In the past few weeks, three young moms I know have named their new babies Zelie, after the mother of St. Therese. Granted, one was a middle name, but this dear niece, a mom of seven, texted me with unbounded joy, “I finally got my Zelie!”
She’s also the one who told me, “You gave me that book, and I read the whole thing,” speaking of A Call to a Deeper Love: The Family Correspondence of the Parents of Saint Therese of the Child Jesus, or in other words, the letters of (now) Saints Louis and Zelie. Although perhaps I should say the letters of Zelie and Louis, because in a wonderful instance of the difference between men and women, Zelie’s letters take up 346 pages, and Louis’ only 16!
I’ve owned this book several times. I don’t mean I’ve owned it for a long time, but rather, it’s one of those books I can’t seem to read, though I know I suspect it’s great, so I give it away and others name their daughters for Zelie.
In my vast experience of books (and saints), I’d say there are three types: (1) those you love at first sight; (2) those the Holy Spirit is saving to bring you freedom and spiritual joy at just the right moment; and (3) those you never will read successfully, no matter how many times you try. The phrase “she’s a closed book to me” comes to mind.
But this brings us back to Zelie because I can’t figure out if she and the book of her letters are meant for me later, or meant for me never. When I try to read my copy, and just before I give it away again to someone who really can make use of its treasures, I find myself feeling more distant than ever from my favorite canonized saint’s canonized mother. Why? What is it that holds me back?
Now I have breast cancer, like she did, and as someone recently told me, “Naturally, you’ll turn to Zelie!” Well, oddly, I feel like I have about as much in common with her as I do with the official patron saint of those suffering from breast ailments, the virgin martyr St. Agatha.
True, Zelie was a Catholic wife and mother and so am I, but God answered our mutual desire (for many children to raise to Heaven and especially many priest sons) in very different ways. Zelie had nine children, only five of whom lived past babyhood, all of these being daughters. I have had two sons (resulting from my only two pregnancies), and one is engaged to marry the most wonderful Catholic girl on earth. I’m not complaining, and Zelie didn’t either; God has blessed us both beyond our own hopes and dreams.
Yet Zelie, an admirable woman in a myriad of ways, is unlike me in another thing besides progeny. Our temperaments are different, and when I try to read her letters, my heart doesn’t leap up in connection with that joy C.S. Lewis captured so well when he wrote, “Friendship is born at the moment when one man says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one!’”
Beyond family size, though, beyond personality types, beyond a book I don’t love however many times I try, is a more primitive reality. I think the problem is simply that I’m mad at Zelie.
Saints are real people, fully human like we are, and that means they make mistakes. I find Zelie’s mistake hard to forgive, though why I think I’m qualified to judge her decision is a mystery for the ages. As my wise husband has often remarked, we have a hard enough time knowing what we’re supposed to do, let alone knowing what anyone else—whose circumstances are even more hidden from us than ours—should do.
His reminder is helpful to a point, but I’m still bothered, and here’s why:
Zelie and Louis employed a maid named Louise, and Louise (God rest her soul) terrorized their daughter Leonie. This is one of the big reasons Leonie had a very painful childhood and young adulthood, and why she had three failed attempts at religious life before eventually finding happiness as a Visitation nun. Not only was she born with fewer natural gifts than her sisters (she wasn’t pretty, she wasn’t talented, she was uncomfortable in her own skin from birth), but she was traumatized for years by this ever-present maid.
Zelie didn’t know this until shortly before she died. When she found out, she was able to help Leonie begin to heal. But in that short time after Zelie found out the cruelty of the maid and before cancer took her earthly life, Louise begged to be allowed to stay. Zelie treated anyone in her employ like a family member, and Louise understandably didn’t want to leave her mistress’ side, especially as Zelie faced death. Yet I have a really hard time forgiving Zelie for letting her stay, even though she was confident Louise would no longer harm Leonie. My heart aches! Wouldn’t even the mere presence of her persecutor harm the poor girl?
And then the other day I came across this passage from little Servant of God Marcel Van, Therese’s Vietnamese spiritual brother:
There is no one on this earth who never makes a mistake. If someone never made a mistake, such a person would be none other than a god. But if he is a man, he cannot avoid making mistakes.
Even Mary our holy Mother has been mistaken. We have seen her, in fact, very worried, looking for her beloved Jesus for three days. Did she not know that the young Jesus, in spite of His human nature, was at the same time true God? So, why tire herself out looking for Him? If she had quite simply returned to the house, Jesus would have been able to return Himself to the house, since He was God. Why trouble yourself in this way, dear Mother?
It is that you really loved your child, and that seeing him missing for three days, you were not able to stop yourself from being preoccupied with His fate. And as it was not the first time that such a thing had happened, perhaps you thought your dear Jesus had already been led to His death! … So, you made a mistake, dear Mother, because you did not yet understand …
It is the same for us, mere humans; error can very easily slip into our lives. Yes, we can easily deceive ourselves.
This is to comfort weak souls who become agitated easily and become discouraged when they make mistakes.
– Servant of God Marcel Van (Other Writings, Jan 29, 1952)
So. What if Zelie made a mistake?
The sacrifices Saints Louis and Zelie made for their children were exactly the sacrifices we’re asked to make today, just as they’re the same parents had to make in Biblical times. To get up in the middle of the night to care for a hungry or sick child, to work to feed and clothe them, to amuse them and teach them, to find the best companions for them, to give up the activities we once enjoyed if they don’t allow for family involvement, and to postpone our own pursuits while attending to the uncountable needs of a child.
I don’t know if Zelie made a mistake. I do know I’ve made mistakes when the welfare of my children required me to say no to someone who had less claim on me, and often I failed to say that crucial no. Not that I think all of parenting is a big sacrifice! The joys of being a mother far surpass any other joys I’ve known, except perhaps those of being a wife.
I want to say then, for the record, that I forgive Zelie. I hope that she’ll help me make good decisions as a wife, as a mother, as a cancer patient, and as a friend. But I think I’ll stop worrying about not loving her letters. After all, she’d be the first to say that if I love her daughters, that’s the greatest compliment I can pay her. Saint Zelie (and Saint Louis), pray for us!
Photo retrieved from Sanctuary of Lesieux
