NOTE: Today we have a special treat: a guest post by Colin MacIver. He's here to share his own relationship with St Thérèse of Lisieux, and the fun story of how she brought us together.
Like many Catholics, I have several favorite saints. Francis of Assisi is my confirmation patron, St John Paul II is a central figure in my work and ministry, but Thérèse… she shatters all of my categories and stays close to me in the best and darkest times.
I don’t know all of the details about how heavenly interaction works, but I have a strong sense that Thérèse had a personal hand in shaping my marriage and family and even my life.
Why her? How? I don’t know, but I am forever grateful that she’s been so close, such an ever-present and faithful friend, a patient director for my slow and muddy heart, a light in all of my darkest hours—and, perhaps most importantly, a guide to deeper intimacy and confidence in Jesus.
I met Thérèse as a first-year seminarian studying in Boston. On her feast day that year, the homily at Mass caught my attention. I’d heard of Thérèse, but didn’t really know much about her. The priest preaching that day seemed to really know her—not just biographical facts about her, but like he held a personal relationship with her.
That day our heavenly friendship began. I was drawn by her Little Way of hope and trust. Yes, I'm aware I'm talking about someone who died of tuberculosis at age 24 in 1897, but in some mysterious way, Thérèse became and has remained a true friend. In my prayer time, I began writing poetry addressed to her. For her part, Thérèse began showering my path with her presence: a book of novenas, dreams, and yes, literal roses.
Soon after our friendship embarked, things got really hard in my life when my mom died. In so many tangible and intangible ways, Thérèse accompanied me through the suffering.
A few years later, I had discerned that I was called to leave seminary, but I sent up my usual request to Thérèse: help make the way clear. Then I received a package from an old high school friend to mark my 21st birthday. At the time, he was studying abroad at another college. As I unpacked the box, I noticed another letter there, from someone else. I unfolded it and saw a hand-drawn sketch of Thérèse surrounded by roses. "Happy birthday from your friends!" read the cheerful note. I flipped it over to see that it was written by a girl from Louisiana whom I had never met—a friend of my friend. I saved the note and sketch as a confirmation of my discernment from Thérèse, not knowing then that someday I would marry the girl who sent it.
I met her on July 3, 2001. My high school friend and I were back together as roommates for the summer our hometown of Westerly, Rhode Island—an epic beach town. Aimee came with a group of friends came to visit for the July Fourth holiday.
From the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew I was a goner, but wasn't sure I’d ever see her again. A few months later, when I arrived at Franciscan University as a transfer, she was the first person to greet me. I prayed and pondered and waited. I joined the homeless ministry that she was deeply involved in, and on September 21, 2001, I asked her on our first date. We went to a restaurant in Pittsburgh, and I remember having an image of Thérèse smiling and laughing through the glass window.
A week later, on the feast of St Thérèse, I got Aimee three roses—one for faith, another for hope, and a third for love. (Check out the photo of that day above!) Thérèse's presence was constant throughout the time we were dating. Then I decided to move to Louisiana. I knew where things were headed.
The night I proposed to Aimee in an adoration chapel, I found a red rose laid out underneath the monstrance. I had been silently praying for Thérèse’s intercession the whole night leading up to the proposal. As usual, she came in clutch—and has continued, season after season, to be very much a part of our family. An image of her doing laundry hangs on our mantle (Aimee will be sharing that story in this Friday's issue of Thy Ship. You should subscribe here.) An image of Thérèse as a child is at eye level when I sit at my desk. Each morning we pray as a family, “Little flower, little flower, show your power in this hour.” Our daughter is named after her mother, Zélie.
An ever-present, faithful friend.
I have often thought of Thérèse, a doctor of the Church, as the pediatrician for our little souls. She wrote a prescription for Aimee and me and showed her hand in making a match. I sense her sometimes laughing, weeping, and even giving me the occasional loving and challenging side-eye. She teaches us her little way amid the backdrop of our temperaments—confidence, not a syrupy emotional confidence, but the kind that is as stern as death and relentless as hell. She teaches us to write the creed in our own tears and blood in opposition to despair. She loves our children and encourages us to love them well, too.
I’m so grateful for Thérèse, for the match that she made, and so confident that she will show her power in many hours to come.
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