The older I get, the more I become a creature of habit. Does life work any other way?
I don’t know that said phenomenon is unique to me; in fact, I’m going out on a limb and saying with certitude that it isn’t.
I don’t even know that it’s such a bad thing; sometimes those habits produce fruits: A long-sought epiphany, reinvigorated hope, a simple bit of joy.
I’m talking about virtuous or neutral habits here; we’ll shelve the vices for a separate sermon. 
Two of my steadfast habits are decorating my living space (for every season) and morning prayer.
Why did I pick those habits from opposite ends of the spectrum of possibilities?
Because they unexpectedly crossed paths earlier this month.
Valentine décor around my place means fake roses, pearls, red votives, and tapers as far as the eye can see.
“Happy lights” are integral to every season’s motif, as they simply make me . . . well
. . . happy.
It’s tasteful and classic (much like platinum-set diamonds and Veuve Clicquot), but like any wallflower or widow worth her salt, my relationship with this holiday has long been a love-hate fest, so why give it such trappings?
It’s a fair question and has been a puzzle for the ages — except to say that I’m also a creature of convention.
The morning prayer ritual is a bit more involved than just a few “Hail Mary”s and holy water.
I tend to motor around each room and do my best to “recognize” every sacramental in sight; call it a homespun variation of Good Friday’s Veneration of the Cross.
The way I see it, there’s good in this world, and there’s evil in this world; I believe in circling my wagons with the good guys, and making sure my army knows it’s appreciated.
Following The Little Way
One morning, with my fluff finally perfectly placed, the preface to one of my fridge prayers hit me anew:
“‘My mission — to make God loved — will begin after my death,’ she said. ‘I will spend my Heaven doing good on earth. I will let fall a shower of roses.’”
I looked around . . . looked back at the fridge . . . looked around again . . . a shower of roses all about me.
It was tantamount to a personal note from The Little Flower, St. Thérèse of Lisieux.
I’m embarrassed to say that I know little about her, except her famed “Little Way,” and that she is said to send a shower of roses when the answer for which you’ve beseeched her intercession is near.
The timeliness of this was striking, as I have been struggling with a major patch of emotional and mental evisceration of late — the events of last year finally taking their toll, I believe.
Add to that one of those crosses with serious staying power — you know, the type on which you’d like to give up but can’t — and you have a less-than-pretty picture..
Just days prior to this shower of roses, Fr. Mike Schmitz came to my rescue on the Cross with staying power, pointing out that the Israelites had prayed for deliverance from their bondage in Egypt for 400 YEARS. (Chalk one up for the habit of even just a little daily scripture).
Four hundred years’ prayers finally answered with “yes” . . . a shower of roses.
It all came together in one beautiful amalgamation of epiphany and hope to me, and I’m daring to put it out there for public consumption: 2025 will be my Exodus, and St. Thérèse will lead me by the hand through the Red Sea.
Circling back to last month’s column, how’s that for trust?
A relatable path
In my research (merci beaucoup, Bishop Barron and Father Mike), I learned our Little Flower was tempted to discouragement; she experienced profound darkness before her death.
In childhood, the loss of her mother and older sister left her debilitated in every respect, self-described as “sensitive to an excessive degree,” “weighed and found wanting,” and “absolutely terrified of everything”.
Am I alone in the ability to relate to these adjectives?
A miraculous “manifestation of God’s Grace . . . His unmerited love” via Mary’s smile healed her; Jesus had “invaded her heart”.
She felt compelled to pour that love out to others in every simple action every day — paying that healing smile forward, you might say. Like St. Paul’s “Let all that you do be done in love” (1 Corinthians 16: 14), Thérèse put forth, “Let us love, since our heart is made for nothing else.” Such was the birth of Tenet 1 of her Little Way.
Tenet 2 was to embrace “spiritual childhood — a willingness of heart to be dependent, hopeful, waiting to receive gifts” from the Father.
She said, “Jesus deigned to show me the road that leads to this Divine Furnace, and this road is the surrender of the little child . . . who sleeps without fear in its father’s arms.”
Both tenets are inexorably intertwined. Who loves and trusts more genuinely, more unconditionally, more wholeheartedly than a little child?
In doing so, who spreads greater joy and hope?
If you haven’t yet, try the Little Way. I took forever to get there, and still fail at living it at times.
I think you make your best strides when hurting: a broken heart is workable, and turning toward others and away from self can help you beat the temptation to super-glue yours shut.
Sometimes you find the balm it truly needs in one simple reciprocated kindness.
It is said that St. Thérèse discovered the “heart” of the Gospel: God’s love for us . . . SO huge there is no room for discouragement. She trusted fully in it.
Per Father Mike, often His Love is the one thing in which we least trust, and of which we last learn.
Valentine’s Day seems a good day to change that — and gives me a whole new reason to love it!
XOXOXO
For more on St. Thérèse, search YouTube for “CATHOLICISM — Bishop Barron on Saint Thérèse of Lisieux” by Bishop Robert E. Barron or “Why St Thérèse and Her ‘Little Way’ Will Change Your Life” by Fr. Mike Schmitz.
Maria Burns is a lifelong Catholic and writer who lives in Madison.