A Mystical Experience in Lisieux

I spent the last 10 days of July in France with my oldest son. Leading up to the trip, I was so anxious about everything: I was worried about getting sick, about missing our trains, about missing my family back home. It took so much planning, preparation, and effort, that I couldn’t wait to go just so I could get it all over with and come home.

I see now the way I worry about things is my attempt at control. If I worry about the train being on time, staying healthy, what to eat, how much money to spend, then somehow the bad won’t happen because I’ve thought it through. I’ve controlled it with my mind.

Only my brain is not that big, apparently, as I have no jedi mind control, and nothing makes you feel more like an idiot than trying to travel in a foreign country. Plenty of stuff went wrong that I didn’t worry about enough, but we made it through.

Not only did we make it through, but we had a darn good time along the way. My son did pick up a cold but he was a trooper, and we still saw just about everything we set out to see: Mont Saint Michel, the D-Day landing beaches and memorial, Our Lady of Pontmain, Lisieux, the Eiffel Tower, the Chapel of the Miraculous Medal, Sainte-Chappelle, Notre Dame, the Palace of Versailles. We also spent an incredible weekend visiting with 190 of our closest French relatives (plus a few Americans), but that’s a story for another time.

This past week at Mass, on the Feast of the Transfiguration, I realized what a mountaintop experience our trip to France was. The ability to pray in so many holy and beautiful places, to be wholly present to the moment and offer sincere and beautiful prayers was more transformative than I expected. By the end of the 10 days, I was ready to come home. But what I wasn’t ready for was the immediate jump back in to taking care of the kids, laundry, grocery shopping, scheduling, school year planning. It was more jarring than I had expected.

Thinking back to our trip, one mountain-top encounter stands out. We drove to Lisieux, parked, found a bathroom, and slid into the chapel at Carmel just in time for Mass. It was a nice Mass—Jesus was there, after all—but the chapel was the least pretty of our whole trip. We saw a sign in the chapel pointing to “la chasse” of St. Therese, which I wondered if it was maybe her room in the convent? Or her clothing?

No, it was actually her “tomb” right on the other side of the chapel’s pillars. We walked over to the reliquary/coffin where she is buried (although she has some relics in the Basilica and other parts of her remains are on tour in Poland…also a topic for another time).

I knelt in front of the bars and prayed from my heart. I shared with St. Therese my desire to do big things for God, the yearning for greatness in my heart, the hope of evangelization with the publishing of my new book.

I felt a camaraderie with this saint in that I long for a big mission to share God’s love. At the same time, I am very aware of my littleness: my small mission field that mainly consists of my family and parish, and the few people who read this newsletter. Therese knew that paradox – for a young girl who died at 24 and never left the convent, she is the most influential saint of the 21^st century. She, who never went on a mission, is the patron saint of missionaries. Her interior life was so rich yet hidden that even the other nuns didn’t see it. They were worried they wouldn’t have anything to say about Therese at her funeral! Therese was a deep-feeler who was often misunderstood. Only in her writings did her depth really reveal itself. That is something I can relate to.

Even though Therese was small and humble in this life, she is now exalted in eternal life because she is united to the greatness of God. She offered her life for souls, prayed for priests, and grew in simplicity and trust of her heavenly Father. I felt this hope and peace as I offered to God my desires, my reality, and asked Him to do what He will with it. And then I stood up.

I smelled the faint smell of incense, so I peeked my head back into the chapel to see if they were getting ready for some service in there. It was empty. I asked my parents if they smelled any incense or anything. No, they said, but maybe it was all the flowers by St. Therese’s tomb. I walked over and poked my nose through the bars. Nope, smelled like nothing in there. I stood beside my son and sniffed again. The scent was definitely there – a faint, sweet smelling floral incense. As someone who is very allergic to most scents, this one was pleasant, dare I say—heavenly.

I have since learned that some people have had the experience of smelling the scent of flowers or incense, as a kind of answer to prayer from St. Therese, who said she would spend her heaven doing good on earth and send showers of roses.

Then I sat in morning Mass on the Feast of the Transfiguration, thinking about the glory cloud that enveloped the apostles as they saw Jesus transfigured, and how they wanted to build tents and stay in that moment of heavenly grace. They wanted to remain in that mountaintop experience, and I get it. Couldn’t I get a whiff of that incense one more time? I now have a longing to hide away while reading spiritual books and writing on lofty, heavenly experiences—or at least to pray without distraction in a beautiful European chapel—but the kids are asking for food and the bathroom needs cleaned and I have to register for this class or that activity.

The mountaintop prepared Peter, James, and John for the scandal of the cross. They could hold on to the memory of Jesus in his glory to help them through the difficult moments.

My life is not a major crucifixion, but it is death to self in a million tiny ways. And then I recalled praying by the tomb of Sts. Louis and Zelie Martin, Therese’s parents. Zelie lost four children in infancy and died of breast cancer when Therese was only four. The reason Therese survived infancy was that she was given to a wet nurse for the first year of her life. Imagine missing the first year of your child’s life, knowing another mother is comforting your baby in a way you can’t!

Zelie knew suffering. She knew the trials of this life as an exasperated mom and business owner, yet she gave her desires over to God. Not knowing glory in this life, she knows it now in the next. Same with her husband Louis, whose quiet and steady devotion paved the way for his daughters to become saints. They were ordinary parents with struggles and frustrations, but God sanctified them through it. Their holiness grew through family life. They weren’t looking to make a name for themselves. They were simply loving God through serving their family, loving each other through sorrow and death.

Therese, the “little flower”, now has quite the large basilica dedicated to her. Not having the large stained-glass windows of Gothic Cathedrals, Therese’s basilica is full of mosaics and feels a bit darker inside. And yet, as I made my way to the front of the Church, I saw that all the light seemed concentrated near the tabernacle, and that is just how Therese would want it. A grand basilica, a little saint, and it all points to Jesus. Light illumines the darkest hour, and the darkness leads to light. Jesus, in the Transfiguration, gave his closest companions a glimpse of that heavenly light.

Now, down the mountain in my day-to-day, I feel the discouragement of people doing more important things than me, or having more readers, or being better writers and teachers and planners and mothers. I experience the overwhelm of parenting, battling screens, planning activities, and the stress of family life.

Then I remember St. Therese, her parents, and my prayer before their relics. Ultimately, it seems to me that the offering of my life and my desires is enough for the moment, even when the moment feels discouraging. To keep on in my little ways that I have already discerned with God is enough, and God can do with it what He wills. If it becomes a big mission, it was all God. If it remains a small offering, it will be glorified in Heaven.

I couldn’t build my tent there in Lisieux, but I have the encouragement that transformation is taking place in me, that God is working on me, and that He will answer my greatest prayer: union with Him.

“All of us, gazing with unveiled face on the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, as from the Lord who is the Spirit.” (2 Cor 3:18)

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