Zelie Martin: A meditation for Mother's Day by Fr. Antonio Sicari, O.C.D.
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Zelie Martin’s motherhood
by Fr. Antonio Sicari, O.C.D.
Zelie Martin about 1875
Let us now talk about the personality of Thérèse’s Mom, whom she came to know only for those first four years of her life.
“The good God gave me the grace of opening up my intelligence very quickly . . . Without a doubt, in His love He wanted to have me come to know that incomparable mother whom He gave me, but which His Divine Hand was in a hurry to crown in Heaven!”
It was especially in relation to their children that the Martin couple fulfilled that particular virginity which was theirs: precisely because the children were for the parents every day and in every way “the place of happiness and of pain,” they were also recognized and accepted as belonging ultimately to God the Father and thus loved for this their ultimate destiny.
Zélie and Louis accept the deaths of four children
Zélie and Louis Martin had nine children: two sons and seven daughters. Thérèse was the last one, born when the mother already knew that she had a tumor in her breast. Day after day the parents experienced the truth that the children were really God’s. They learned to accept the difficult alternation of birth and death, of sickness and healing, of getting worse and getting better, the cycle which was the lot of children back then. Parents today have to endure their children falling ill too, yet they have doctors and all sorts of medicine available, so that the battle is usually won and the danger overcome. Not so in the 19th century, when giving birth was already a serious risk that left babies at the end of their strength, and all sorts of illnesses went not only untreated but also undiagnosed. For intestinal disorders, for example, there existed only empirical treatments; respiratory illnesses lasted months, treated with some treatment causing blisters between the shoulders; diamond-skin disease (red soldier or swine rose disease) was super-dangerous, and rubella [German measles] could decimate an entire neighborhood. And then there was that diagnosis of “a languishing illness” which meant that the doctors had no idea what was going on except that the child was now inexplicably dying.
Zélie lost two sons and one daughter, all within their first year of life. Another daughter, her most beloved one, died in her fifth year. Five daughters survived. Thérèse, during her first years almost died a few times, yet showed an incredible desire to live. For anyone interested, there is in print the Correspondance familiale, the letters of Zélie [published in English under the title A Call to a Deeper Love: The Family Correspondence of the Parents of St Therese of the Child Jesus, 1863-1885 in 2011], by which one can come to understand—almost as if listening to her speak—how this mother lived through the birth and growing up of her little ones: we hear of her ineffable joy and indescribable torments as she guides the education and inclinations of each child while overseeing her lace shop, which kept her on her feet from four in the morning until eleven at night. There are pages full of suffering and pages full of tenderness, and from all of them a transparent light shines forth, that “virginity” of which we have already spoken—that faith, that orientation and direction of the heart toward the long-awaited meeting with one’s Beloved in Heaven, God.
Zélie and Louis accept the death of their five-year-old Hélène
Most of all we find pages of suffering, so let us look at a few. Here is Zélie’s account of the death of Hélène at five years old: “That which hurts me the most. and which I can’t get over, is that I didn’t better understand her condition . . . I had the doctor come and he told me that he found no obvious illness, and that he saw no need to come back, unless she became worse…”
“Sunday evening she became oppressed by something. Right away I sent for the doctor. He was not in, and did not come until Monday morning. He told me the child had a fever and a congested lung, that the lung was in serious danger and that we should feed her only broth . . . after he left, I looked at her sadly, with her eyes glazed over, no life, and I began to weep.”
“Then she put her little arms around me and hugged me and tried to console me as best she could; all day long she kept repeating over and over, ‘My poor Mommy who cried!’ I spent the whole night next to her, a terrible night. In the morning we asked her if she wanted to take some broth: she said, “Yes,” but then she couldn’t swallow it. Nevertheless she made a huge effort, saying, “If I eat it, will you still love me?” Then she took it, but was suffering terribly, and didn’t know what to do. She was looking at the bottle of medicine the doctor had ordered for her, and wanted to drink it, saying that when she had finished it, everything would be healed. Then towards 9:45 a.m. she told me, “Yes, soon I will be healed, yes, right away…” At that very moment, while I was holding her, her little head fell against my shoulder, her eyes closed, and five minutes later she was no longer alive . . .”
