Letter XXXI. To Madame de Chantal

Besig nation to God's Will. Cure for spiritual troubles.

Let us lift up our hearts, my dearest Mother: let us behold that of God all-loving for us; let us adore and bless his will, his wishes. Let them sever, let them cut in us, wherever he pleases: for we are his eternally. You will find thai in so many bye-ways we shall still make progress, and that our Lord will conduct us by the deserts to the holy land of promise. And from time to time he will give us what will make us prize the deserts more than the fertile lands, in which the corn ripens in its seasons; — but the manna falls not.

My God! dearest mother, when you wrote to me that you were a poor bee, I thought I could not wish that, so long as your drynesses and afflictions last; for this little animal which in health is diligent and busy, loses heart and remains idle as soon as it gets ill.

But then I changed my wishes, and said: Ah! yes, I quite wish that that my mother may be a bee, even while in spiritual trouble: for this little animal has no other cure for itself in its maladies, than to expose itself to the sun, and to await heat and health from its rays.

O God! my daughter, let us put ourselves thus before our crucified sun, and then say to him: 0 lovely sun of hearts, you vivify all by the rays of your goodness: behold us here half -dead before you, and we will not move till your heart quicken us, Lord Jesus. My dear child, death is life when it happens in presence of God.

Lean your spirit on the stone which was represented by that which Jacob had under his head when he saw the beautiful ladder: it is the very one on which St. John the Evangelist reposed one day by the excess of the charity of his master. Jesus, who is our heart and the heart of our heart, will watch lovingly over you. Rest in peace. May God be for ever in the midst of your heart! May he make it for ever more entirely his own! Vive Jesus. Amen, Amen.