The night is darkest before dawn. That is the saying, at least. Just before the first faint rays of the sun arrive, the world is pitch black. Of course, countless individuals have teased out of this reality analogies that are intended to offer perspective when things are not going well. When circumstances are rough – really, really rough – take heart because there is about to be a reversal, perhaps even of the glorious sort. In a broken world such as ours, I am all about hope. We need more of it. So many are in the terrible grips of despair. What I would add to the analogy, however, is an element that should give us all a better sense of agency – a sense that we can actually participate in the rising of the sun and the spreading of its rays, if you will.
It began with an observation I made from my bed. The world was enveloped in darkness. The sun had yet to make its entrance. But from that immeasurable vastness – that great and ineffable stillness – came a chirp. A bird began to sing.
It quickly occurred to me, dear listeners, that the songbird may be the bravest of all creatures. It is not the lion that roars in the day nor the wolf, the bear, the great whales of the sea that utter their greeting but the little bird. So small. Frail even. Huddled against the cool air on the bough of a tree, singing into the deep night and against it. Such courage in that tiny heart. Such beautiful boldness. An example to us all who are wrapped in the folds of our own night, existing with others who are experiencing the same or worse.
Saint Thérèse of Lisieux lived from 1873 to 1897, dying that year from tuberculosis. She was only twenty-four years old. Called by Pope Pius X “the greatest saint of modern times,” Saint Thérèse who was also called Little Flower was known for performing small tasks with great love and sanctity. To borrow from current parlance, she did not have a big platform. She lived as an obscure nun in France and only, if you will pardon the pun, blossomed into popularity after her death. The curious might wonder why Pope Pius X gave her such an accolade. Perhaps he recognized in her a model for how the faithful should respond to oppressive darkness. Understand that the small things really do matter and that it is our collective charge to do them with great love. We each have a song to sing. And though it may seem to be dwarfed by such a massive and largely faceless enemy, it will be heard. It does make a statement. It is vital.
Years ago, when I was around fourteen years old, my dear stepfather handed me some tools and told me to frame out a room above my grandparents’ garage with my cousin, Eric. The garage is located on some obscure hill in some obscure part of Pennsylvania. I had never before framed out a room, and the thought itself was intimidating, but by calling me out to the task, saying, in effect, that I could do it – that I was capable of completing the job – my stepfather instilled in me a confidence that only grew and became stronger. He wasn’t influencing crowds. He was not leading a nation. He was influencing me: one person. One kid.
What would the world look like if more individuals adopted the way of the Little Flower? We are all tempted to believe the lie that greatness is all about numbers: likes and shares. But if we were to examine our lives for a moment, we might discover that it had been the little things all along. A small gesture. A tiny kindness. A little bird who regarded the great big world and its great big darkness and opened its mouth and made a sound regardless.