“This experience has affected me so deeply, that I will never forget it. I wasn’t expecting such a sudden end, and neither was my husband. When he came back into the room and saw his poor little daughter dead, he began to sob, “My little Hélène, my little Hélène!” Then together we offered her to the Lord.” (Letter of Feb. 24, 1870) “Together we offered her to the Lord.” To see one’s own child die is certainly a tragic experience, and yet the Martin couple shared that experience with almost every family of their time and space. And even today there are many couples who know such incredible pain. What makes the Martin couple such an example—models of the Christian life—was their “offering,” this conscious celebration of a mystery: since they had brought about this life (Hélène) in the Name of the Creator (such is the meaning of “to procreate”), they re-entrusted or gave her back into His hands, His personal hands, not just to some vague, obscure chance happening or cosmic mocking. Of course this does not at all mean forgetting or suffering less acutely. Rather, it means continuing to believe in the life one has given to one’s children, maintaining a relationship with them, and continuing to spend oneself for them.
One month after the death of little Hélène, Zélie writes, “Ever since I lost that little child, I feel a burning desire to see her again . . . not one minute in the day passes that I don’t think of her.” (Letter of March 27, 1870).
Zélie continues to celebrate the little one’s birthday each year: “Yesterday was the 11th year since the birth of little Hélène, and I thought so much of her; I will be very happy to see her again in the next life.” (Letter of Oct. 14, 1875). Zélie will always keep talking to her little ones, down in the reservoir of her deepest prayer life.
To her brother—who himself had lost a child—she writes, “Yes, it is really hard, yet, my dear one, don’t grumble. God is in charge, and for our good He can allow us to suffer a lot, and even more, but His help and grace will always be there for us . . . I just want to know above all if the child was still alive when it was baptized. The doctor should have baptized it before it was born. When we see a little creature in danger, we should always begin from that starting point . . . ” (Letter of Oct. 17, 1871).
To her sister-in-law on that same occasion, Zélie gently shares her own painful experience: “May the good God grant you the grace to accept His holy will [Love]. Your dear little one is next to Him, He sees her, loves her, and you will see each other again one day. This is a great consolation, one that I have been feeling and continue to feel still. When I closed the eyes of my dear little children and was burying them, I felt much pain, and yet I have always accepted His will [Love]. I didn’t complain about the pain and the anxieties that I had put up with for their sake. Many people would tell me, ‘It would have been better not to have had them at all. ’ I couldn’t take that kind of talk. I don’t believe that all the pain and anxieties can compare to the eternal happiness of my children. And besides, they are not lost forever. Life is short and full of unhappiness, but we will see each other again up there.” (Letter of Oct. 17, 1871).
Even little Thérèse, our saint, was in danger of dying during her first months of life: “Yesterday, while I was going to see my little Thérèse, and the doctor was with me, I said to myself, “ . . . we will only be happy when all of us, we and our children, will be together up there. And I offered to God my little daughter . . . ”
“I have done everything in my power to save my little Thérèse’s life; so, if God wants it otherwise, I will do my best to accept the trial as patiently as possible. I really need to become more courageous; I have suffered a lot in my life.” (Letter of March 30, 1873).
From the beginning Zélie realizes that her task is to “raise up children for Heaven.” This implies above all the long, patient, and joyful work of helping them to grow up, educating them in the Faith, helping them toward their eternal, happy destiny. And this goal is not frustrated simply because God brought them home to Heaven at such a young age.
Using his training in psychoanalysis, someone has written volumes trying to show how “morbid” it is to face death with such acceptance as Zélie Martin’s. Isn’t it truly strange, this science which holds as normal that a mother should resign herself to accepting what is absurd and makes no sense—contenting herself with drawn-out suffering, in order to then “heal” in forgetting—while it claims as morbid and negative the attitude of anyone who finds in his faith a help for life, and even shivers of hoping, waiting. “These two feelings, sorrow and joy (sorrow over “having lost a beautiful child on earth,” but joy “at the thought of having an angel in Heaven”) often come together within me: I know that life is short and that soon we will see each other again.” (Letter of Nov. 5, 1871).
Zelie as a mother: joy and faith
When the children overcame the inevitable crises of infancy, they still required and merited all the powers of heart and mind to help them grow up well both in body and soul. And it was a feast, in spite of the daily grind. “It is such a sweet work, taking care of one’s own children! Even if this was the only thing I was asked to do, I think I would be the happiest of women. But they really need to have their father and me working together to provide them with a dowry; otherwise when they are grown they won’t be happy with us!” (Letter of April 14, 1868).
