Hoo boy! It’s been a long time since I’ve visited my blog. I’m just stepping in here to reprint an article I wrote originally for Melbourne Catholic Magazine.
A lot of people have asked me about St Therese of Lisieux, after I mention her in my novel. She’s actually my confirmation saint. Here is an article I wrote about her a few years ago:
Listen Up
I talk a lot. I can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like I have so much to say I might burst. I’m often guilty of watching people’s mouths in conversation, waiting for their lips to pause, waiting for that moment when I can jump in, relieve that built-up pressure, let all my thoughts and ideas tumble out.
At home, I have small children. All day, I’m “put your jacket on – let Mummy wipe your nose – don’t eat that darling, that’s not food – please and thank you! – be kind to your brother – where is your other shoe? – use your big girl words”. I can be that way in prayer as well. I come to God with a shopping list of intentions. Then I bark instructions at Him.
The idea of listening to God in prayer is a little confronting. Will God speak in a booming voice from the sky? Will God knock me off my horse or make it rain flowers or cause a statue to get emotional or string together a bunch of meaningful co-incidences? What if God doesn’t say anything? What if it feels like He’s not there at all? And how will God fit in with all my important plans?
When I’m in need of wisdom, I turn to the Teresas. This idea works better when I say it out loud than when I write it, because then I’m not forced to misspell anybody’s name. And “Thérèse” gains that last syllable when made plural. But we can make do. The “Teresas” I turn to are Mother Teresa, St Thérèse of Lisieux and St Teresa of Avila.
Mother Teresa, also known as St Teresa of Calcutta, was both a diminutive nun and a towering figure of the 20th century. The founder of the Missionaries of Charity, Mother Teresa’s work focussed on showing love to the poorest of the poor. Many of her writings emphasise the importance of prayer, especially silent prayer. “In the silence of the heart,” she writes, “God speaks”
It’s difficult finding silence in a busy life. When I go to Mass on Sunday, I spend most of the time as a human climbing pole that says “Shh!”. But there are choices I can make. At 9:15pm, when wrestling with a sleep-resistant toddler, I can choose to feel resentment over all the TV I’m missing, or I can choose to feel gratitude to God for the small wriggling child, so full of life and health and … alertness. I can allow myself to feel the depth of immense love I have for this child, itself a mere shadow of God’s love for me.
When Mother Teresa, then Anjezë Bojaxhiu, went into ministry, she adopted the name “Teresa” after St Thérèse of Lisieux (another sister in her convent had already chosen ‘Thérèse’). St. Thérèse of Lisieux, also known as St. Thérèse of the Child Jesus and The Little Flower, is a hugely popular saint. She lived, for only 24 years, in the late 19th century. Her ‘little way’ is a simple and practical approach to spiritual life, of small love-filled acts.
St. Thérèse writes about how she listened to the voice of God. “The Teacher of teachers instructs without sound of words, and though I have never heard Him speak, yet I know He is within me, always guiding and inspiring me; and just when I need them, lights, hitherto unseen, break in upon me. As a rule, it is not during prayer that this happens, but in the midst of my daily duties.”
Reading this makes me prick up my ears. Daily duties? I have plenty of those! In my mind, I’ve always thought a relationship with God can only take place in a monastic setting, with large blocks of time set aside for sitting alone in silence and pacing through cloistered halls. When things get busy, I put God in the ‘too hard’ basket. I forget that, just like my best friends, God is comfortable enough among the washing and dishes and nappies and spills. I don’t need to make things perfect to speak to God, or for God to speak to me.
This brings me to the third Teresa. St Teresa of Avila lived in the 16th century, during the Reformation. She is a renowned mystic, a prominent theologian and, like St Thérèse, a doctor of the church. She also wrote my current all-time favourite quote. If I were the type to embroider aphorisms onto cushions, I’d cross-stitch this baby onto every throw pillow I own. Instead, I’ve scribbled it onto a sticky note and put it on my fridge: “God is in the pots and pans”
St Teresa comments, also, that it is possible to listen to God often without intuiting a response. It has nothing to do with how hard you concentrate: God’s word can’t be forced. “I may listen for many days and although I may desire to hear them, I shall be unable to do so,” she writes in her autobiography, “and then, at other times, when I have no desire to hear them, as I have said, I am compelled to.”
I’m not suggesting we should only listen when we pray or that we shouldn’t use words or recite timeworn prayers. In every relationship, there’s room for small talk and trivial conversations, for deep-and-meaningfuls and mundane-and-functionals, for talk and for silence.
Listening to God means being willing to allow God to prod me out of my comfort zone. This can be hard for me. I like to be in control. Listening to God means being open to God’s plan, not merely trying to slot God into my plans.
Yesterday I did the big grocery shop for the fortnight. It was hard work. While I squinted at cans of pineapple pieces, trying to work out if they were product-of-Australia, and if said pieces were suspended in syrup or in natural juice, my twin toddlers were trying to work out how many items they could fling from the trolley before Mummy noticed (seven and a half).
After loading can after bag after box of pasta sauce, nappy wipes and dishwasher tablets onto the conveyor belt, after flapping out the canvas bags at the packing bench and accidentally squashing a bag of bread under a bag of soup tins, after trundling along with a full trolley and a moving menagerie of children, I hefted my bone-weary body onto the travellator, bound for the car park.
As the escalator gripped the magnets of my trolley, relieving me of its unwieldy burden, so too did I allow myself to feel held by God. I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths. I stood amid the shriek and chatter of my children, the blare of Val Morgan advertising, and the beep-beep-beep of a nearby forklift. I stood in that moment, and I found silence.
I still talk an awful lot. That’s something about me I don’t think will ever change. But I’m trying to get better at listening. In a group discussion, I wait for three other people, and at least one introvert, to say something before I jump in and take over. I try to spend this time actually listening, not just formulating my next brilliant rejoinder, and it’s amazing what I can learn. I’m trying to listen more in prayer, too. I don’t bark instructions at God (at least, not on a good day), neither do I screw up my face trying to summon a divine message. I like to sit in the quiet of the morning or bustle in the chaos of the afternoon and think about St Teresa of Avila’s words: “Prayer is nothing more than spending a long time alone with the one I know loves me.”