He allowed my own soul to be plunged into the thickest gloom. The thought of heaven which had been so sweet from my earliest years became for me a subject of torture.
The trial did not merely last for days or weeks. As I write, it has gone on for months and still I am waiting for relief. I wish I could explain what I feel, but it is beyond my power. One must have passed through the tunnel to understand how black its darkness is.
When my heart, weary of the enveloping darkness, tries to find some rest and strength in the thought of an everlasting life to come, my anguish only increases. It seems to me that the darkness itself, borrowing the voice of the unbeliever, cries mockingly: 'You dream of a land of light, you believe the Creator of this wonder will be yours for ever, you think you will escape one day from the mists in which you now languish. Hope on! Hope on! It will give you not what you hope for, but a night darker still - the night of utter nothingness!'
When I sing in my verses of the happiness of heaven and of the eternal possession of God, I feel no joy. I sing out of what I wish to believe. Sometimes, I confess a feeble ray of sunshine penetrates my dark night and brings me a moment's relief, but after it has gone, the remembrance of it, instead of consoling me, makes the blackness seem denser still.
And yet I have never experienced more fully the sweetness and mercy of the Lord. He did not send this heavy cross when it would, I believe, have discouraged me, but chose a time when I was able to bear it. Now it does no more than deprive me of all natural satisfaction in my longing for heaven.
For me, prayer is an uplifting of the heart, a glance towards heaven, a cry of gratitude and love in times of sorrow as well as joy. It is something noble, something supernatural, which expands the soul and unites it to God.
When my state of spiritual aridity is such that not a single good thought will come, I repeat very slowly the Our Father and the Hail Mary, which are enough to console me, and to provide food for my soul.
God has always been my help; he has led me by the hand since I was a child, and I count on him now. Even though suffering should reach its furthest limits, I am certain he will never forsake me.
One night, I was filled with a terrible feeling of anguish. I was lost in darkness from which came the cry: 'Are you certain God loves you? Has he come to tell you himself? The opinion of a few creatures will not justify you in his sight.' These thoughts had long tortured me, which I received a kind note from my superior, reminding me of the special graces with which Jesus had favoured me.
Peace and calm revived my heart, but then I thought the writer was prompted simply by affection for me. I turned to the Gospels, opening them at random, and I lighted upon a passage which had escaped me until then: 'He whom God sends, speaks the words of God, for God does not give his Spirit by measure' (John 3:34). I fell asleep, consoled.
One night I felt the evil one beside me. I could not see him but I could feel him near; he torments me, holding me with a grip of iron that I may not find a scrap of comfort, and adding to my discomfort that I may be driven to despair.
I cannot pray. I can only look at the Virgin Mary. I can only say 'Jesus'.