The truth is that Zélie Guérin lived out her motherhood as one sustained prayer: she would ask for the grace needed, gratefully accept it when God gave it, and lovingly take care of it and put it to use. If at times God asked for the gift back (as, for example, when Hélène died), she grieved in sorrow, but she never felt betrayed by Him. She would trust and adore Him anyway, right in the midst of the difficult turn of events—difficult, but certainly not wicked. And she was able to do this because she didn’t turn to God only during those times of crisis, as many people do when it seems that God’s way has turned dark, yet ignore Him when things are going well. No, Zélie felt herself at home in God’s world, especially with the help of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
Zélie wants to raise her children to be saints
Here is a letter to her daughter Pauline, in which she tells her of the spiritual circumstances of her conception: “Wednesday will be the Immaculate Conception, a big feast for me! On this day the Blessed Virgin has granted me many big graces . . . I will never forget the 8th of December, 1860, when I prayed to our Heavenly Mother and asked her to give me a little Pauline, but I can’t think about that time without laughing, because I was completely like a little girl asking for a doll from her mother, and I acted like one. I wanted to have a Pauline like the one I now have, and I added all the littlest details [about my request], because I was afraid that the Blessed Virgin might not understand exactly what I was asking for. It was without a doubt necessary above all that she have a beautiful little soul capable of becoming a saint. And yet I also wanted her to be very gracious. All this is not very nice, sure, but I think it’s beautiful the way it all worked out just the way I wanted it to.” (Letter of Dec. 5, 1875)
We can smile about her endearing devotion. And yet there is a fact that can make us shudder with emotion. Here is this Mom making her prayer “to the Virgin for a little girl” on the day of the Immaculate Conception, at the morning Mass on December 8, 1860. And then Pauline is born on September 7, 1861, exactly nine months later. On September 8, the Feast of the Blessed Mother’s birthday, the little girl is baptized (her best birthday!).
We then find out that the above-mentioned dialogue with the Immaculate One on the day of her feast never ceased after that.
The mother continues: “This year I will go again to find the Blessed Virgin, bright and early, so that I can be the first one there, and as usual I will offer her my candle. But I will not be asking for any more daughters; I will ask her that those she has already given me might become saints, and, as for me, that I might be able to stay close to them, but that they have to be much better than me.” (Letter of Dec. 5, 1875).
Here we find the key word to help interpret what happened: the word “holiness.” Zélie Guérin was a woman of amazing energy, immersed in her work to the point of almost being overcome by it. Her lace workshop was transformed into a little enterprise that enabled so many women to work out of their homes, that in order to help her out, her husband reached the point where he gave up his own work of watchmaker and jeweler.
We can see how she struggled with a demanding family life (we need only think of her nine pregnancies in thirteen years!).
All this, however, did not prevent Zélie from keeping before her eyes her one great work or worry: the sanctification or growth in holiness of her children, and—in the process of humbly carrying out this work—her own sanctification. “I want to become a saint,” she writes, “but it won’t be easy; there is a lot to whittle down, and the wood is as hard as a rock. It would have been better to put one’s hand to the plow sooner, while it was easier, but better later than never.” (Letter of Nov. 1, 1873).
Holiness is above all “the unbounded confidence in God’s love,” in His presence and companionship, given that He really calls Himself “Emmanuel” (God with us). To her sister-in-law Zélie confides, “Look, my dear sister, you who are once again expecting a child: I do worry about your health, but ultimately the good God does not give anyone more than she has the strength to carry. So many times I have seen my husband worry about my health when I was pregnant, whereas I was so calm, and would tell him, ‘Don’t be afraid; the good God is with us.’ And at the same time I was overloaded with work and all sorts of thoughts, and yet still going about with a steady trust that I was being sustained from on high.” (Letter of May 5, 1871).
One day she was telling her daughter about someone she knew who was a pretty good person, but “with really liberal ideas!,” who made her suffer because of his lack of faith: “ . . . the other day he was telling me that ‘God doesn’t care about us’ . . . it hurts me that such good friends think such thoughts. I know very well that God cares about me! So many times in my life I have realized this, and I have so many memories of His care that they will never drop out of my memory.” (Letter of March 12, 1876).
