THE NEW COMMANDMENT
Dear Mother, God in His infinite goodness has given me a clear
insight into the deep mysteries of Charity. If I could but express
what I know, you would hear a heavenly music; but alas! I can only
stammer like a child, and if God's own words were not my support,
I should be tempted to beg leave to hold my peace. When the Divine
Master tells me to give to whosoever asks of me, and to let what
is mine be taken without asking it again, it seems to me that He
speaks not only of the goods of earth, but also of the goods of
Heaven. Besides, neither one nor the other are really mine; I
renounced the former by the vow of poverty, and the latter gifts
are simply lent. If God withdraw them, I have no right to complain.
But our very own ideas, the fruit of our mind and heart, form a
treasury on which none dare lay hands. For instance, if I reveal
to a Sister some light given me in prayer, and she repeats it
later on as though it were her own, it seems as though she
appropriates what is mine. Or, if during recreation someone makes
an apt and witty remark, which her neighbour repeats to the
Community, without acknowledging whence it came, it is a sort of
theft; and the person who originated the remark is naturally
inclined to seize the first opportunity of delicately insinuating
that her thoughts have been borrowed.
I could not so well explain all these weaknesses of human nature
had I not experienced them. I should have preferred to indulge in
the illusion that I was the only one who suffered thus, had you
not bidden me advise the novices in their difficulties. I have
learnt much in the discharge of this duty, and especially I feel
bound to put in practice what I teach.
I can say with truth that by God's grace I am no more attached to
the gifts of the intellect than to material things. If it happens
that a thought of mine should please my Sisters, I find it quite
easy to let them regard it as their own. My thoughts belong to the
Holy Ghost. They are not mine. St. Paul assures us that _without
the Spirit of Love, we cannot call God our Father._[1]
And besides, though far from depreciating those beautiful thoughts
which bring us nearer to God, I have long been of opinion that we
must be careful not to over-estimate their worth. The highest
inspirations are of no value without good works. It is true that
others may derive much profit therefrom, if they are duly grateful
to our Lord for allowing them to share in the abundance of one of
His privileged souls; but should this privileged soul take pride
in spiritual wealth, and imitate the Pharisee, she becomes like to
a hostess dying of starvation at a well-spread table, while her
guests enjoy the richest fare, and perhaps cast envious glances at
the possessor of so many treasures.
Verily it is true that God alone can sound the heart. How
short-sighted are His creatures! When they see a soul whose lights
surpass their own, they conclude that the Divine Master loves them
less. Since when has He lost the right to make use of one of His
children, in order to supply the others with the nourishment they
need? That right was not lost in the days of Pharaoh, for God said
unto him: "And therefore have I raised thee, that I may show My
power in thee, and My name may be spoken of throughout all the
earth."[2]
Generations have passed away since the Most High spoke these
words, and His ways have not changed. He has ever chosen human
instruments for the accomplishment of His work.
If an artist's canvas could but think and speak, surely it would
never complain of being touched and re-touched by the brush, nor
would it feel envious thereof, knowing that all its beauty is due
to the artist alone. So, too, the brush itself could not boast of
the masterpiece it had helped to produce, for it must know that an
artist is never at a loss; that difficulties do but stimulate him;
and that at times it pleases him to make use of instruments the
most unlikely and defective.
Dear Mother, I am the little brush that Jesus has chosen to paint
His likeness in the souls you have confided to my care. Now an
artist has several brushes--two at the least: the first, which is
more useful, gives the ground tints and rapidly covers the whole
canvas; the other, and smaller one, puts in the lesser touches.
Mother, you represent the big brush which our Lord holds lovingly
in His Hand when He wishes to do some great work in the souls of
your children; and I am the little one He deigns to use
afterwards, to fill in the minor details.
The first time the Divine Master took up His little brush was
about December 8, 1892. I shall always remember that time as one
of special grace.
When I entered the Carmel, I found in the noviciate a companion
about eight years older than I was. In spite of this difference of
age, we became the closest friends, and to encourage an affection
which gave promise of fostering virtue we were allowed to converse
together on spiritual subjects. My companion charmed me by her
innocence and by her open and frank disposition, though I was
surprised to find how her love for you differed from mine; and
besides, I regretted many things in her behaviour. But God had
already given me to understand that there are souls for whom in
His Mercy He waits unweariedly, and to whom He gives His light by
degrees; so I was very careful not to forestall Him.
