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I am going through most bitter days. My lovable Jesus makes Himself seen little or not at all; or like lightening flashing by. I remember that one night He made Himself seen as tired and exhausted, carrying as though a bundle of souls in His arms. And looking at me, He told me: "Ah! my daughter, the slaughter that they will make will be such and so great that only this bundle of souls which I am carrying in my arms will be saved. What madness has man reached! You, do not be disturbed; remain faithful during my absence, and after the storm I will repay you at usury for all the privations of Me, redoubling my visits and my graces." And almost crying, He disappeared. It is needless to tell the torture of my poor heart.
Another day, a light, almost flying over in front of me, remained in my mind, which said that just as blessed Jesus extended the heavens over our heads, so did He extend a heaven within our souls; or rather, not one, but many. Therefore, heaven is our intelligence; heaven is our gaze; heaven is the word, the action, the desire, the affection, the heart; with the difference, however, that the external heaven does not change, nor do stars increase or decrease, while the heavens of our interior are subject to mutations.
Therefore, if the heaven of our mind thinks in a saintly way, as thoughts are formed, stars, suns and beautiful comets are formed as well; and as our Angel sees them formed, he takes them and places them in the heaven of our intelligence. And if the heaven of our mind is holy, the gaze is holy, the word, the desire and the heartbeat are holy. Therefore, the gazes are stars, the word is light, the desire is comet that extends, the heartbeat is sun, and each one of the senses adorns its own heaven. On the other hand, if the mind is evil, nothing beautiful is formed; rather, such darkness spreads as to obscure the other heavens. So, the gaze sends flashes of impatience; the word thunders with blasphemies; the desires cast lightnings of brutal passions; the heart unleashes from its womb a devastating hail over all the works of the creature. Poor heavens, they are obscure - how pitiful they are!
