Child of Mary

Almost immediately after my entrance at the Abbey, I was received into the Association of the Holy Angels. I loved the pious practices it imposed, as I had a very special attraction to pray to the blessed spirits of heaven, particularly to the one whom God gave as the companion of my exile. A short time after my First Communion, the ribbon of the aspirant to the Children of Mary replaced that of the Holy Angels, but I left the Abbey without being received into the Association of Mary. Having left before completing my studies, I did not have permission to enter as a student; I admit this privilege didn’t excite my envy, but, thinking that all my sisters had been “children of Mary,” I feared I would be less a child of my heavenly Mother than they were. I went very humbly (in spite of what it cost me) to ask for permission to be received into the Association at the Abbey. The mistress didn’t want to refuse me, but she placed as a condition that I come twice a week in the afternoon in order to prove my worthiness. Far from giving me any pleasure, this permission cost me very much. For instance, I didn’t have, as did the other students, any teacher with whom I was on friendly terms and could spend several hours. I was content, therefore, to greet the one in charge, and then go and work in silence until the end of the lesson. No one paid any attention to me, and I would go up to the choir of the chapel and remain before the Blessed Sacrament until the moment when Papa came to get me. This was my only consolation, for was not Jesus my only Friend? I knew how to speak only to Him; conversations with creatures, even pious conversations, fatigued my soul. I felt it was far more valuable to speak to God than to speak about Him, for there is so much self-love intermingled with spiritual conversations! Ah! it was really for the Blessed Virgin alone that I was coming to the Abbey. Sometimes I felt alone, very much alone, and as in the days of my life as a day boarder when I walked sad and sick in the big yard, I repeated these words that always gave rise to a new peace and strength in my heart: “Life is your barque not your home!”⁸⁰ When very little, these words gave me courage, and even now, in spite of the years which have put to flight so many impressions of childish piety, the image of the barque still charms my soul and helps it put up with its exile. Doesn’t Wisdom say: “Life is like a ship that plows the restless waves and leaves after it no trace of its rapid passage”? ⁸¹ When I think of these things, my soul is plunged into infinity, and it seems to me it already touches the eternal shore. I seem to be receiving the embraces of Jesus. I believe I see my heavenly Mother coming to meet me with Papa, Mama, the four little angels. I believe I am enjoying forever a real and eternal family reunion.

Before seeing my family reunited around the Paternal hearth of heaven, however, I was to pass through many separations; the year, for instance, when I was received as a child of the Blessed Virgin, she took from me my dear Marie,⁸² the only support of my soul. It was Marie who guided, consoled, and aided me in the practice of virtue; she was my sole oracle. Pauline, on doubt, had remained well ahead in my heart, but Pauline was far, very far from me! I had suffered martyrdom getting accustomed to living without her, to seeing between me and her impassable walls. But finally I ended up by recognizing the sad reality: Pauline is lost to me, almost in the same manner as if she were dead. She always loved me, prayed for me, but in my eyes my dear Pauline had become a saint who was no longer able to understand the things of earth. And the miseries of her poor Thérèse, if she were aware of them, would only astonish her and prevent her from loving her Thérèse as much as she did. Besides, even when I would have desired to confide my thoughts to her as at Les Buissonnets, I could not have done so, for the visits at the Carmel were only for Marie. Céline and I had permission to come only at the end, just to have the time to break our heart.