One day when I was thinking over the permission we had to talk
together, so that we might--as our holy constitutions tells
us--incite ourselves more ardently to the love of our Divine
Spouse, it came home to me sadly that our conversations did not
attain the desired end; and I understood that either I must no
longer fear to speak out, or else I must put an end to what was
degenerating into mere worldly talk. I begged our Lord to inspire
me with words, kind and convincing; or better still, to speak
Himself for me. He heard my prayer, for those _who look upon Him
shall be enlightened,_[3] and "to the upright a light is risen in
the darkness."[4] The first of these texts I apply to myself, the
other to my companion, who was truly upright in heart.
The next time we met, the poor little Sister saw at once that my
manner had changed, and, blushing deeply, she sat down beside me.
I pressed her to my heart, and told her gently what was in my
mind; then I pointed out to her in what true love consists, and
proved that in loving her Prioress with such natural affection she
was in reality loving herself. I confided to her the sacrifices of
this kind which I had been obliged to make at the beginning of my
religious life, and before long her tears were mingled with mine.
She admitted very humbly that she was in the wrong and that I was
right, and, begging me as a favour always to point out her faults,
she promised to begin a new life. From this time our love for one
another became truly spiritual; in us were fulfilled these words
of the Holy Ghost: "A brother that is helped by his brother is
like a strong city."[5]
Dear Mother, you know very well that it was not my wish to turn my
companion away from you, I only wanted her to grasp that true love
feeds on sacrifice, and that in proportion as our souls renounce
natural enjoyments our affections become stronger and more
detached.
I remember that when I was a postulant I was sometimes so
violently tempted to seek my own satisfaction by having a word
with you, that I was obliged to hurry past your cell and hold on
to the banisters to keep myself from turning back. Numerous
permissions I wanted to ask, and a hundred pretexts for yielding
to my desires suggested themselves, but now I am truly glad that I
did not listen. I already enjoy the reward promised to those who
fight bravely. I no longer feel the need of refusing myself these
consolations, for my heart is fixed on God. Because it has loved
Him only, it has grown, little by little, and now it can give to
those who are dear to Him a far deeper and truer love than if it
were centred in a barren and selfish affection.
I have told you of the first piece of work which you accomplished
together with Our Lord by means of the little brush, but that was
only the prelude to the masterpiece which was afterwards to be
painted. From the moment I entered the sanctuary of souls, I saw
at a glance that the task was beyond my strength. Throwing myself
without delay into Our Lord's Arms, I imitated those tiny
children, who, when they are frightened, hide their faces on their
father's shoulder, and I said:
"Dear Lord, Thou seest that I am too small to feed these little
ones, but if through me Thou wilt give to each what is suitable,
then fill my hands, and without leaving the shelter of Thine Arms,
or even turning away, I will distribute Thy treasures to the souls
who come to me asking for food. Should they find it to their
taste, I shall know that this is due not to me, but to Thee; and
if, on the contrary, they find fault with its bitterness, I shall
not be cast down, but try to persuade them that it cometh from
Thee, while taking good care to make no change in it."
The knowledge that it was impossible to do anything of myself
rendered my task easier. My one interior occupation was to unite
myself more and more closely to God, knowing that the rest would
be given to me over and above. And indeed my hope has never been
deceived; I have always found my hands filled when sustenance was
needed for the souls of my Sisters. But had I done otherwise, and
relied on my own strength, I should very soon have been forced to
abandon my task.
From afar it seems so easy to do good to souls, to teach them to
love God more, and to model them according to one's own ideas.
But, when we draw nearer, we quickly feel that without God's help
this is quite as impossible as to bring back the sun when once it
has set. We must forget ourselves, and put aside our tastes and
ideas, and guide souls not by our own way, but along the path
which Our Lord points out. Even this is not the most difficult
part; what costs me more than all is having to observe their
faults, their slightest imperfections, and wage war against them.
Unhappily for me--I was going to say, but that would be cowardly,
so I will say--happily for my Sisters, ever since I placed myself
in the Arms of Jesus I have been like a watchman on the look-out
for the enemy from the highest turret of a fortified castle.
Nothing escapes my vigilance; indeed, I am sometimes surprised at
my own clear-sightedness, and I think it was quite excusable in
the prophet Jonas to fly before the face of the Lord, that he
might not have to announce the ruin of Ninive. Rather than make
one single reproach, I would prefer to receive a thousand, yet I
feel it is necessary that the task should cause me pain, for if I
spoke only through natural impulse, then the soul in fault would
not understand its defects and would simply think: "This Sister is
displeased, and her displeasure falls on me although I am full of
the best intentions."
