This peace remained my portion during the following years within the Carmel walls, never forsaking me, even amid the hardest trials.

I found religious life just what I had expected: sacrifice was never a matter of surprise. From the very outset my path was strewn with thorns rather than with roses. To begin with, I experienced great spiritual dryness, and in addition Our Lord permitted that Mother Mary of Gonzaga--sometimes unconsciously--should treat me with much severity. What should I have become if, as the outside world believed, I had been made the pet of the community? Instead of seeing Our Lord in the person of my superiors I might have considered only the creature, and my heart, so carefully guarded in the world, would have been ensnared by human affection in the cloister. Happily, I was preserved from such a disaster.

Suffering opened wide her arms to me from the first and I took her fondly to my heart. In the solemn examination before making the vows I thus declared my reasons for entering Carmel--"I have come to save souls and especially to pray for priests. "
The end cannot be reached without adopting the means, and since Our Lord had made me understand that it was through the Cross He would give me souls, the more crosses I encountered the stronger became my attraction to suffering. Unknown to anyone, this was the path I trod for fully five years; it was precisely the flower which keeps its perfume only for heaven.

Two months after I entered Carmel I made a general confession. When I was finished the priest said: "Before God, the Blessed Virgin, the angels, and all the saints, I declare that you have never committed a mortal sin. You must thank God for this favor which He has bestowed upon you without any merit whatever on your part."
On the morning of September 8 when I made my profession and pronounced my holy vows, my soul was flooded with heavenly joy, and in that peace "which surpasses all understanding" (Phil. 4:7), I begged from the King all possible favors for His ungrateful subjects. No one was forgotten. I longed that every sinner on earth might be converted, all captive souls in purgatory set free.

When at the close of that glorious day I laid my crown of roses, as was usual, at Our Lady's feet, it was without regret; I felt that time could never take away my happiness.
Was not the Nativity of Mary a beautiful feast on which to become the spouse of Christ? It was the little new-born Mary who presented her little Flower to the little Jesus. That day everything was little except the graces I received, and my peace and joy as I gazed, when night came down upon the glorious starlit sky, and thought that before long I should take flight to heaven, and there be united to my Divine Spouse in eternal bliss.

In the year 1895, I received the grace to understand better than ever how much Jesus desires to be loved. While thinking one day of those who offer themselves as victims to the justice of God, and who turn, aside the punishment due to sinners, taking it upon themselves, I felt such an offering to be both noble and generous. I was very far, nevertheless, from feeling myself drawn to make it, and from the depths of my heart I cried: "O my Divine Master, shall Thy Justice alone find atoning victims? Has not Thy Merciful Love need of them also? On every side it is ignored and rejected . . . those hearts on which Thou wouldst lavish it turn to creatures and seek their happiness in the miserable satisfaction of a moment, rather than cast themselves into Thy arms--into the ecstatic fires of Thy infinite Love.

"O my God, must that Love which is disdained lie hidden in Thy Heart? It seems to me that if Thou shouldst find souls offering themselves as a holocaust to Thy Love, Thou wouldst consume them rapidly and wouldst be pleased to set free those flames of infinite tenderness now imprisoned in Thy Heart. If Thy Justice which avenges itself upon earth must needs be satisfied, how much more must Thy Merciful Love desire to inflame souls, since, 'Thy mercy reacheth to heaven' (Ps. 36:6). O Jesus, permit that I may be that happy victim--consume Thy holocaust with the fire of Divine Love! "

My Carmelite Mother allowed me to offer myself thus to God. Flames of love, or rather oceans of grace filled my soul when I made that act of oblation on June 9, 1895. Since that day love surrounded and penetrated me: at every moment God's merciful love renewed and purified me, cleansing my soul from all trace of sin.
While in Carmel, I went through the dark night on the soul. For some time the Divine Master completely changed His method of cultivation. I did not then receive consolations in prayer and religious life. I had always desired to become a saint but by comparing myself with the saints I felt far removed from them as a grain of sand trampled underfoot by the passer-by.

I concluded that God would not inspire a wish that could not be realized and that in spite of my littleness I might aim at being a saint. "It is impossible," I said, "for me to become great, so I must bear with myself and my many imperfections, but I will seek out a means of reaching heaven by a little way--very short, very straight and entirely new. We live in an age of inventions: there are now elevators which save us the trouble of climbing stairs. I will try to find an elevator by which I may be raised unto God, for I am too small to climb the steep stairway of perfection."