To her daughters in boarding school she writes, “We need to serve God really well, my dear daughters, and try one day to be among the company of the saints whose feast day we are celebrating today.” (Letter of Nov. 1, 1873)
“You are a good little daughter, very affectionate and sweet, but not yet devout enough.” (Letter of Oct. 10, 1875).
“Keep being a good and holy little daughter.” (Letter of January 1876).
“I really hope that Marie (the oldest daughter) will be a good girl, but I would like her to be a saint, and I would like you, my Pauline, to be a saint too. I too want to become a saint, but I don’t know where to start; there is so much to do, that I will just hold on to the desire. Often during the day I say, ‘My God, I would like to be a saint!’ But then I don’t do the works! But now is the time for me to get going . . . .” (Letter of Feb. 26, 1876).
Zélie’s letters, a record of her everyday life
In actual fact Zélie’s most radiant works were precisely those of being the teacher and educator, and she did them very well without ever slacking, in spite of the other duties that threatened to engulf her. To prove this it would suffice simply to document her long and frequent letters to her daughter away at boarding school, letters rich in “weekly stories,” that help the young girl to experience the whole atmosphere of the home: the joyful and the sorrowful events, the growing up of her other sisters, the news from the neighborhood, humorous happenings, hints about family worries. And all of it mixed with sweet and exacting advice from this mother who expects the best from her daughter, especially before God.
The rest of her responsibilities consisted of a good and tiring daily routine. All the children knew that the day could not start without “offering the heart to the Lord,” using the form learned from listening to their mother: “My God, I offer You my heart; take it, if You like, in such a way that no one else might possess it but You alone, my dear Jesus.”
Mom herself marvels as she recalls, “This morning at 5:30, when I got up, Céline (the second youngest, before Thérèse) woke up, and I asked her if she wanted a piece of chocolate. She didn’t answer because she was making her offering of the heart to God with total concentration . . . later on, laughing, I called out to her, ‘My little angel’ and I said to her, ‘who calls you that?’ and she answered, ‘my wet nurse!’ Then I said, ‘Do you remember to pray for her now that she has died?’ She responded, “I haven’t forgotten her even once: every day I say an Our Father and a Hail Mary for her.’” (Letter of Nov. 19, 1876).
The daughters knew that every morning, when the bells rang at 5:30, Dad and Mom would leave to go to “the poor people’s Mass” [the early Mass for the blue-collar folks on their way to work]. Sometimes, hearing them leave, the littlest one, Thérèse, would wake up and say, “Mama, I will be really good . . .” Yes, one can help little children towards peace in all sorts of ways!
Their examination of conscience was done sitting on their mother’s knees, because she was the one who helped turn this somewhat difficult aspect of the sacrament of forgiveness into something good and full of tenderness.
All the little hardships of life—from learning to read and write to healing little arguments, to being afraid of the dentist—were faced with the outlook of “giving pleasure-joy to Jesus.” In fact, the children were trained to count their “good deeds,” what we used to call “flowers.” Yes, there is a risk in growing up with a religious training too focused on counting one’s own acts of charity, but it is without a doubt infinitely less than the risk of not doing anything either in order to love or to feel oneself loved by God.
Within this rather normal fabric of life were interwoven all the attitudes that parents have and pass on to their children: love for the poor, even at the cost of long, bothersome labors; solidarity with one’s neighbors, even in really unpleasant circumstances; the attitude of the mother towards the workers. The distribution of the weekly paychecks was so sacred that Zélie did not want to reschedule it, not even on the day when she had just lost a child. And Sunday afternoon was always reserved for visits to the homes of any of her workers who were sick. She did all sorts of acts of kindness for those in need.
“If you are pleased with the chambermaid I sent you,” she writes to her sister-in-law, “try to hold on to her, because it is really difficult to find a good one. It’s not just the paycheck that guarantees the affections of domestic workers; they also need to feel that we love them. We need to show them sympathy, and not be too rigid with them . . . . you know how very lively-high-strung I am, and yet all the domestics I have had have loved me, and I love them so very much. The one I have right now would get sick if she had to leave [find another job]; I am sure that even if someone offered her 200 francs more she would not want to leave us. It is true: I don’t treat my domestics less well than my daughters.” (Letter of March 2, 1868).
