The Undying Love of Saint Teresa of Avila

The Undying Love of Saint Teresa of Avila” by Edward J McCoul

I am Teresa. Teresa of Ávila, they called me once. My eyes are closed, my lips silent, yet I watch and speak. I have dwelled here, in the darkness of this convent, in the quiet folds of earth. Silence surrounds me, and stillness is my companion, but I am not bound by them. I am only bound by love.

They tell tales of my incorruption. Flesh that resists decay, a body that is more earthbound than most, yet I am not bound by earth. No. I am bound only by a longing—a burning flame in my chest, which, though it once beat fiercely, is now still. Do they not see that this flesh, held in time, is but an echo of love?

Oh, that I could walk among them again! I would whisper what I have seen, what I know. But even from here, in the silent cradle of earth, I speak.

When I was alive, the world seemed a great tapestry of desires. To be, to be seen, to own and to hold—it is the constant thirst of the human heart. I felt it, too. I was but a girl with hopes, temptations, with a heart like any other. Yet, even then, there was a Voice within me, calling me to a love I could not understand. And so I entered the convent, thinking I would find peace within those walls. But peace is a strange thing, elusive as a shadow at dusk.

How many nights did I pray in that cold chapel, with only the flickering of candles to remind me I was still alive? Their light whispered to me, saying, “Flesh is temporary. Love is eternal.” But what is love? Is it the rush of joy that overtakes you in prayer? Is it the kindness extended to the poor, the needy? Is it giving your life to serve others? Or is it, perhaps, the quiet surrender to God, even when His presence is like a vast, silent ocean? I pondered, I prayed, and in that stillness, the answer came to me, soft as a breath: Love is to be consumed.

It was not long after that realization that I began to experience the transverberation. Ah, how can I describe it in words? It was as though a fiery spear pierced my heart, held there by the hand of an angel, leaving me in agonizing ecstasy. I felt myself drawn out of the world, drawn into a vast sea of love, where there was no “I,” no “Teresa,” only a sense of being fully known, fully cherished. It was pain and pleasure, suffering and salvation. In that moment, I understood: love must hurt if it is to be real, for love is a fire that consumes all that it touches.

But the fire did not end there. When I came back to myself, to my humble convent life, I knew that everything had changed. I looked upon my sisters, my fellow nuns, and saw them as flames, each carrying within them a spark of that Divine Love. Oh, the world itself is aflame with this Love, but how blind we are! How often do we extinguish our own fire with the waters of fear, of envy, of bitterness? I longed to tell them, to shake them out of their slumber, to say, “It is not so essential to think much as to love much; do, then, whatever most arouses you to love.” But words, as dear as they were to me, could not capture what I had seen, what I knew.

Now I lie here, unmoving, yet somehow alive. My body resists decay, they say. Incorrupt, they call it, as if it were some holy relic, as if flesh could be more sacred by simply refusing to return to dust. I laugh at the notion. For what is flesh but a vessel? Yet, perhaps this, too, is God’s doing—a final message to the world that love transcends even death, that it holds all things, even flesh, together.

They come to me, the pilgrims, whispering prayers, seeking miracles. They touch the stone around me, hoping a spark of divine grace will leap into their lives. I hear their pleas, their sorrows. How many come with broken hearts, seeking the balm of heaven! Oh, how I wish I could speak to them, to tell them that the healing they seek is not in my body but in that same fire I once felt. If only they knew how close God is! Closer than breath, closer than their own beating hearts. But they seek Him in signs and wonders, forgetting that the greatest miracle is a heart consumed by love.

I see them, the young novices, just as I once was—unsure, trembling, yet filled with a deep longing they cannot name. They kneel, heads bowed, seeking direction. And I would tell them if I could: “Surrender to love. Do not be afraid of the fire.” I know they fear the cost, as I once did. For to love is to be vulnerable, to be wounded. But what is our little suffering compared to the vastness of God’s love? The pain we endure, the loneliness, the fears—they are nothing but the refining flames that purify our souls.

And oh, how I love! Though my heart no longer beats, it pulses with love, with a desire to see every soul united with God, each like a drop returning to the ocean. To love is to dissolve, to be drawn into the mystery, the endless wonder that is God. I am here, still, because that love holds me, like an anchor sunk deep into the earth.

In the quiet hours of the night, I feel the veil between heaven and earth grow thin. The walls of the convent, thick and ancient, breathe with the prayers of centuries. The air grows heavy with the sighs of the faithful, the hopes of pilgrims, the unspoken words of those who suffer in silence. I feel their presence, their yearning, and my own soul reaches out to them, whispering, “Do not lose heart. God is nearer than you know.”

Time does strange things to a soul that has crossed over. Days, years, centuries—all blur into a single heartbeat. It is as though I am a candle, melting slowly, my light merging with the eternal flame that is God. And perhaps that is why my flesh remains: a sign, a reminder that life is not measured in years or achievements but in love. I am here because love binds me, and it is the same love that binds each one of us to God.

So let them come, the faithful, the doubters, the weary. Let them touch the cold stone of my tomb, let them press their hands in prayer. Perhaps, in their quiet moments, they will feel a stirring within them—a spark, a tiny flicker of the Divine. And if they ask, “Saint Teresa, what must I do?” I would answer as I always have: “Love. Love much. And when you think you have loved enough, let love consume you once more.”

For to love is to live. And though my body lies here, held by earth, my soul is free, dancing in the flames of God’s love, whispering to every heart that comes near, “Be brave. Be vulnerable. Love deeply, for it is love that leads us home.”