I sought to find in Holy Scripture some suggestion of what this desired lift might be, and I came across those words, uttered by the Eternal Wisdom itself: "Whosoever is a little one, let him come to me" (Prov. 9:4). I therefore drew near to God, feeling sure I had discovered what I sought. But wishing further to know what He would do to the "little one," I continued my search, and this is what I found: "You shall be carried at the breasts, and upon the knees they shall caress you. As one whom the mother caresseth, so will I comfort you" (Isaiah 66: 12-13).

Never had I been consoled by words more tender and more sweet. O Jesus! Thy arms, then, are the lift which must raise me even unto heaven. To reach heaven I need not become great; on the contrary I must remain little, I must become even smaller than I am. My God, Thou hast gone beyond my desire, and I will sing Thy mercies! "Thou hast taught me, O Lord, from my youth, and till now I have declared Thy wonderful works, and shall do so unto old age and gray hairs" (Ps. 71:17-18).

Among the numberless graces I received was a deeper insight into the law of charity. I reamed that true charity consists in bearing all my neighbor's defects, in not being surprised at mistakes, but in being edified at the smallest virtues.
Above all else, I reamed that charity must not remain shut up in the heart, for "No man lighteth a candle and putteth it in a hidden place, nor under a bushel; but upon a candlestick, that they who come in may see the light" (Luke 11:33). This candle, it seemed to me, represents that charity which enlightens and gladdens, not only those who are dearest to us, but likewise all those who are of the household.

I was a very little soul that could offer to God only very little things. It would happen that I frequently missed the opportunity of welcoming small sacrifices which bring so much peace; but I did not then become discouraged. I bore the loss of a little peace, and I tried to be more watchful in the future.
For years I had felt a longing to have a brother become a priest, though I knew my desire could not be realized. God went far beyond my dream. I had only longed for one brother who would remember me each day at the altar, and He united me in the bonds of spiritual friendship with two of His apostles.

In 1895 Mother Agnes of Jesus, then Mother Prioress, called me aside and read to me a letter from a young seminarist, in which he said he had been inspired by St. Theresa of Avila to ask for a sister who would devote herself specially to his salvation, together with the salvation of the souls one day to be entrusted to him. He promised that when he was ordained he would always remember in the Holy Sacrifice the one who should become his sister in Christ. And thus it was that I was chosen to have this future missionary for my brother.

I was set about to discharge my new obligations with double fervor. Now and again I wrote to my new brother. beyond all doubt it is by prayer and sacrifice we can best help our missionaries, but sometimes, when our Lord is pleased to unite two souls for His glory, He permits then to exchange their thoughts and so rouse one another to a greater love for God.

When my blood sister became Mother Superior of Carmel I was given a 2nd brother priest. I prayed for all, without forgetting our priests at home, whose minister is often as full of difficulties as that of a missionary preaching to the heathen. . . .

Like our Holy Mother, St. Theresa of Avila, I wished to be a true daughter of the Church, and to make prayer for all the intentions of Christ's Vicar the one great aim of my life. In my autobiography I wrote:
"To be thy spouse, O my Jesus, to be a daughter of carmel, and by my union with thee to be the mother of souls, should not all this content me? Yes other vocations make themselves felt, and ai would wield the sword, I would be a priest, and Apostle, a martyr, a DOctor of the Church, I would fain accomplish the most heroic deeds--the Spirit of the Crusader bums within me, and I would gladly die on the battlefield in defense of the Church.

"The vocation of the priesthood! With what love, my Jesus, would I bear Thee in my hand when my words brought Thee down from heaven! With what love, too, would I give Thee to the faithful! And yet, with all my longing to be a priest, I admire and envy the humility of St. Francis of Assisi* and feel myself drawn to imitate him by refusing that sublime dignity. How reconcile these opposite desires?
"Like the prophets and doctors, I would be a light unto souls. I would travel the world over to preach Thy name, O my Beloved, and raise on heathen soil the glorious standard of the Cross. One mission alone would not satisfy my longings. I would spread the Gospel in all parts of the earth, even to the farthest isles. I would be a missionary, but not for a few years only. Were it possible, I should wish to have been one from the world's creation and to remain one till the end of time.

