Thank You, Jesus,
for the misery in which my mother and father lived,
for the fact that nothing went well for us,
for the decline of the mill,
for having to watch the children, herd the sheep,
for the constant fatigue…
Thank You, my God,
for the prosecutor, for the commissioner, for the gendarmes
and for the harsh words of Father Peyramal…
For the days when You, Mary, came
and for those when You did not come
– I will never be able to thank You enough –
until in paradise…
But also for the slap in the face,
for the mockery, for the insults,
for those who accused me of fraud,
of lies and selfishness,
for those who suspected me of
trying to make myself interesting,
Thank You, Mother…
For the spelling I never knew,
for the fact that I never had a memory,
for my ignorance and my foolishness
Thank You…
Thank You,
because if there were on earth
a more ignorant and foolish child,
You would have chosen her…
Thank You, Jesus,
for the fact that my mother died so far away,
for the pain I felt,
when my father
– instead of embracing his little Bernadette –
called me “sister Marie Bernard”…
Thank You for this heart,
which You gave me,
so tender and sensitive,
which You filled with sadness…
For the fact that Joseph's mother declared
that I was good for nothing,
for the sarcasm of the mother novice mistress,
for her piercing voice,
her injustices, irony, and the bread of humiliation…
Thank You…
Thank You for the privilege
of having my faults pointed out to me,
so that the other sisters said:
“Thank goodness I'm not Bernadette.”
Thank You for being that Bernadette,
who was threatened with imprisonment,
because I saw You, Mother…
that Bernadette,
so miserable and unnecessary,
that when they saw her, they said:
“Is this supposed to be her?”
Bernadette, whom people looked at
like a rare animal.
Thank You, Jesus,
for this pitiable, festering body,
which You have given me…
for this illness, burning like fire,
for my decaying bones,
for sweating and fever,
for sharp and dull pains…
And for this soul,
which You have given me,
for the desert of spiritual dryness,
for the darkness of night and Your lightning,
for Your silence and Your thunder,
for everything.
Thank You, Jesus,
for You –
when You were here…
and when You distanced Yourself…
Thank You.
(Bernadette Soubirous /1844–1879/, testament)
