Matchless parents

In the story of my soul, up until my entrance into Carmel, I distinguish three separate periods. The first is not the least fruitful in memories in spite of its short duration. It expands from the dawn of my reason till our dear Mother’s departure for Heaven.

God granted me the favor of opening my intelligence at an early age and of imprinting childhood recollections so deeply on my memory that it seems the things I’m about to recount happened only yesterday. Jesus in His love willed, perhaps, that I know the matchless Mother He had given me, but whom His hand hastened to crown in heaven.

God was pleased all through my life to surround me with love, and the first memories I have are stamped with smiles and the most tender caresses. But although He placed so much love near me, He also sent much love into my little heart, making it warm and affectionate. I loved Mama and Papa very much and showed my tenderness for them in a thousand ways, for I was very expressive. The means I employed at times were strange, as this passage from one of Mama’s letters proves:

“Baby is a little imp; she’ll kiss me and at the same time wish me to die. ‘Oh, how I wish you would die, dear little Mother!’ When I scold her she answers: ‘It is because I want you to go to heaven, and you say we must die to get there!’ She wishes the same for her Father in her outbursts of affection for him.”⁵

And here’s another passage from a letter dated June 25, 1874. I was only a year and a half: “Your Father just installed a swing, and Céline’s joy knows no bounds. But you should see the little one using it; it’s funny to see her trying to conduct herself as a big girl. There’s no danger of her letting the rope go. When the swing doesn’t go fast enough, she cries. We attached her to it with a rope, but in spite of this I’m still uneasy to see her perched so high.

“A strange thing happened to me regarding the little one. I’m in the habit of attending the 5:30 Mass in the morning, but at first I didn’t dare leave her alone. Seeing she didn’t wake up early I decided to leave her. I’d place her in my bed and set the cradle alongside the bed so that she couldn’t fall out. One day, I forgot the cradle. I returned and the little one was no longer in the bed; at the same moment I heard a whimper; I looked and saw her in a sitting position in a chair at the head of my bed. She was sleeping fitfully as she was uncomfortable with her head resting on a cushion.

“I can’t understand how she fell onto the chair in a sitting position since she was in the bed. I thanked God, feeling it was providential as she could have tumbled onto the floor. Her good Angel watched over her and the souls in purgatory protected her. I pray every day to them for her. This is my explanations for it; explain it the way you like.”

At the end of the letter Mama added: “The little one has just placed her hand on my face and kissed me. This poor little thing doesn’t want to leave me; she’s continually at my side. She likes going into the garden, but when I’m not there she won’t stay but cries till they bring her to me.”⁶

Here is a passage from another letter:

“Little Thérèse asked me the other day if she would go to Heaven. I told her ‘Yes’ if she were good. She answered: ‘Yes, but if I’m not good, I’ll go to hell. But I know what I will do. I will fly to you in Heaven, and what will God be able to do to take me away? You will be holding me so tightly in your arms!’ I could see in her eyes that she was really convinced that God could do nothing to her if she were in her mother’s arms.”⁷

“Marie loves her little sister very much. She finds her very good, and it would be difficult for her to think otherwise since this poor little thing has a great fear of causing Marie any trouble. Yesterday, knowing she is very happy to be given a rose, I wanted to cut one for her. She began begging me not to do so because Marie had forbidden this. Her face was red with emotion. In spite of this, I gave her two roses, but she did not dare go into the house. It was useless for me to tell her the roses belonged to me. ‘No,’ she insisted, ‘they belong to Marie!’

“She becomes emotional very easily. As soon as she does anything wrong, everybody must know it. Yesterday, not meaning to do so, she tore off a small piece of wallpaper. She wanted to tell her Father immediately, and you would have pitied her to see her anxiety. When he returned four hours later and everybody had forgotten about it, she ran at once to Marie, saying: ‘Marie, hurry and tell Papa I tore the paper.’ Then she awaited her sentence as if she were a criminal. There is an idea in her little head that if she owns up to something, she will be more readily forgiven.”⁸