But in this, as in all else, I must practise sacrifice and
self-denial. Even in the matter of writing a letter, I feel that
it will produce no fruit, unless I am disinclined to write, and
only do so from obedience.
When conversing with a novice I am on the watch to mortify myself,
and I avoid asking questions which would satisfy my curiosity. If
she begins to speak on an interesting subject, and, leaving it
unfinished, passes on to another that wearies me, I take care not
to remind her of the interruption, for it seems to me that no good
can come of self-seeking.
I know, dear Mother, that your little lambs find me severe; if
they were to read these lines, they would say that, so far as they
can see, it does not distress me to run after them, and show them
how they have soiled their beautiful white fleece, or torn it in
the brambles. Well, the little lambs may say what they like--in
their hearts they know I love them dearly; there is no fear of my
imitating "the hireling . . . who seeth the wolf coming and
leaveth the sheep, and flieth."[6]
I am ready to lay down my life for them, and my affection is so
disinterested that I would not have my novices know this. By God's
help, I have never tried to draw their hearts to myself, for I
have always understood that my mission was to lead them to Him and
to you, dear Mother, who on this earth hold His place in their
regard, and whom, therefore, they must love and respect.
I said before, that I have learnt much by guiding others. In the
first place I see that all souls have more or less the same
battles to fight, and on the other hand, that one soul differs
widely from another, so each must be dealt with differently. With
some I must humble myself, and not shrink from acknowledging my
own struggles and defeats; then they confess more readily the
faults into which they fall, and are pleased that I know by
experience what they suffer. With others, my only means of success
is to be firm, and never go back on what I have once said;
self-abasement would be taken for weakness.
Our Lord has granted me the grace never to fear the conflict; at
all costs I must do my duty. I have more than once been told: "If
you want me to obey, you must be gentle and not severe, otherwise
you will gain nothing." But no one is a good judge in his own
case. During a painful operation a child will be sure to cry out
and say that the remedy is worse than the disease; but if after a
few days he is cured, then he is greatly delighted that he can run
about and play. And it is the same with souls: they soon recognise
that a little bitter is better than too much sweet, and they are
not afraid to make the acknowledgment. Sometimes the change which
takes place from one day to another seems almost magical.
A novice will say to me: "You did well to be severe yesterday; at
first I was indignant, but when I thought it all over, I saw that
you were quite right. I left your cell thinking: 'This ends it. I
will tell Our Mother that I shall never go to Soeur Thérèse
again'; but I knew this was the devil's suggestion, and then I
felt you were praying for me, and I grew calm. I began to see
things more clearly, and now I come to you for further guidance."
I am only too happy to follow the dictates of my heart and hasten
to console with a little sweetness, but I see that one must not
press forward too quickly--a word might undo the work that cost so
many tears. If I say the least thing which seems to tone down the
hard truths of the previous day, I see my little Sister trying to
take advantage of the opening thus given her. At once I have
recourse to prayer, I turn to Our Blessed Lady, and Jesus always
triumphs. Verily in prayer and sacrifice lies all my strength,
they are my invincible arms; experience has taught me that they
touch hearts far more easily than words.
Two years ago, during Lent, a novice came to me smiling, and said:
"You would never imagine what I dreamt last night--I thought I was
with my sister, who is so worldly, and I wanted to withdraw her
from all vain things; to this end I explained the words of your
hymn:
'They richly lose who love Thee, dearest Lord; Thine are my
perfumes, Thine for evermore.'
I felt that my words sank deep into her soul, and I was overjoyed.
This morning it seems to me that perhaps Our Lord would like me to
gain Him this soul. How would it do if I wrote at Easter and
described my dream, telling her that Jesus desires to have her for
His Spouse?" I answered that she might certainly ask permission.
As Lent was not nearly over, you were surprised, dear Mother, at
such a premature request, and, evidently guided by God, you
replied that Carmelites should save souls by prayer rather than by
letters. When I heard your decision I said to the little Sister:
"We must set to work and pray hard; if our prayers are answered at
the end of Lent, what a joy it will be!" O Infinite Mercy of our
Lord! At the close of Lent, one soul more had given herself to
God. It was a real miracle of grace--a miracle obtained through
the fervour of a humble novice.
How wonderful is the power of prayer! It is like unto a queen,
who, having free access to the king, obtains whatsoever she asks.