Zélie and her special-needs child, Léonie
Zélie even had to undergo the most difficult experience that a mother could have: a daughter with a difficult character, that no one knows how to deal with. She was affectionate but moody. She would go back and forth between outbursts of generosity and incredible stubbornness. She would rebel against her mother and secretly be totally dominated by, be the slave of, the housemaid. If she wanted something, she was capable of screaming for hours. At boarding school they labeled her “a horrible child,” to the point of finally kicking her out. Zélie, with absolute honesty, comments, “When our children are not like the others, we must bear the responsibility.”
The mother’s assessment of this strange little daughter is so lucid, to the point of being [seemingly] without pity, and yet Zélie never changed her plans for her daughter: she offered to God every labor, every suffering, and every prayer so that Léonie might still become a saint.
There were constant attempts to find the right moment for the teacher to reach the heart of the young girl: “This afternoon I had her sit next to me while I read her some prayers, but right away she grew bored and told me, ‘Mom, tell me something about the life of Our Lord Jesus Christ. ’ I wasn’t in the mood to do it, since I always have a sore throat, and it wears on me. Finally I forced myself and told her the story of Our Lord’s life. When I got to the Passion she was crying. I liked seeing such feelings in her.” (Letter of Sept. 7, 1875).
Zélie would write to one of her daughters: “(Léonie) has less gifts of nature than you all, and yet she has a heart that wants to love and be loved, and only a mother can show her at every moment the affection which she needs . . .” (Letter of June 25, 1877) Her mother offered her life for this: “If she didn’t need the sacrifice of my life in order to become a saint, I would [still] do it happily.” (Letter of Jan. 18, 1877). Zélie succeeded in completely winning over the spirit of her poor “difficult” daughter just a few months before her [Zélie’s] death: “She has started to show me a constantly increasing affection. She doesn’t leave me any more; she has come to the point where she shares with me her deepest secrets. Little by little the fear and love of God are penetrating into her heart. But if you only knew how gently-sweetly I treat her . . . she wants to make her First Communion at the end of May, and this requires a daily preparation; every moment . . . well, blessed be the Good God.” (Letter of May 10, 1877).
In spite of repeated failures, this daughter—after the death of the mother—ends up a success: she will discover her very own personal calling, her vocation. She will become a Visitation nun and die at a ripe old age, venerated as a saint because of her humility, sweetness-gentleness, her balance-common sense acquired by means of long years of dedication to God and to her neighbor, and by always following the example and teaching of “little Thérèse,” the youngest daughter.
Zélie as a businesswoman in a turbulent time
To the worries about education that filled the heart and mind of Zélie were added the worries of a particularly turbulent era. We are talking about the years of the fall of the Second Empire in France: the French soldiers were returning in defeat. and the Prussian troops with the black flags and skulls on their helmets were marching around in a horrible way in the streets of Alençon. They would demand lodging, animals, all kinds of goods. The Martins had to accept nine Prussians in their house. No meat or milk was to be found. “Everyone in the city is crying—except for me,” Zélie writes.
Her business was up and down, with times of crisis that made her fear the worst: “How much toil and hard work for this cursed Alençon lace, which is filling up my suffering to the brim! I earn a little bit of money, true, but my God, at what cost! It is costing me my life, because I think it is shortening my days; and if the Lord doesn’t protect me in some special way, I don’t think I’ll be around long . . . ” (Letter of Dec. 23, 1866) “When I began my Alençon lace business, I ended up sick with all the worries. Now I am more reasonable about it; I worry less, and I accept all the unpleasant obstacles that happen or could happen. I tell myself: the Lord wants it this way, and I don’t think about it any more.” (Letter of Feb. 14, 1868).
“My business is going badly, really badly, it couldn’t get any worse. I truly believe that I have reached the end of my reign, in spite of my preference, since I would have wanted to work all the way to the end for my children. We already have five, without counting those who might still come, since I am hoping to have still three or four more!” (Letter of May, 1868).
Her daughters would often hear her affirming: “The Lord is giving me the grace not to become frightened; I am at peace.” “God is a good Father who never gives His creatures a burden heavier than they can carry.” Zélie was able, with her untiring work, to put together a good inheritance, and yet she was not attached to money. She would say, “I don’t stir up any desire to get rich; I have more than I could want. At the same time it seems crazy to me to give up this work, especially when I think about how I have five children to take care of. For their sake I want to go all the way…if I were alone and had to go back and put up with everything I have suffered for the last 24 years up to today, I would prefer to die of hunger, because just thinking about it all I feel a shuddering come over me.” (Letter of Feb. 6, 1876) By now she is more than 40 years old and sick. Louis is already 50. And behold, another child is on the way. There is no lack of worry, both for the mother and for the soon-to-be newborn into the world. The last one survived only a few months. She writes: “I am crazy about children; I was born to have them. But the time is coming soon when I won’t have any more. I will be 41 the 23rd of this month: this is the time for becoming a grandmother!” (Letter of Dec. 15, 1872).