"But the greatest of all my desires was to win the martyr's palm. Martyrdom was the dream of my youth, and the dream only grew more vivid in Carmel's narrow cell.
"Like my Adorable Spouse, I would be scourged, I would be crucified! I would be flayed like St. Bartholomew, plunged into boiling oil like St. John, or, like St. Ignatius of Antioch, ground by the teeth of wild beasts into a bread worthy of God.
"With St. Agnes and St. Cecilia I was willing to offer my neck to the sword of the executioner, and like Joan of Arc murmur the name of Jesus at the burning stake.

"O Jesus! would that I could tell all little souls of Thy ineffable condescension.
"I beseech Thee to cast Thy glance upon a vast number of little souls: I entreat Thee to choose in this world a legion of little victims worthy of Thy love."

SUMMARY: The Little Flower, as Saint Therese of Lisieux, is known, is surely an exemplary model for souls, little souls, devoted to the Apostolate of Fatima. As the Mother of God in 1917 at Fatima, Portugal, chose little souls, three little children, to become victim souls of love and taught them in her Immaculate Heart, so heaven formed another little soul in the same way, taking this Little Flower to heaven just 20 years earlier, in 1897. Twenty years later God would reveal His Mother's Immaculate Heart to teach us victim love.

St. Therese's secret was littleness, which means humility. She knew that she had no merits of herself. All merits are of Jesus. Her desire was to do the little things extraordinarily well, united to the love of Jesus, within whose Heart, as a little insignificant soul, she placed herself with complete confidence and was quickly lifted up.
On the very day of her First Holy Communion St. Therese, the Little Flower, made an act of consecration to Mary. She gradually learned in greater depth to consecrate herself as a victim of divine merciful love to the Heart of Jesus. It was to her spiritual Mother Mary, to whom she consecrated herself when very young, that the Little Flower owed profound gratitude. She never forgot that God's Mother miraculously cured her from death by a smile on May 13, which was also the Feast of Our Lady of the Holy Eucharist.

God took her physical mother from her when she was little more than four years of age. She remembered years later that the formation of her mother, even in those very early years, had always had an effect on her life. Her saintly father, Louis Martin (1823-1894), whose cause for beatification has been introduced, continued to be not only a good physical father, providing for the needs of this world for his children, but a spiritual father as well. All five of his daughters joined the religious life. There can be little question that the Martin home was a place of primary education and formation in the true faith, in the knowledge and love of God.

The angel had taught the children of Fatima that all they did could be offered in sacrifice for the love of God and for the conversion of sinners. This is the Little Flower practiced. Her desire for the conversion of sinners and the reign of the love of God was so all-inclusive and so all-embracing that it extended the world over from the beginning of time until the end. It reached beyond this world into purgatory and could only stop in heaven, where she would continue to do good upon earth by dropping roses of graces upon souls.

On September 30, 1897, with the words "My God . . . I love Thee!" on her lips, the Little Flower was picked for eternity and left this world for the heaven she so desired. The prioress, Mother Marie de Gonzaga, wrote in the convent register, alongside the saint's act of profession: ". . . A perfect model of humility, obedience, charity, prudence, detachment, and regularity, she fulfilled the difficult discipline of mistress of novices with a sagacity and affection which nothing could equal save her love for God…"

She who was hidden from the world soon after her death became known the world over. She had a conviction from childhood that God called her to be a saint but only in "the little way" if she could find how to do it. In so doing she has taught and continues to teach millions of souls the world over that offering in sacrificial love to the merciful love of God the ordinary things of everyday life, we can save many souls, please God, and reach heaven. God's justice did not hold the appeal for our Little Flower that the merciful love of God did. God's merciful love--that is the message of the Two Sacred Hearts. Sacrificing little things is also what Fatima teaches. Offer to God the daily annoyances, the duty of one's state in life, washing dishes, making meals, studying, chores that must be done, while loving others with the love of Jesus, taught by the love of Mary. These can all be offered and done in a spirit of love, reparation and confidence.

Jesus in the Holy Eucharist--that is where He is present. That is where He offers the infinite, the supreme act of love and reparation in our midst, and we join in. There at Holy Mass, our daily life becomes transformed into Christ's Sacrifice.
And the priesthood--how the Little Flower loved the priesthood, for therein she recognized the Divine Victim and Priest Jesus Christ. She could even will to be a priest herself but, with the humility of a St. Francis of Assisi, considered herself unworthy. Like a little child, she placed herself in the arms and heart of the High Priest and offered her love, her prayers, her sacrifices for missionaries the world over, at home and abroad, so that many souls could be saved.

