St. Therese on charity.

A few days ago I wrote that I had recently re-read St. Therese's memoirs.  Here is an example of the kind of "little acts performed with great love" that make up St. Therese's little way, from her autobiography.

Imperfect souls...are treated, it is true, with the measure of politeness which
religious life demands; yet their company is avoided, lest a word
might be said which would hurt their feelings. When I say
imperfect souls, I am not referring to souls with spiritual
imperfections only, for the holiest souls will not be perfect till
they are in heaven. I mean those who are also afflicted with want
of tact and refinement, as well as ultra-sensitive souls....

From all this I draw the conclusion:--I ought to seek the
companionship of those Sisters towards whom I feel a natural
aversion, and try to be their good Samaritan. A word or a smile is
often enough to put fresh life in a despondent soul. And yet it is
not merely in the hope of giving consolation that I try to be
kind. If it were, I know that I should soon be discouraged, for
well-intentioned words are often totally misunderstood.
Consequently, not to lose my time or labour, I try to act solely
to please Our Lord, and follow this precept of the Gospel: "When
thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not thy friends or thy
brethren, lest perhaps they also invite thee again and a
recompense be made to thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the
poor, the maimed, the blind, and the lame, and thou shalt be
blessed, because they have naught wherewith to make thee
recompense, and thy Father Who seeth in secret will repay thee."

...I remember an act of charity with which God inspired me while I
was still a novice, and this act, though seemingly small, has been
rewarded even in this life by Our Heavenly Father, "Who seeth in
secret."

Shortly before Sister St. Peter became quite bedridden, it was
necessary every evening, at ten minutes to six, for someone to
leave meditation and take her to the refectory. It cost me a good
deal to offer my services, for I knew the difficulty, or I should
say the impossibility, of pleasing the poor invalid. But I did not
want to lose such a good opportunity, for I recalled Our Lord's
words: "As long as you did it to one of these my least brethren,
you did it to Me."    I therefore humbly offered my aid. It was
not without difficulty I induced her to accept it, but after
considerable persuasion I succeeded. Every evening, when I saw her
shake her sand-glass, I understood that she meant: "Let us go!"
Summoning up all my courage I rose, and the ceremony began. First
of all, her stool had to be moved and carried in a particular way,
and on no account must there be any hurry. The solemn procession
ensued. I had to follow the good Sister, supporting her by her
girdle; I did it as gently as possible, but if by some mischance
she stumbled, she imagined I had not a firm hold, and that she was
going to fall. "You are going too fast," she would say, "I shall
fall and hurt myself!" Then when I tried to lead her more quietly:
"Come quicker . . . I cannot feel you . . . you are letting me go!
I was right when I said you were too young to take care of me."

When we reached the refectory without further mishap, more
troubles were in store. I had to settle my poor invalid in her
place, taking great pains not to hurt her. Then I had to turn back
her sleeves, always according to her own special rubric, and after
that I was allowed to go.

But I soon noticed that she found it very difficult to cut her
bread, so I did not leave her till I had performed this last
service. She was much touched by this attention on my part, for
she had not expressed any wish on the subject; it was by this
unsought-for kindness that I gained her entire confidence, and
chiefly because--as I learnt later-- at the end of my humble task
I bestowed upon her my sweetest smile.

Dear Mother, it is long since all this happened, but Our Lord
allows the memory of it to linger with me like a perfume from
Heaven. One cold winter evening, I was occupied in the lowly work
of which I have just spoken, when suddenly I heard in the distance
the harmonious strains of music outside the convent walls. I
pictured a drawing-room, brilliantly lighted and decorated, and
richly furnished. Young ladies, elegantly dressed, exchanged a
thousand compliments, as is the way of the world. Then I looked on
the poor invalid I was tending. Instead of sweet music I heard her
complaints, instead of rich gilding I saw the brick walls of our
bare cloister, scarcely visible in the dim light. The contrast was
very moving. Our Lord so illuminated my soul with the rays of
truth, before which the pleasures of the world are but as
darkness, that for a thousand years of such worldly delights, I
would not have bartered even the ten minutes spent in my act of
charity.

...I have not always felt these transports of joy in performing acts
of charity, but at the beginning of my religious life Jesus wished
to make me feel how sweet to Him is charity, when found in the
hearts of his Spouses. Thus when I led Sister St. Peter, it was
with so much love that I could not have shown more were I guiding
Our Divine Lord Himself.

Comments

[Michael]

What you quoted here is good, but a reproach for some of us with our own Sister St. Peters to deal with. At least I can't say *I'm* completely thrilled with the opportunity to follow St. T. down her little way towards perfection.

Thanks so much for the reminder.