In order to secure a hearing there is no need to recite set
prayers composed for the occasion--were it so, I ought indeed to
be pitied!
Apart from the Divine Office, which in spite of my unworthiness is
a daily joy, I have not the courage to look through books for
beautiful prayers. I only get a headache because of their number,
and besides, one is more lovely than another. Unable therefore to
say them all, and lost in choice, I do as children who have not
learnt to read--I simply tell Our Lord all that I want, and He
always understands.
With me prayer is an uplifting of the heart; a glance towards
heaven; a cry of gratitude and love, uttered equally in sorrow and
in joy. In a word, it is something noble, supernatural, which
expands my soul and unites it to God. Sometimes when I am in such
a state of spiritual dryness that not a single good thought occurs
to me, I say very slowly the "Our Father" or the "Hail Mary," and
these prayers suffice to take me out of myself, and wonderfully
refresh me.
But what was I speaking of? Again I am lost in a maze of
reflections. Forgive me, dear Mother, for wandering thus. My story
is like a tangled skein, but I fear I can do no better. I write my
thoughts as they come; I fish at random in the stream of my heart,
and offer you all that I catch.
I was telling you about the novices. They often say: "You have an
answer for everything. This time I thought I should puzzle you.
Where do you find all that you teach us?" Some are even simple
enough to think I can read their souls, because at times it
happens I discover to them--without revelation--the subject of
their thoughts. The senior novice had determined to hide from me a
great sorrow. She spent the night in anguish, keeping back her
tears lest her eyes might betray her. Yet she came to me with a
smile next day, seeming even more cheerful than usual, and when I
said: "You are in trouble, I am sure," she looked at me in
inexpressible amazement. Her surprise was so great that it reacted
on me, and imparted a sense of the supernatural. I felt that God
was close to us. Unwittingly--for I have not the gift of reading
souls--I had spoken as one inspired, and was able to console her
completely.
And now, dear Mother, I will tell you wherein I gain most with the
novices. You know they are allowed without restriction to say
anything to me, agreeable or the reverse; this is all the easier
since they do not owe me the respect due to a Novice-Mistress. I
cannot say that Our Lord makes me walk in the way of exterior
humiliation; He is satisfied with humbling me in my inmost soul.
In the eyes of creatures all is success, and I walk in the
dangerous path of honour--if a religious may so speak. I
understand God's way and that of my superiors in this respect; for
if the Community thought me incapable, unintelligent, and wanting
in judgment, I could be of no possible use to you, dear Mother.
This is why the Divine Master has thrown a veil over all my
shortcomings, both interior and exterior. Because of this veil I
receive many compliments from the novices--compliments without
flattery, for they really mean what they say; and they do not
inspire me with vanity, for the remembrance of my weakness is ever
before me. At times my soul tires of this over-sweet food, and I
long to hear something other than praise; then Our Lord serves me
with a nice little salad, well spiced, with plenty of vinegar--oil
alone is wanting, and this it is which makes it more to my taste.
And the salad is offered to me by the novices at the moment I
least expect. God lifts the veil that hides my faults, and my dear
little Sisters, beholding me as I really am, do not find me
altogether agreeable. With charming simplicity, they tell me how I
try them and what they dislike in me; in fact, they are as frank
as though they were speaking of someone else, for they are aware
that I am pleased when they act in this way.
I am more than pleased--I am transported with delight by this
splendid banquet set before me. How can anything so contrary to
our natural inclinations afford such extraordinary pleasure? Had I
not experienced it, I could not have believed it possible.
One day, when I was ardently longing for some humiliation, a young
postulant came to me and sated my desire so completely, that I was
reminded of the occasion when Semei cursed David, and I repeated
to myself the words of the holy King: "Yea, it is the Lord who
hath bidden him say all these things."[7] In this way God takes
care of me. He cannot always provide that strength-giving bread,
exterior humiliation, but from time to time He allows me to eat of
"the crumbs from the table of the children."[8] How magnificent
are His Mercies!
Dear Mother, since that Infinite Mercy is the subject of this my
earthly song, I ought also to discover to you one real advantage,
reaped with many others in the discharge of my task. Formerly, if
I saw a Sister acting in a way that displeased me, and was
seemingly contrary to rule, I would think: "Ah, how glad I should
be if only I could warn her and point out where she is wrong."
Since, however, this burden has been laid upon me my ideas have
changed, and when I happen to see something not quite right, I say
with a sigh of relief: "Thank God! It is not a novice, and I am
not obliged to correct"; and at once I try to find excuses, and
credit the doer with the good intentions she no doubt possesses.
