Satan\u00e9e souffrance de penser qu\u2019il nous manque toujours quelque chose; que nous sommes incomplets, inachev\u00e9s et mis\u00e9reux. Je souffre parce que je crois encore qu\u2019il me faut gagner mon ciel \u00e0 la sueur de mon front. J\u2019ai \u00e9t\u00e9 \u00e9duqu\u00e9e ainsi et lorsque de bonnes choses m\u2019arrivent facilement, j\u2019ai la trouille. J\u2019ai beaucoup de difficult\u00e9 \u00e0 oublier le petit cat\u00e9chisme catholique de mon enfance. Croyez-le ou non, j\u2019en ai encore un exemplaire quelque part parmi mes livres sur Dieu et les diff\u00e9rentes religions; trois hautes \u00e9tag\u00e8res bourr\u00e9es de myst\u00e8re entourant notre salut.<\/p>\n
J\u2019arrive \u00e0 la fin de ma vie et j\u2019ai encore peur du diable, de l\u2019enfer, et de tous les p\u00e9ch\u00e9s que j\u2019aurais commis sans m\u2019en apercevoir. Alors que j\u2019\u00e9tais toute jeune, en troisi\u00e8me ou quatri\u00e8me ann\u00e9e, je me souviens de monsieur le cur\u00e9 qui s\u2019installait dans le confessionnal. Il ouvrait une petite porte haute et \u00e0 travers le grillage, il m\u2019interrogeait. Il cherchait \u00e0 savoir si j\u2019avais dit des mensonges, commis des p\u00e9ch\u00e9s, de petits vols de friandises ou des touch\u00e9s interdits.<\/p>\n
Je me souviens de son acharnement. Il insistait pour que j\u2019avoue quelque chose. Une caresse entre les cuisses? Une main sur un sein? Je disais toujours non. Je ne trouvais rien \u00e0 confesser. J\u2019\u00e9tais confuse bien souvent et je tremblais devant cet homme \u00e0 la soutane noire. Trop g\u00ean\u00e9e pour en parler \u00e0 ma m\u00e8re, ma t\u00eate a grandi en transportant cet \u00e9trange et sombre personnage. Ce n\u2019est que rendue au coll\u00e8ge que j\u2019ai appris que les zones \u00e9rog\u00e8nes de la femme attiraient les m\u00e2les de tout acabit. Et moi, grandette, je les fuyais parce que j\u2019avais encore peur des p\u00e9ch\u00e9s.<\/p>\n
\u00c0 quel \u00e2ge ai-je compris la diff\u00e9rence entre le bien et le mal? J\u2019ose \u00e0 peine y penser. Mes parents ne parlaient jamais de ces choses-l\u00e0. Nous apprendrons beaucoup plus tard, apr\u00e8s la mort de maman, qu\u2019elle \u00e9tait amoureuse d\u2019un protestant que la religion l\u2019avait emp\u00each\u00e9e d\u2019\u00e9pouser. Par d\u00e9pit, elle a mari\u00e9 le bon gars que son p\u00e8re voulait pour elle, et nous, les fillettes, avons malheureusement grandi sans amour dans la maison. Le c\u0153ur bris\u00e9 de ma m\u00e8re ne s\u2019est jamais r\u00e9par\u00e9 et, par cons\u00e9quent, elle a toujours sembl\u00e9 incapable de nous couvrir d\u2019affection, de d\u00e9montrer de la tendresse \u00e0 ses enfants ou \u00e0 son \u00e9poux.<\/p>\n
Certes, nous \u00e9tions baptis\u00e9s et je me souviens d\u2019un certain album de photos trouv\u00e9 apr\u00e8s la mort de maman. Parmi les rares photos d\u2019enfants, j\u2019y \u00e9tais, toute de gris v\u00eatue avec une mantille noire sur la t\u00eate. Au dos, c\u2019\u00e9tait \u00e9crit\u00a0: confirmation de Cora.<\/p>\n
Au coll\u00e8ge, j\u2019avais aussi des religieuses comme professeurs. Elles m\u2019enseignaient le latin, le grec ancien, l\u2019histoire, la g\u00e9ographie et la terrible arithm\u00e9tique qui me tournait en bourrique. Pourtant, la seule religieuse dont je me souviens du nom aujourd\u2019hui s\u2019appelait s\u0153ur\u00a0Marie\u00a0Maxime, et c\u2019est elle qui, cent fois sur le m\u00e9tier, remettait son ouvrage pour m\u2019apprendre \u00e0 compter. Comment suis-je un jour devenue femme d\u2019affaires? Je me le demande sans cesse. Autant j\u2019aimais chacune des lettres de l\u2019alphabet, autant les chiffres me d\u00e9boussolaient.<\/p>\n
En r\u00e9alit\u00e9, je dois tous mes succ\u00e8s \u00e0 l\u2019aide venue d\u2019en haut, de la divine Providence, et de ce Dieu bienveillant et discret, compr\u00e9hensif et mis\u00e9ricordieux. \u00c0 la longue, j\u2019ai compris que la religion est humaine et faillible comme chacun d\u2019entre nous ici-bas qui pouvons tomber dans l\u2019erreur ou commettre des fautes. Combien de fois, en ignorant la bont\u00e9 de mon c\u0153ur, ai-je fini par oublier les esseul\u00e9s, les afflig\u00e9s, les attrist\u00e9s? Et je me crois b\u00e9nie?<\/p>\n
J\u2019ai encore \u00e0 pardonner \u00e0 cet \u00e9poux lointain. Comment dissoudre ma rage, l\u2019oublier, lui pardonner? Avec autant de manquements, comment pourrais-je cogner \u00e0 la porte du ciel? Je veux m\u2019am\u00e9liorer, abonnir mon c\u0153ur, me rendre disponible \u00e0 mon entourage et apprendre \u00e0 reconna\u00eetre l\u2019opportunit\u00e9 dans l\u2019accidentel, les enseignements \u00e0 tirer de l\u2019observance du monde.<\/p>\n
Auteur d\u2019une \u0153uvre titanesque sur la spiritualit\u00e9, Jacques-B\u00e9nigne\u00a0BOSSUET nous incite \u00e0 cultiver \u00ab\u00a0l\u2019attention qui, en tout, est ce qui nous sauve\u00a0\u00bb. Avec ma meilleure intention, je vais donc approfondir mes observations sans pour autant me fixer d\u2019objectif pr\u00e9cis. Pourquoi ne pas contempler mon environnement comme une extraterrestre tout juste d\u00e9barqu\u00e9e sur notre plan\u00e8te?<\/p>\n