Zélie and her youngest, Thérèse
Oh, but what profound joy and acceptance we see, before any worries begin, as she writes to her sister-in-law a few months after Thérèse’s birth, the one who is to become the Saint of Lisieux: “When I was carrying her in my womb, I noticed something that has never before happened to me with my other daughters: if I was singing, she would sing with me . . . I’m sharing this with you, because no one else would believe me.” (Letter of Jan. 16, 1873).
Zélie was not able to dedicate many years to this last little one, since she could be with her only for her for her first four years of life. Nevertheless, in her autobiography Thérèse records the most tender and meaningful memories that her Mom wrote about in her letters. When the little girl is not yet three, Mom recounts with amusement, “The little one is an imp without equal; she comes up to me to hug me, wishing me dead: ‘Oh, how I wish you would die, my Mommy!’ They scold her, and she says, ‘But it’s because I want you to go to Heaven; you are always saying that we have to die to get there!’ And thus, carried away with love, she also wishes her father would die.” (Letter of Dec. 5, 1875.
A few months later Zélie again recounts: “Little Thérèse . . . is always most gracious and tells me that this morning she wanted to go to Heaven and that because of that she will be as good as a little angel.” (Letter of March 12, 1876). Certain psychoanalytical claims have focused in on this “desire for death” that St. Thérèse showed, imagining dark and troubled conflicts between a mother obsessed with her work, with illness and with thoughts of the beyond, and a child who wants to live. The fact is that certain “experts” are convinced that “the desire for death” and “the desire for Heaven” amount to the same, given that Heaven is seen as a useless fantasy. They fail to picture a Christian mom who is truly able to speak to her children about Paradise and eternal life in a sweet and attractive way.
Even Luther—who was notoriously conflicted—said one day while holding his child in his arms: “Children have such beautiful thoughts about God, because they believe that He is in Heaven and that He is their God.”
At four years old the thought of Heaven is still close and familiar, but already it is attaching itself to the problem of salvation, of good and evil, of danger. The mother again recounts: “The other day Thérèse asks me if she will get to Heaven. I tell her, yes, if she is really good. She answers, ‘Yes, but if I am not really good, I will go to hell…but I know what I will do: I will run away up there with you who would be in Heaven. How would God manage to get me? You would hold me really, really tight in your arms . . . .’ I could read it in her eyes: she is convinced that the good God can do nothing to her if she is in the arms of her Mama.” (Letter of Oct. 28, 1876).
We can say that Thérèse’s whole spiritual adventure and teaching are already entirely contained in this most light-filled point of view: for her it was enough to understand that the arms of her mother were the sign and sacrament of the merciful arms of her Heavenly Father.
It is similar to another richly symbolic childhood attitude of hers, also full of her determined logic: when she was learning to take her first steps, she found it hard to climb up stairs. So what Thérèse would do is position herself at the bottom close to the first step and then call out, “Mama!” not moving from there until she heard the voice saying, “Yes, my little child!” Only at that response would she lift her little foot and try to get up the first step, and on from there. She needed to call and get an encouraging response at each step.
Later on, in educating the young novices [in the convent], Thérèse will teach them that there is no better way to learn to go climb up to God than asking Him at every step.
