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I'm reading a biography of the Cure' D'Ars, a French Saint. Here is a story the Saint would tell about one of the farmers in his village.

"A few years ago there died a man of this parish, who, entering the church in the morning to pray before setting out for the fields, left his hoe at the door and became wholly lost in God. A neighbor who worked not far from him, and thus used to see him in the fields, wondered at his absence. On his way home he bethought himself of looking into the church, thinking that the man might be there. As a matter of fact, he did find him in the church. 'What are you doing here all this time?', he asked. And the other made reply: 'I look at the good God, and he looks at me.'

"Whenever he told this anecdote-and he did so frequently and never without tears-the Cure' used to add: "He looked at the good God, and the good God looked at him. Everything is in that, my children."

I like how these French people always say "the good God". It's touching that they call attention to God's goodness whenever they speak of Him. The Cure' is an exceedingly sweet Saint. He was skinny from eating only old rotten potatoes, and he had large hopeful eyes. He was such a delicate creature that he confessed to being uncomfortable hugging his mother. Looking at a drawing of him on the cover of the book, it's hard to imagine that such a sweet looking man spent years telling his congregation that they were heading for hell. When he was a child the older kids would make fun of him for praying so much. He had a Frenchman's knack for getting them to shut-up, or for making them look bad. Saints are so much more alive than us normal folk!

This post first appeared on The Wee Sonneteers, please read the originial post: here

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