Dear friends of St. Rafael,
Our advice column series concludes below. (I had fun sneaking in a question of my own.) Make sure to check out part one and part two as well if you missed them.
Thank you all for the opportunity to pray with your questions and peruse St. Rafael’s writings for words of wisdom. I found that I often wanted to give cheerier answers than his text really supports. This was an important lesson for me, and it’s the one Rafael always gives: stay on the cross, where our treasure is.
With love and prayers,
Catherine
Dear St. Rafael: I turn 27 today. You died just a week and a half after your 27th birthday. It’s got me thinking: I’m nowhere near the saint you were at my age. How can I get there faster? –Catherine
Dear Catherine,
One need neither be old nor young to love God . . . It is not time that teaches us to be detached from this world. One doesn’t need to be a certain age to understand those words in the Gospel, I am the way and the life; one need only stop and think about it . . . and sometimes also listen to those who know more than we do . . . to the wise monk in his cell, meditating upon eternal truths . . . to the old man who, at the end of his life, tells us that the world and its creatures are passing away, as is life, and nothing of it will remain, that it is childish to love vanity, that peace can only be found in Jesus, that the only truth is Christ, that the only treasure is God, and that the only life is God, and God alone. […]
Death will come sooner or later . . . what does it matter which? God is not limited by time or space; He is infinite. For Him, there is no age, just hearts who are truly His.
—St. Rafael
(#165, letter to Leopoldo Torres, October 30, 1937)
Dear St. Rafael: I have clinical anxiety and depression, which are being managed. But I still struggle every day with fear of loss of those I love. I’m not sure that I’ll be able to handle hard things, or that I’ll even have the courage or strength to try. Do you have any advice for my fearful, untrusting heart?
Dear friend,
Jesus lived thirty-three years knowing that He was going to die on a cross, and all He asked of His Father was that His will be done.
Christ taught us to suffer, He taught us to keep quiet, He taught us to desire nothing but the Father’s will. […]
Imagine that you were sick at home, surrounded by care and attention, practically lame, useless . . . in a word, incapable of taking care of yourself. But one day, you see Jesus walk by outside your window . . . You see a crowd of sinners, lepers, the poor and the sick, all following behind Him. You see that Jesus is calling you, and He offers you a place in His retinue, and He looks at you with those divine eyes that radiate love, tenderness, and forgiveness, and He tells you, “Why aren’t you following Me?” . . . What would you do? Would you tell Him . . . “Lord, I’d follow You if You gave me an infirmarian . . . if You gave me the means to follow You comfortably, without endangering my health . . . I’d follow You if I were healthy and strong enough to take care of myself . . .”
No, I’m sure that if you saw the tenderness in Jesus’s eyes, you wouldn’t say any of that. Rather, you’d get up from your bed without a care in the world, without thinking about yourself at all, and you’d join Jesus’s retinue, even if you were the last one . . . you hear, the last one . . . and you’d tell Him, “I’m coming, Lord. I don’t care about my illness, or death, or eating, or sleeping . . . If You’ll have me, I will go. If You want, You can heal me . . . I don’t mind if the path that You are leading me down is challenging and rugged and covered in thorns. I don’t mind if You want me to die with You on a cross . . .”
I will go, Lord, because You are the one who is leading me. You are the one who promises me an eternal reward. You are the one who forgives, who saves . . . You are the only one who can satisfy my soul.
Begone, warnings about what might happen to me in the future. Begone, human fears. When Jesus of Nazareth is the one who guides you . . . what is there to fear?
–St. Rafael
(#166, letter to Luis Arribas, November 1, 1937)
Dear St. Rafael: Any advice on being a godparent?
Dear friend,
What would you say if, one time, while going for a walk, you happened upon an enormous valley with splendid views, fertile soil, sun, flowers, all sorts of plants—that is, a landscape that the human mind can barely imagine, of which you had only seen one little nook or corner? If you realized what a marvelous treasure you had found, what would you do? Well, the most logical thing to do would be to tell the whole world, all your friends, your family—in a word, anyone who will listen—and to try to guide them toward that paradise, explain to them what you have seen, and aim to convince them to go there.
—St. Rafael
(#6, letter to María Osorio, March 15, 1931)
Dear St. Rafael: How can I support my dad and try to help him consider returning to the Church as he nears the end of his life?