God gave her less than 25 years upon this earth. Only 26 years after her death she was beatified by Pope Pius XI, and in the Year of Jubilee 1925 she was named a saint of the Universal Church. Two years later she was named heavenly patroness of foreign missions along with St. Francis Xavier. She who never left Carmel has become a patroness for world evangelization and salvation of souls. Like Fatima which is worldwide in interest, so was the heart and the apostolate of St. Therese of the Child Jesus.

The onslaught of Satan in the world today is a real force concentrating its effort on Christ's priests. Satan's attack is against the priests because they are the ones who bring Christ to us. And we must be aware that unless we offer sacrifices and pray for them, they cannot stand the onslaught of Satan. The Little Flower knew this. Jacinta of Fatima knew this. Both were little souls, great in grace. Both suffered and prayed for priests upon this earth. Both continue to do so in the next world. Jacinta said she would pray for priests in heaven. St. Therese said she would spend her heaven doing good upon earth. To continue her work in heaven gives priority to priests.

How much we can learn and imitate in the life of the Little Flower. If many great saints are to be admired but not imitated, the little way of St. Therese offers a way open to all. That is why the Church has admired and approved of devotion to this saint. That is why the Fatima apostolate has chosen her for a patroness in its work to spread the love of the two Hearts of Jesus and Mary in prayer and sacrifice for the conversion of sinners.
That Fatima was no new revelation is testified from the life of the Little Flower. Studying her life and the message of Fatima in depth, one, if he had no knowledge of their times in history, would be inclined to think that the Little Flower had deeply meditated on the message of Fatima and then set forth to live it in love. However, she went to her eternal reward 20 years before Mary came from heaven to Fatima. What St. Therese did was meditate on Sacred Scripture well and then live it. And this again reminds us of Pius XII's saying, "Fatima is a reaffirmation of the Gospels."

We can learn much from the Little Flower and her love for Scripture. She would have loved Vatican Council II saying that the pages of Scripture should be opened more lavishly to all the faithful. This the Church did in renewing the Sacred Liturgy, the worship of the Church. St. Therese admitted that her head spun when she tried to read some of the learned treatises on the spiritual life, so then she went to Scripture and found there her answers in God's holy Word. And oh, how she loved the Liturgy and the Church year.

Fatima tells us that God desires devotion established in the world to the Immaculate Heart of His Mother. Mary is the Mother of the Word of God. Scripture is the Word of God. Jesus is the Word of God made flesh. Devotion to Mary's Immaculate Heart is also devotion to the Word of God. Why? Because Mary first pondered the Word of God in her heart, and only then did she receive it in her womb by the action of the Holy Spirit. The Word of God made flesh in Mary's womb is the same Word of God she pondered in her soul.

The Little Flower, who had such devotion to Mary, consecrated herself to God's Mother on the first day that she received the Word made flesh in Holy Communion. Rightly then, if consecration to Mary is lived, we will have devotion to Sacred Scripture, which is the Word of God. The two go hand in hand. Devotion to the Word of God means devotion to the Word made flesh. Devotion to Mary is devotion to Scripture. She is the Mother of the Word Incarnate.
The Bible as a book is but dry ink, paper and cardboard. But when Scripture is meditated in the soul, it becomes the living Word of God within us. Mary pondered God's Word in her Immaculate Heart so as to make it alive within her. The Word of God was so perfectly realized that the Person of Jesus within her was the Word of God made flesh by the power of the Holy Spirit.

If we imitate the love of Mary's Heart, meaning that our knowledge of God's Word has led to love of Jesus, then we too ponder the Word of God as found in Scripture.
St. Therese of Lisieux in her devotion to Scripture was in fact acting in imitation of Mary's Immaculate Heart. The Little Flower is therefore rightly a model and a patroness of the Fatima message, although she departed from this world 20 years before God's Mother came to Fatima to call us to return to the Gospels.

Fitting too that the Little Flower saw loyalty to the Vicar of Christ, the Pope, as essential to being a perfect Christian. This loyalty to the Pope, the chief guardian of the Word of God upon earth, is also part of the Fatima message. The Little Flower presents to us a life of faith, hope, and love such as the Gospels call forth. Her life was one of complete trust, of confidence in the Merciful Love of God.

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Top image scanned from "Complete Spiritual Doctrine of St. Therese of Lisieux" by Rev. Francois Jamart.
Bottom image is a scanned holy card.

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