Israel Centeno

When I read Story of a Soul, I felt an immediate connection to my own inner struggles, my moments of faith and doubt, the cycles of spiritual infatuation and dryness that so many others have also experienced. I am not the only one who has traversed these periods of vulnerability before God and the saints, nor the first to notice how capricious moods often seem, like waves carrying us from exaltation to despondency.

In the midst of this experience, there is a unique solitude: the solitude of standing naked and fragile before the divine. It feels like standing before immense wonders, so small, so imperfect, still bound by human passions. Yet even in this vulnerability, the fundamental question arises: What is the purpose of faith? What does it really mean to believe and live within and outside the Church?

The virtue that emerges most clearly, at least in my experience, is love. Above all other virtues, love appears as the center of Christ’s salvific plan, who desires that no soul should be lost. This love is not merely a feeling but a concrete action: extending mercy, praying, and working for the Kingdom of God. Yet another question arises here: How can this be translated into a world that is increasingly secular, increasingly disconnected from the divine and the commandments of God?

Today, my overwhelming emotion is abandonment. I am surrounded by apathy, that certainty of my uselessness at this stage of life—old and painfully aware of my selfishness, my reluctance to let go of what pleases me. I recognize the distance I have drawn between my desire for holiness and my resistance to surrender completely. And yet, something within me cries out: I want to let go.

To fall backward, off the edge of a cliff on a high mountain, into the absolute void. Even if nothingness awaits below, even if the end is eternal silence. I want to let go because I know that you are there, Lord. You are my Father, my Brother, and there too is your Mother, who filled me with joy in Montserrat, who spoke to me within a place of rest as I unraveled my emotions like the beads of a rosary.

And in this imagined fall, in this abandonment mingled with longing, appears my little flower, Teresa. The capricious child who became a saint. I see myself in her—so fragile, so small, so imperfect. And yet I feel her reaching out to gather me up, her purity not judging me but inviting me. Throw me a flower, dear child, because in this moment, I need a gesture, a sign, a touch of heaven.

There is in me an infinite love and tenderness for you, Teresa. You, who understood what it means to abandon oneself to divine love, have opened a window in my heart through which I glimpse heaven. And though my soul remains heavy with fragility, I feel less desolate.

But this emotion of abandonment is not mine alone. It is, perhaps, an echo of the human condition, a shared experience of those who, like me, search for meaning amid their contradictions. We all know the vertigo of the precipice, the desire to let go, the fear, and at the same time, the hope of being caught by a love that has no end.

And I return to the message of salvation from our Lord Jesus Christ. Love. That love which is not just a simple feeling, but a purifying light, the light of one who loves to the utmost, who gives His life for the salvation of His creation. You, Jesus, who existed before all things and for whom all things were created, are the center, the purpose, the ultimate destination.

Saint Thérèse, your message reminds us that the path to holiness is not reserved for the powerful, the wise, or the first. It is open to all: to the small, the vulnerable, those who stumble again and again. You teach us that it does not matter how late we arrive or how limited we feel; there is always a place in God’s heart for those who wish to love.

So, even in our fragility and hesitation, we can join in this mission of love, working so that the blood shed on the cross is not in vain. Because every act of faith, every gesture of love, every prayer for another is an echo of that ultimate sacrifice, a spark of that light that purifies and transforms.

And so, even when I feel small and lost, I hold on to this certainty: the love of Christ reaches us all, lifts us from the depths, and gives us a purpose beyond our understanding. It is His light that guides us, calling us to continue working for the Kingdom, even when our faith feels as small as a flower cast down from heaven.

“My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,
my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for He has looked with favor on His humble servant.
From this day all generations will call me blessed;
the Almighty has done great things for me,
and holy is His name.
He has mercy on those who fear Him,
in every generation.”