Your devotedness, dear Mother, now that I am ill, has also taught
me many a lesson of charity. No remedy is too costly, and if one
does not succeed, you unhesitatingly try something new. When I am
present at recreation, how careful you are to shield me from
draughts. I feel that I ought to be as compassionate for the
spiritual infirmities of my Sisters as you are for my bodily ills.
I have noticed that it is the holiest nuns who are most deeply
loved; everyone is anxious to seek their company, and do them
service, without even being asked. These very souls who are well
able to bear with want of affection and little attentions are
always surrounded by an atmosphere of love. Our Father, St. John
of the Cross, says with great truth: "All good things have come
unto me, since I no longer sought them for myself."
Imperfect souls, on the contrary, are left alone. They 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. I know
such defects are incurable, but I also know how patient you would
be, in nursing and striving to relieve me, were my illness to last
for many years.
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."[9]
What feast can I offer my Sisters but a spiritual one of sweet and
joyful charity! I know none other, and I wish to imitate St. Paul,
who rejoiced with those who rejoiced. It is true that he wept with
those who wept, and at my feast, too, the tears must sometimes
fall, still I shall always try to change them into smiles, for
"God loveth a cheerful giver."[10]
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."[11] 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.
If even now, in days of pain and amid the smoke of battle, the
thought that God has withdrawn us from the world is so entrancing,
what will it be when, in eternal glory and everlasting repose, we
realise the favour beyond compare He has done us here, by singling
us out to dwell in His Carmel, the very portal of Heaven?
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.
The practice of charity has not always been so pleasant as I have
just pointed out, dear Mother, and to prove it I will recount some
of my many struggles.
For a long time my place at meditation was near a Sister who
fidgeted continually, either with her Rosary, or something else;
possibly, as I am very quick of hearing, I alone heard her, but I
cannot tell you how much it tried me. I should have liked to turn
round, and by looking at the offender, make her stop the noise;
but in my heart I knew that I ought to bear it tranquilly, both
for the love of God and to avoid giving pain. So I kept quiet, but
the effort cost me so much that sometimes I was bathed in
perspiration, and my meditation consisted merely in suffering with
patience. After a time I tried to endure it in peace and joy, at
least deep down in my soul, and I strove to take actual pleasure
in the disagreeable little noise. Instead of trying not to hear
it, which was impossible, I set myself to listen, as though it had
been some delightful music, and my meditation--which was not the
"prayer of quiet"--was passed in offering this music to Our Lord.
Another time I was working in the laundry, and the Sister
opposite, while washing handkerchiefs, repeatedly splashed me with
dirty water. My first impulse was to draw back and wipe my face,
to show the offender I should be glad if she would behave more
quietly; but the next minute I thought how foolish it was to
refuse the treasures God offered me so generously, and I refrained
from betraying my annoyance. On the contrary, I made such efforts
to welcome the shower of dirty water, that at the end of half an
hour I had taken quite a fancy to this novel kind of aspersion,
and I resolved to come as often as I could to the happy spot where
such treasures were freely bestowed.
Dear Mother, you see that I am a very little soul, who can only
offer very little things to Our Lord. It still happens that I
frequently let slip the occasion of these slender sacrifices,
which bring so much peace, but this does not discourage me; I bear
the loss of a little peace, and I try to be more watchful for the
future.
How happy does Our Lord make me, and how sweet and easy is His
service on this earth! He has always given me what I desired, or
rather He has made me desire what He wishes to give. A short time
before my terrible temptation against Faith, I had reflected how
few exterior trials, worthy of mention, had fallen to my lot, and
that if I were to have interior trials, God must change my path;
and this I did not think He would do. Yet I could not always live
at ease. Of what means, then, would He make use?
I had not long to wait for an answer, and it showed me that He
whom I love is never at a loss, for without changing my way, He
sent me this great trial; and thus mingled a healing bitterness
with all the sweet.
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[1] Cf. Rom. 8:15.
[2] Exod. 9:16.
[3] Cf. Ps. 33[34]:6.
[4] Ps. 111[112]:4.
[5] Prov. 18:19.
[6] John 10:12.
[7] Cf. 2 Kings 16:10.
[8] Mark 7:28.
[9] Cf. Luke 14:12, 13, 14.
[10] 2 Cor. 9:7.
[11] Matt. 25:40.
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