Yesterday was the feast day of St. Francis de Sales. I remember my first acquaintance with him. It came at a time when I despaired of—well, many things. (I allow my imagination, impoverished as it is, to go naked in public; and meager as it is, my intellect is also bared. But my soul remains hidden. I don’t write on spiritual matters. Not enough chutzpah for that, anyway.)

It was a little talk he’d given to the Visitation nuns concerning their feelings of unworthiness of God’s love and mercy, the first chapter, if I remember correctly, in The Art of Loving God. I’ve never been particularly attracted to that Order or to St. Jane de Chantal, but there was an instantaneous sense of self-recognition reading St. Francis de Sales’ little talks and letters of counsel, as though I were a member of that audience to whom he wrote. Having visited Franciscan spirituality, and Carmelite, I had been left outside. There are things beyond our control, outside our own will or choice.

This past year, I stumbled on Self-Abandonment to Divine Providence by Fr. Jean-Pierre de Caussade, a spiritual disciple of St. Francis de Sales. It has been described as a melding of Carmelite and Salesian spirituality, but such descriptions by booksellers and reference writers mean little to anyone except scholars, and to those who find by seeking (“research”) instead of by discovery.

There are some people whose temperament is melancholia, whose temptation is despair, who know that their own will is futile, impotent. They are often addicts, almost always losers, and they’re usually objects of contempt—their own even more than others’. Sometimes, they are writers.

St. Francis de Sales is the patron of writers. Happy Feast Day, St. Francis. A day late.