St. Therese Haunts Me

A framed print of St. Therese of Liseiux hung above the bed I shared with my sister Mary in the farmhouse where I grew up. St. Therese was garbed in a brown robe, a halo encircled her veiled head, and a cross of Jesus hung from her neck. She clutched rosary beads, a dozen red roses and a crucifix in her arms. St. Therese eyes stared at me no matter what direction I moved. Embarrassed to undress in front of St. Therese’s constant gaze, I changed my clothes behind the closet door to be out of her sight.

Mary and I shared the bedroom with our sister, Kate, who slept on a cot, and baby brothers, Tim and Kevin, nestled in cribs.

Two older sisters, Geraldine and Joann, had a similar framed print of St. Therese hanging in their adjoining bedroom. St. Therese was older with thinner lips, and she had a look that said, “Don’t mess with me.” I avoided entering my older sisters’ bedroom.

I dreamt one night that St Therese stepped out of the print and stood beside my bed. She smiled, reached out her hands for me to join her, and stepped onto a moving stream of light that poured from an open window. I watched her soar upward as if on an escalator to heaven. Shaking, sweating and breathing heavily, I cowered in bed wanting to snuggle next to Mary. However, Mary had marked an imaginary border with her hand and said, “Don’t cross this line, not even your toe.” I lay without moving feeling my heart pounding, knowing that St. Therese was staring down at me thinking, “What a scaredy cat, you are Sheila.”

The next morning I rose early to speak to my mom about the picture. With so many people in the house, time alone with mom was rare. She was in her robe drinking coffee, sitting by the kitchen window watching the mist rise from the soybean field. I sat down on a kitchen stool. I was seven years old and this was the first time I was going to speak with mom about something other than a sibling who bothered me.

I cleared my throat and asked, “Why do we girls have pictures of St. Therese hanging in our bedrooms? When I change my clothes, she watches me. I’m afraid of her. The boys have a small crucifix hanging on their wall. Jesus is not staring at them. He keeps his eyes closed.”

Mom sipped her coffee, continued looking out the window and said, “You are lucky to have St. Therese in your bedroom. St. Therese is the Little Flower of Jesus and the patron saint of young girls. I got those pictures to protect my daughters through the night. Instead of being afraid of her, you should pray to her for guidance.”

I knew from her answer that I would not get St. Therese out of my bedroom. I rose from the stool and walked around the house looking at the religious icons. There were statues of the Infant of Prague, St. Anne, St. Francis of Assisi, Mother Mary and framed prints of Jesus and Mother Mary showing their bloody hearts. Other religious items were a plastic light switch going to the second floor with a guardian angel hovering over a boy and girl, and a holy-water fountain hung outside the bathroom door.

I came back to the kitchen. Mom dished me up a bowl of oatmeal, decorated with raisins in a happy smile. As I was eating, Mary and Kate came in, each with a baby in their arms, babbling with excitement about an illumination they had seen hovering in our bedroom during the night. They had both watched the shape move above their bed in the night but didn’t say anything to the other until the morning. Talking about it, they both agreed that the illumination was in the silhouette of an angel.

“An angel was in our bedroom last night,” they chanted to our brothers and sisters as each one entered the kitchen.

No one believed that Kate and Mary had seen an angel.

“Yeah, you just saw some light,” pooh-poohed John.

“Why would an angel come to you guys?” added Joann.

“You’ve read too many holy books,” said Dan.

I sat listening. I believed that they had seen an angel. I didn’t tell anyone about my dream. I was relieved that Kate and Mary had witnessed a vision. I would have been even more frightened to have awaken from my dream and seen an angel hovering about. I was disappointed that I had slept through it, but I became a less afraid of the picture of St. Therese.

Visions, the head nun at my school would say, were for those who were chosen, and I was thankful that I was chosen. I still hid in the closet when I changed my clothes, but I was no longer worried about St. Therese dragging me to heaven.