"To-do" Lists in Prayer

Continuing to learn from Thérèse of Lisieux’s little bird

In Thérèse of Lisieux’s story of a little bird aching to fly toward the Sun of divinity, the bird realizes that, alas, it is not able to fly. Thérèse says all it can do is raise its little wings. One might expect the bird, projecting human qualities onto it as Thérèse does, to be heartbroken at its grounded status. But no—Thérèse insists that the bird will not be troubled and “with bold surrender, it wishes to remain gazing upon its Divine Sun.”

What follows in this story, located in her autobiography “Story of a Soul,” is Thérèse’s analogy of her soul and God. She’s the little bird called to love God profoundly by a little way. As Thérèse embraces her vocation to love, we parents, professionals and ordinary folk likewise find a simple but radical path to God. For me, this section of “Story of the Soul” becomes a meditation not only on how to focus one’s heart on God during the daily maelstrom of activity but also a creative example of the heart’s posture toward God in prayer and meditation. Here are Thérèse’s words, interspersed with mine.

Nothing will frighten it, neither wind nor rain, and if dark clouds come and hide the Star of Love, the little bird will not change its place because it knows that beyond the clouds its bright Sun still shines on and that its brightness is not eclipsed even for a single second.

The little bird stands steady regardless of the weather. Its sole focus is on the Sun, which keeps brightness bright even in darkness. This week when I’ve been sitting in contemplative prayer, my changing weather patterns have been to-do lists. Call the bowling alley for the birthday party. Find childcare on Saturday night. Make sure to do laundry so the basketball jerseys are clean for the tournament. Find a ride for kids to the Thursday evening game. Add such and such task to my project workboard for work. But after I allow the swirling thoughts to have their way for a brief time, eventually a broader inner space opens up. Or at least it did this morning. I acknowledge to God my thoughts, all the things that need to get done, and any particular feelings attached to them. As I wrote in a previous series (here and here), I’ve rediscovered the intimate joy of talking to God in prayer after many years of veiled cynicism. But when my to-do lists begin to spread over my consciousness like encroaching storm clouds, I often throw my hands up to God, name the endless action items and say to God, “Here! You deal with these for a while.” Handing my “to-dos” to the Divine Presence helps me remain steady, staring at the Sun, regardless of the weather.

At times the little bird’s heart is assailed by the storm, and it seems it should believe in the existence of no other thing except the clouds surrounding it; this is the moment of perfect joy for the poor little weak creature. And what joy it experiences when remaining there just the same! And gazing at the Invisible Light which remains hidden from its faith!

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

From the relatively benign build-up of “to-do lists” to more intractable situations such as conflict, heartbreak, and hard transition, Thérèse’s little bird inspires our wills to remain unfazed. The bird unflinchingly gazes at the Invisible Light. I’m reminded of John of the Cross’s “dark night of the soul,” in which certainties we hold dear are stripped away, and even the presence of God feels only like absence. Still, Thérèse’s bird gazes.

Very often the imperfect little creature, while remaining in its place (that is, under the Sun’s rays), allows itself to be somewhat distracted from its sole occupation. It picks up a piece of grain on the right or on the left; it chases after a little worm; then coming upon a little pool of water, it wets its feathers still hardly formed. It sees an attractive flower and its little mind is occupied with this flower. In a word, being unable to soar like the eagles, the poor little bird is taken up with the trifles of earth.

Here I think of the perennial dance with thoughts in prayer and the opportunity that my spinning mind offers me to return to God throughout the day, or whenever I’m distracted from my sole purpose of bathing in the Divine Sun. It’s important to say that the little bird doesn’t have to do anything except receive the Sun’s rays. The heat and brightness are often warm and comforting—but even when they’re not, the bird’s world still rotates around the sun. Distractions abound—for the bird, grain, flower and puddles; for me, to-do lists in prayer. After my thirty minutes of silence, I’ll uncross my legs, stand, and return to the fray. But I’ll do so with the deeper knowing that while my to-do list is fine and needed, it doesn’t make me “me.” Only the Sun’s shine gets to call my true name.