Jesus . . . you know how often in my wretched imperfection

Jesus . . . you know how often in my wretched imperfection I allow myself to be distracted, when I should be looking steadily at the sun which claims all my attention. I am like a bird, picking up a piece of grain first on this side, then on that side, running off to catch a worm, coming across a pond and wetting its feathers there, and even having a look at some pretty flowers it passes. Since I cannot compete with the eagles, I am more ready to occupy my mind with the trifles of earth.



But, dear Jesus, after all these infidelities, I don’t rush away into a corner and weep. I turn back to the sun which is the center of my love and dry my bedraggled wings in its rays . . . I throw myself recklessly on the Father . . . After all, haven’t you told us that you came to call sinners, not the righteous?



Therese of Lisieux (1873-1897)