Thérèse of Lisieux stares at the sun a lot. She imagines herself as a little bird gazing at the Divine Sun, desiring to fly like an eagle towards it—but instead remaining stuck, planted on the ground with weak wings. In another one of her ubiquitous images, she considers herself a little flower in God’s garden, happily receiving God’s sunshine rays. Thérèse’s flower image develops as she develops: as a youth, she’s a “little white flower” soaking in springtime sun; later in the Carmelite monastery, she begins to “strew her flowers” in sacrificial love to God. And when remembers herself as a girl of ten years old, sick with convulsions and fevers, she describes herself as a little flower withering, dependent only on the rays of warmth and light coming from God and Mother Mary.
Thérèse wrote her classic autobiography “Story of a Soul” a couple of years before she died at the tragic, young age of twenty-four. She retells a memory of lying in her sickbed at ten years old, looking at a nearby statue of the Virgin Mary and calling Mary the sun. Thérèse is the little flower with withering petals turned toward this sun, and—at least as far as Thérèse is concerned, Mother Mary stares right back, smiling at her with balmy love: “what penetrated the very depths of my soul was the ravishing smile of the Blessed Virgin.” But Mother Mary’s rays are regenerative in the longer sense, too, since Thérèse sees her light spread until she enters the monastery five years later and is “expanding on the fertile mountain of Carmel.” The mountain of Carmel symbolizes the Carmelite monastery where the little flower is to grow. Jesus, the Trinity, and Mary all radiate divine warmth to Thérèse, the little flower, and she basks in the rays.
Sitting in the sun is one of the spiritual lessons that writer Jon Sweeney suggests we can learn from cats (see “Sit in the Sun”). I’m struck by his description of his cats Martin and Rosa, named after the civil rights leaders, who sit in the sun. Sweeney reminds us that, while he considers himself a “pray-er in the sun” rather than a worshipper of the sun, ancient sun worshippers “knew something that we humans often forget, something that my cats seem to simply intuit: A place in the sun is like a place with God. Each of us needs the warmth and to experience it directly.” I think Thérèse’s insistence on her “little flower” identity is related to the wisdom that cats know—that basking in the sun is good for the soul.
Photo by Brian Garcia on Unsplash
After a busy week like the one I’ve just had, I sometimes ask, “what on earth do I have to write? What do I have to give from my heart’s prayer?” Sometimes after blurred days, the answer is “not much!” Praying during jam-packed days is challenging. Sometimes I rise early and do my full practice; but sometimes the days are so packed that I consider contemplative practice a stealth mission. I sneak in five or ten minutes of breathing, dialogue with God, or simple cuddling with my dog Snickers before the kids stomp in from the bus after school. My first instinct, self-critical that I am, is to think that “I’ve failed” in my spiritual commitment—but Thérèse teaches me otherwise. Regardless of what the day brings, I can at least, prayerfully speaking, sit in the sun. Often I forget to bask, sit, stretch, or otherwise relax in the loving presence that God is always giving. My home office is also in my basement, and so sometimes I physically forget to go outside. No matter. The sun’s rays are still there, ready to warm me when I am ready. I am but a little flower dependent on divine radiance.
In another flower metaphor, Thérèse’s sister gives her a poem and a picture before her first communion. The picture is of Jesus known as “The Little Flower of the Divine Prisoner,” and it becomes a part of Thérèse’s youthful prayer life. The image is created in 1872 by an artist named Louis-Prudent Vallée. I’m not sure what the depiction is saying politically, but it shows Jesus imprisoned in a jail cell. Just near his reach from the barred windows grows a small, white flower at which Jesus is staring intently. The poem Thérèse received to go along with this picture envisions the flower as a source of encouragement for Jesus. The humble plant “charmed … the poor prisoner” and was “the sole happiness of his suffering soul,” providing “flowers and scents.” Jesus warms the little flower with his gaze, but the little flower gives back and nourishes Jesus, too. The loving gaze is mutual. Perhaps Love’s beams need both to be received and reflected back in dynamic exchange. Perhaps God needs us to receive divine rays to keep shining them.
There’s also a vulnerability to the little flower’s dependency. It’s just there, surrounded by similar flowers in a garden, or languishing alone outside a jail cell to be looked upon by Jesus. It doesn’t do anything special other than receive, but in its littleness and ordinary beauty it is somehow special.
But embracing littleness, seeming unimportance, and vulnerability is countercultural. As one astute commenter of this newsletter mentioned last week (thanks Jonas!), this is especially the case for men. Perhaps that’s which is why I find it so freeing to read and pray with Thérèse of Lisieux. In Brené Brown’s “Daring Greatly,” she narrates experiences of shame that keep both women and men from vulnerability. Paraphrasing her list for men, shame includes failure, being wrong, weakness, having fear, or being criticized or ridiculed. I can almost hear Thérèse—and Jesus, too—saying “well of course little flowers fail, are wrong, weak, afraid, and are sometimes criticized. That’s just part of being a little flower!” Mixing Brené Brown and Thérèse’s insights, to be vulnerable like a little flower is to develop shame resilience. It is to not have to have it all together, not to need to be perfect, not to be afraid to make mistakes. It is to humbly accept one’s station in life and receive with gratitude, and even celebration, the divine radiance, brilliance, and generosity that God always gives. And paradoxically, it’s this vulnerability and littleness that turns out to be a superpower that frees us to “dare greatly.” We know that we’re loved, and what do we have to lose?
Such a wonderful reading and meditation this morning, I am so thankful Mark. Flowers are such a graceful reminder of such love. Here in NYC daffodils are beginning to show up as yellow bits of sunshine. I have planted so many in the fall and now the great joy of hope they bring to all who will gaze upon them. Plus today is St. Patrick’s feast day, loving the Celtic connection of such beautiful life celebrations in the greening of love.
“Perhaps Love’s beams need both to be received and reflected back in dynamic exchange.”
Life and Love...it’s all about exchange. ❤️
And I love basking in the sun ☀️