\u00c9vitant les jugements h\u00e2tifs et les id\u00e9es pr\u00e9con\u00e7ues, mon regard et mon esprit seront les plus frais, les plus neufs possible afin que s\u2019aiguise et se renforce ma capacit\u00e9 \u00e0 m\u2019\u00e9merveiller, \u00e0 discerner le vrai du faux, l\u2019extraordinaire de l\u2019ordinaire.<\/p>\n
Cora
\n\u2764<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Satan\u00e9e souffrance de penser qu\u2019il nous manque toujours quelque chose; que nous […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":414,"featured_media":29410,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-29409","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-lettre-mme-cora"],"acf":{"img_en":"","contenu_en":"It\u2019s misery to think that there\u2019s always something we\u2019re missing; that we\u2019re incomplete, unfinished and in need. I\u2019m pained because I still believe that I have to earn my place in heaven through the sweat of my brow. I was brought up this way, so when something good comes to me easily, it scares me. I have a hard time forgetting the Catholic teachings of my childhood. Believe it or not, I still have a copy of the Catechism manual somewhere in my library in the section on God and the world\u2019s religions. Three tall bookshelves are entirely filled with the great mystery surrounding our salvation.\r\n\r\nI\u2019m nearing the end of my life, and I still fear the devil, hell and all the sins I have unwittingly committed. I remember the priest who sat in the confessional during my third or fourth grade in elementary school. He\u2019d opened a small window and interrogated me through the lattice. Was I guilty of telling lies, sinning, stealing candy or touching forbidden places, he asked.\r\n\r\nI remember his relentlessness. He\u2019d insist I confess to some offense. A caress between the legs? A hand on a breast? I answered no each time. I couldn\u2019t think of anything to say. This man, dressed in a black cloak, often left me confused and trembling. Too shy to talk to my mother about it, I grew up carrying the memory of this strange and somber character. It was only in college that I learned that a woman\u2019s\u00a0erogenous zones attract men of all sorts. And I, all grown up, stayed clear of them because I was still afraid of sinning.\r\n\r\nWhat age was I when I finally understood the difference between good and bad? I can\u2019t bear to think about it. My parents never talked about those things. We learned much later in life, after my mom passed, that she had been in love with a Protestant, who the church had forbidden her to marry. She ended up tying the knot with a fellow her father approved of in spite of her feelings. Her daughters bore the consequences of growing up in a loveless home. My mother\u2019s broken heart never healed; she was never able to shower us with affection, to show tenderness to her kids and husband.\r\n\r\nWe were dutifully baptized, and I remember finding a photo album when I was clearing out my mother\u2019s things. Among the few pictures of us children, there I was, all dressed in grey, a black mantilla on my head. The words \u201cCora\u2019s confirmation\u201d were written on the back of the photograph.\r\n\r\nI also had nuns for teachers in college. They taught me Latin, Ancient Greek, history, geography and arithmetic, a subject that put my stomach in knots. The only nun I still remember today is Sister Marie\u00a0Maxime, who patiently explained to me how to count more than once. How did I ever manage to become a businesswoman? My love of the alphabet was only matched by my dislike of numbers.\r\n\r\nIn reality, I owe all my successes to help from divine Providence above. I realized with time that religion is human and fallible like each one of us here below, capable of making mistakes. How many times did I forget the lonely, the afflicted and the downhearted because I ignored the kindness in my heart? And I think myself blessed?\r\n\r\nI still have to forgive the estranged husband. How can I dissolve my rage, forget him or forgive him? With so many flaws, how can I knock on heaven\u2019s door? I want to better myself, improve my heart, make myself available to those around me, see opportunity in the accidental and learn the lessons that come from observing the world.\r\n\r\nJacques-B\u00e9nigne\u00a0BOSSUET, the author of a colossal work on spirituality, encourages us to cultivate \u201cattention, which is what saves us in every moment.\u201d I will purposefully deepen my observations without setting a specific goal for myself. Why not contemplate my surroundings like an alien who has just landed on earth?\r\n\r\nAvoiding hasty judgments and preconceived ideas, my gaze and my mind will be as fresh and as new as possible so that I sharpen and strengthen my capacity to marvel, to discern truth from falsehood and the extraordinary from the ordinary.\r\n\r\nCora\r\n\u2764"},"yoast_head":"\n