Dear friend,
Here’s what Rafael wrote to his own father, whom he so desperately wanted to help:
I continue to pray for you, which is the only way I can pay back some of what I owe you all. […]
My earnings aren’t meant for this earth, so you don’t have the pleasure of saying, “We have a son whose worth astonishes the world. His reputation precedes him among men, by whom he is highly regarded; he stores up treasures, from which he supports his parents . . . ”
Instead of that whole magnificent song and dance, which I’ll never be able to provide, since my merits are few and far between, you can exclaim, “We have a son whom nobody knows. He is poorer than a church mouse . . . he is a Trappist who lives in the peace and grace of God in his monastery. He does not help us materially, because he cannot, for he earns nothing more than his keep, but in exchange, he is storing up for his parents treasures that human beings cannot appreciate, because they know nothing about them. One day, before God, he will be able to offer up his parents and brothers and sister. He will say to them, ‘My sacrifices have been accepted by God, and I have offered them to Him in your name. So while you thought that your son would be good for nothing, he was at the feet of Jesus, interceding for his parents.’” So, as you can see, in one way or another, I am keeping the commandment to honor my father and mother.
In that same letter, Rafael addressed his father’s frustration with his aunt, who was putting off confession on her deathbed:
I don’t want to annoy you as I did the other day by telling you to have patience . . . I’m sure you already have the necessary amount . . . Try to attend to her spiritual matters as much as possible, so that she doesn’t give you a scare one of these days. Though it seems irresponsible to me at her age, it’s not our business, but rather God’s. All we can do is provide the necessary means.
The following year, Rafael wrote this note to his grandmother, who was afraid of dying:
Why should you be afraid? . . . Have confidence that the Lord loves you, and if you have lived your life according to God’s law, that is the law by which you must be judged, and that law is not severe. It doesn’t demand great things. It comes down to just a little bit of love . . . […] You don’t need a whole lifetime for that, a mere minute is enough, and you still have time . . .
—St. Rafael
(#34, letter to Rafael Arnáiz Sánchez de la Campa, April 8, 1934; #88, letter to Fernanda Torres, December 17, 1935)
Dear St. Rafael: how do you find a way to feel like you belong in the world, like you belong to God, when mental illness and trauma make you feel separate and disconnected from relationship and friendship and purpose on earth and from what is holy?
Dear friend,
On the path that the Lord is leading me down, this path that only God and I know, I have stumbled many times; I have endured deep, bitter sorrows; I have had to make continual renunciations; I have experienced disappointments, and the Lord has frustrated even the hopes I’d thought holiest. May He be blessed.
Because, well, every part of that was necessary . . . My solitude was necessary. The renunciation of my will was necessary. My illness was, and is, necessary.
But why? Because, look: as the Lord has led me from place to place, leaving me without a fixed abode, showing me what I am, and detaching me from His creatures, sometimes gently, other times roughing me up . . . along this whole path, which I see so clearly now, I’ve come to learn something, and my soul has changed . . . I don’t know if this will make sense, but I’ve learned to love people as they are, and not as I wish they were. My soul—with or without a cross, whether good or bad, wherever it may be, wherever God places it, as God wishes it—has undergone a transformation . . . I can’t explain it, I don’t have the words . . . but I call it serenity . . .
It is a very great peace that allows you to both suffer and rejoice . . . It is knowing you are loved by God, despite our littleness and misery... It is the sweet, serene joy of truly abandoning yourself in His hands. It is a silence toward all external things, even though you’re fully immersed in the world. It is the happiness of the sick, the lame, the leper, and the sinner who, in spite of everything, followed Jesus of Nazareth throughout the Galilean countryside.
God takes me by the hand and leads me through a field where there is weeping and war, pain and misery, saints and sinners. He brings me close to the cross and, showing me all this with His gaze, He says . . . “All this is Mine . . . do not despise it, you whom I love so much . . . ” Yes, Jesus loves me very much . . .
“I have given you light, so that you might see. I have given you a heart, so you might love Me. I do with you as I please, because you are Mine . . . Do not despise this life, since it is all for Me. Love your fellow creatures, for they are Mine. Do not cry as you walk your path, for I am the one who has laid it out before you. Love My cross and follow in My footsteps.”
All I can say is that once you have given over your life to Him, everything is God, everything is Jesus . . . suffering is sweet, and silence is pleasant, and all is serenity as you wait.
—St. Rafael
(#159, letter to Leopoldo Barón, March 18, 1937)