Zélie’s illness
Meanwhile Zélie’s health goes downhill before everyone’s eyes. The breast gland, which for a while now has caused her to suffer, has grown more and is giving her ever-increasing pain. Finally it is decided to go to the doctor. One is found, as famous as he is brutal, “with an indifferent and annoyed tone of voice, with a grimace on his face . . . because he doesn’t believe in anything . . . doesn’t know how to say a good word nor even to be benevolent, and is content to show indifference.” (Letter of June 14, 1877) But Zélie is grateful to him, because at least she is able to find out the whole truth. She tells the sister-in-law: “Finally I went to Doctor X, who after having examined me thoroughly, palpated me, told me after a minute of silence, ‘Do you know that what you have is really serious? It is a fibrous tumor. Would you shrink back from an operation?’ I answered, ‘No, even though I was certain that instead of saving my life, this operation would cut short my days. And I explained to him the reason for my conviction so well that he once again said, ‘You know that, as for me, all of this is the truth, thus I cannot advise you to have the operation, since it would be very uncertain.’ I asked him if there was a one in a hundred chance [of success]. He answered me evasively…he offered me a prescription. I told him: ‘What good would that do?’ He looked at me and replied, ‘Nothing. It’s just to make the sick person feel a little better . . .’” (Letter of Dec. 17, 1876) She tries hard to keep her relatives calm: “If God thought I would be really useful on earth, He certainly would not have allowed me to have this illness, because I have prayed to Him very much, asking Him not to take me from this world as long as my daughters need me…I don’t see things in a tragic light, which is a great grace that God is giving me . . . whatever may happen, let us make use of the special time that is still allowed us, and let us not worry about it; it will always be whatever God wants.” (Letter of Dec. 17, 1876).
On the eve of what will be her last Christmas, she goes to Lisieux for a new consultation with a doctor friend, but everyone continues to advise her against an operation. She writes about it to her husband: “Let us place ourselves in the hands of God, He Who knows much better than we do what is needed. ‘It is He Who wounds and binds up’ . . . I am not here freely except to be with you, my dear Louis.” (Letter of Dec. 24, 1876).
Zélie’s pilgrimage to Lourdes
As this tragic last December comes to a close, Zélie can affirm that “I am like those children who do not worry about tomorrow; I am always expecting happiness.” (Letter of Dec. 31, 1876) She insisted: “Let us go forward and as lightly as possible. Now everyone is less in anguish, and I try more than ever to make sure it continues like that. How I wish we could all not talk about it anymore! What good does it do? We have done all we should do, so let us leave the rest in the hands of Providence…If I am not cured it will be because God is fighting hard to have me . . . .” (Letter of Jan. 5, 1877) The family is upset and insists on a pilgrimage to Lourdes; Zélie accepts it, above all for the sake of her husband and children. Everyone is so convinced of obtaining a miracle that they are buzzing with impatience. Even Zélie sometimes convinces herself that the Holy Virgin will hear so many prayers. Yet she is above all concerned about the faith of the daughters, that it not falter in the case of eventual failure. She says simply, “Our Lady will cure me if it is necessary.”
“I will do everything possible to obtain a miracle; I am counting on the pilgrimage to Lourdes, but if I am not cured, I will try to sing on the way home anyway.” (Letter of Feb. 20, 1877).
She says to the children: “We must dispose ourselves to accept generously the will of God, whatever that may be, since that is always what is best for us.” (Letter of May 1877).
On the eve of the pilgrimage she confesses, “I have done the work of four, and four people who can work without wasting time. I have lived a tough life . . . now I can finally breathe a sigh of relief. I see the departure sign, as if they were telling me, ‘You have done a lot; come and rest. ’ But I have not done a lot! These children are not yet raised. Ah, if it wasn’t for them, death would not frighten me.”
The trip—which Zélie made carrying with her the three oldest daughters, especially the “difficult one” whom she wanted to entrust to Our Lady—was most painful, and the disillusionment of the daughters was huge. She came back home reassured, without any sadness: “As happy as if I had obtained the grace asked for: which has brought fresh courage (to Dad) and has brought renewed good feelings to the home . . . I am putting Lourdes water on my wounds every night, and then I live in hope and peace, waiting for the hour of God to arrive . . .” (Letter of June 25, 1877).
To her daughter who has returned from boarding school disillusioned by the lack of a miracle Zélie writes, “I want to know if you are still upset and grumbling at the Holy Virgin who didn’t want (contrary to what the young girl had been saying) ‘to make you jump for joy’ . . . . the Holy Virgin has said to us as she said to Bernadette: ‘I will make you all happy not in this world, but in the next. ’” (Letter of June 25, 1877) “Don’t worry about me; I’m not getting upset and I’m putting everything in God’s hands.” (Letter of June 29, 1877).
Zélie’s last months
By now she feels increasingly exhausted: “If this thing keeps going, I’m going to go crazy. I have to keep completely still. During the day it is manageable, but at night, when I need to lie down or get up, I become afraid, because I become nauseated and feel like I’m going to faint…at five [in the morning] I had to get dressed to get to the first Mass, and I was alone because Louis was at night-time Adoration; I pulled myself up to see the time: fortunately the Holy Virgin was helping me, for I have no idea how I would have done it. It was still too early. I sat on my bed, and didn’t dare relax so that I wouldn’t have to straighten myself out a half hour later. Finally at five I called Marie so that she might be able to help me get dressed. I suffered a lot in sitting down and in kneeling in church. I had to hold on to myself to keep from crying out, and so I’m not going back to a sung Mass either…” (Letter of July 8, 1877).
The daughter Marie recounts, “When she gets tired of having her head raised up [on a pillow?] we raise her up very slowly with the pillows until she is completely seated [upright]. But this never happens without incredible pain, because the least little movement makes her cry out in torment. And yet with what patience and acceptance does she put up with this sad illness! She never leaves her Rosary; she is always praying, in spite of her sufferings. We all admire her, because she has incomparable courage and energy. It has been fifteen days now, and she is still praying her Rosary, all the time on her knees at the feet of the Holy Virgin [statue] in her room, the one she loves so much. Seeing her so sick, I wanted to make her sit down, but it was useless.” (Letter of July 8, 1877).
She still has the strength to write a few last letters: “You tell me not to lose my trust, and that is what I do. I know really well that the Holy Virgin can cure me, but I can’t get rid of the fear [feeling?] that she doesn’t want that, and I tell her openly that a miracle right now seems pretty doubtful to me. I have made my decision and I’m trying to act as if I have to die. I really need not to waste any of the little time left for me to live. These are days of salvation which will never come by again; I want to make the most of them.” (Letter of July 15, 1877).
“Sunday morning, after a night that was not too bad, I rose at five to go to Mass…only with the utmost effort was I able to take a step. When I had to step down from the sidewalk a whole special maneuver was needed. Fortunately there weren’t many people on the street. I really promised myself that I would not go back to Mass when I’m like this.” (Letter of July 24, 1877).
“These last 24 hours I have suffered more than in my whole life. Poor Louis, every now and then he held me in his arms like a little child.” (Letter of July 27, 1877) At the beginning of August 1877, having overcome the exhaustion, she wanted to stop by the church: “Friday she went to Mass at seven o’clock because it was the First Friday of the month. Dad had to guide her, because without him she would not have been able to make it there. He told us that once they arrived, if someone had not been there to push open the door, they would never have been able to get in.” (Letter of the daughter, Marie, August 9, 1877).
She would often repeat: “O You Who created me, have mercy on me.”
Zelie’s death
Zélie died at dawn, August 28, 1877. The last lines she wrote were: “If the Blessed Virgin does not cure me, it is because my time is done and the good God wants me to rest somewhere other than on earth.” (Letter of August 16, 1877).
Thérèse, who was only four years old, described the inconsolable loss in this important passage: “Her last week on earth, Céline and I were like little exiles. Every morning Madame Leriche (a neighbor) would come and get us and we would spend the whole day with her. One day we didn’t have time to say our prayers before leaving the house . . . very timidly Céline pointed it out to Madame Leriche, who concluded, ‘Well then, my little children, you can say them now.’ Then she put the two of us in a large room, and went away. Céline looked at me, and we said, ‘Ah, she isn’t like Mama. She always made us say our prayers!’” (Manuscript A, 42) [Story of a Soul].
This is the unforgettable inheritance that a mother can bequeath even to a four-year- old child, an inheritance that continues to increase in fruits of holiness and intimacy with God: “She always made us say our prayers!”
And the daughters will always remember with tears what her constant attitude and almost her whole project and the joy of her life was: “I have entrusted everything to the will [Love] and the grace of God.” (Letter of April 22, 1866).
This meditation on Zelie Martin as a mother is excerpted from the conference below:
Zélie and Louis Martin, Mother and Father of
Saint Thérèse of the Child Jesus of the Holy Face
by Father Antonio Sicari. O.C.D.
[This is the transcript of a presentation given by Father Antonio M. Sicari, O. C. D. , of the Verona Province of the Discalced Carmelite friars. Father Thomas Koller, O. C. D. , of the California/Arizona Province, translated it into English. I thank Father Koller for translating it and Father Sicari for graciously permitting me to publish it on "Saints Louis and Zelie Martin, the Parents of St. Therese of Lisieux.” Please do not reproduce it, but feel free to link to it here].