Book 9

O Lord, I am Thy servant; I am Thy servant, and the son of Thy handmaid: Thou hast broken my bonds in sunder. I will offer to Thee the sacrifice of praise. Let my heart and my tongue praise Thee; yea, let all my bones say, O Lord, who is like unto Thee? Let them say, and answer Thou me, and say unto my soul, I am thy salvation. Who am I, and what am I? What evil have not been either my deeds, or if not my deeds, my words, or if not my words, my will? But Thou, O Lord, are good and merciful, and Thy right hand had respect unto the depth of my death, and from the bottom of my heart emptied that abyss of corruption. And this Thy whole gift was, to nill what I willed, and to will what Thou willedst. But where through all those years, and out of what low and deep recess was my free-will called forth in a moment, whereby to submit my neck to Thy easy yoke, and my shoulders unto Thy light burden, O Christ Jesus, my Helper and my Redeemer? How sweet did it at once become to me, to want the sweetnesses of those toys! and what I feared to be parted from, was now a joy to part with. For Thou didst cast them forth from me, Thou true and highest sweetness. Thou castest them forth, and for them enteredst in Thyself, sweeter than all pleasure, though not to flesh and blood; brighter than all light, but more hidden than all depths, higher than all honour, but not to the high in their own conceits. Now was my soul free from the biting cares of canvassing and getting, and weltering in filth, and scratching off the itch of lust. And my infant tongue spake freely to Thee, my brightness, and my riches, and my health, the Lord my God.

O Lord, I am your servant. I am your servant, and the son of your handmaid. You have broken my bonds apart. I will offer you the sacrifice of praise. Let my heart and my tongue praise you. Yes, let all my bones say, O Lord, who is like you? Let them say it, and you answer me, and say to my soul, I am your salvation. Who am I, and what am I? What evil has not been in my deeds, or if not in my deeds, in my words, or if not in my words, in my will? But you, O Lord, are good and merciful. Your right hand looked upon the depth of my death, and emptied that abyss of corruption from the bottom of my heart. And this was your whole gift: that I should refuse what I willed, and will what you willed. But where was my free will through all those years? Out of what low and deep hiding place was it called out in a moment, so that I bowed my neck to your easy yoke, and my shoulders to your light burden, O Christ Jesus, my Helper and my Redeemer? How sweet it suddenly became to me to do without the sweetness of those trifles! What I had feared to lose, it was now a joy to let go. For you cast them out of me, you true and highest sweetness. You cast them out, and in their place you came in yourself. You are sweeter than all pleasure, though not to flesh and blood. You are brighter than all light, yet more hidden than any depth. You are higher than all honor, but not to those who are high in their own opinion. Now my soul was free from the gnawing cares of seeking office and getting wealth, of wallowing in filth, and of scratching the itch of lust. And my infant tongue spoke freely to you, my brightness, my riches, and my health, the Lord my God.

And I resolved in Thy sight, not tumultuously to tear, but gently to withdraw, the service of my tongue from the marts of lip-labour: that the young, no students in Thy law, nor in Thy peace, but in lying dotages and law-skirmishes, should no longer buy at my mouth arms for their madness. And very seasonably, it now wanted but very few days unto the Vacation of the Vintage, and I resolved to endure them, then in a regular way to take my leave, and having been purchased by Thee, no more to return for sale. Our purpose then was known to Thee; but to men, other than our own friends, was it not known. For we had agreed among ourselves not to let it out abroad to any: although to us, now ascending from the valley of tears, and singing that song of degrees, Thou hadst given sharp arrows, and destroying coals against the subtle tongue, which as though advising for us, would thwart, and would out of love devour us, as it doth its meat.

And I resolved in your sight to withdraw the service of my tongue from the markets of talk, not by tearing it away noisily, but gently. I did not want the young to buy weapons for their madness from my mouth any longer. They were not students of your law or your peace, but of lying follies and legal battles. And very conveniently, only a very few days were left until the Vintage Vacation. I resolved to endure them, and then take my leave in the regular way. Having been bought by you, I would never return to be put up for sale. So our plan was known to you, but not to other people except our own friends. For we had agreed among ourselves not to spread it to anyone. We did this even though, as we climbed up from the valley of tears and sang that song of ascents, you had given us sharp arrows and destroying coals against the cunning tongue. That tongue, as if giving us advice, would oppose us, and out of love would devour us, as it devours its food.

Thou hadst pierced our hearts with Thy charity, and we carried Thy words as it were fixed in our entrails: and the examples of Thy servants, whom for black Thou hadst made bright, and for dead, alive, being piled together in the receptacle of our thoughts, kindled and burned up that our heavy torpor, that we should not sink down to the abyss; and they fired us so vehemently, that all the blasts of subtle tongues from gainsayers might only inflame us the more fiercely, not extinguish us. Nevertheless, because for Thy Name's sake which Thou hast hallowed throughout the earth, this our vow and purpose might also find some to commend it, it seemed like ostentation not to wait for the vacation now so near, but to quit beforehand a public profession, which was before the eyes of all; so that all looking on this act of mine, and observing how near was the time of vintage which I wished to anticipate, would talk much of me, as if I had desired to appear some great one. And what end had it served me, that people should repute and dispute upon my purpose, and that our good should be evil spoken of.

You had pierced our hearts with your love, and we carried your words fixed, as it were, deep inside us. In our thoughts we had heaped together the examples of your servants, whom you had made bright from black, and alive from dead. These examples set fire to our heavy sluggishness and burned it up, so that we would not sink down into the abyss. They set us burning so fiercely that every blast from the cunning tongues of opponents could only inflame us more fiercely, not put us out. Nevertheless, for the sake of your Name, which you have made holy throughout the earth, our vow and purpose might also find some people to praise it. So it seemed like showing off not to wait for the vacation that was now so near, but to quit early a public profession that everyone could see. Everyone would watch this act of mine and notice how near the vintage was, which I wanted to get ahead of. Then they would talk about me a great deal, as if I had wanted to seem someone great. And what good would it have done me for people to judge and argue about my purpose, and for our good to be spoken of as evil?

Moreover, it had at first troubled me that in this very summer my lungs began to give way, amid too great literary labour, and to breathe deeply with difficulty, and by the pain in my chest to show that they were injured, and to refuse any full or lengthened speaking; this had troubled me, for it almost constrained me of necessity to lay down that burden of teaching, or, if I could be cured and recover, at least to intermit it. But when the full wish for leisure, that I might see how that Thou art the Lord, arose, and was fixed, in me; my God, Thou knowest, I began even to rejoice that I had this secondary, and that no feigned, excuse, which might something moderate the offence taken by those who, for their sons' sake, wished me never to have the freedom of Thy sons. Full then of such joy, I endured till that interval of time were run; it may have been some twenty days, yet they were endured manfully; endured, for the covetousness which aforetime bore a part of this heavy business, had left me, and I remained alone, and had been overwhelmed, had not patience taken its place. Perchance, some of Thy servants, my brethren, may say that I sinned in this, that with a heart fully set on Thy service, I suffered myself to sit even one hour in the chair of lies. Nor would I be contentious. But hast not Thou, O most merciful Lord, pardoned and remitted this sin also, with my other most horrible and deadly sins, in the holy water?

Moreover, at first it had troubled me that my lungs began to give way that very summer, from too much literary work. I could breathe deeply only with difficulty. The pain in my chest showed they were injured, and they refused any full or lengthy speaking. This had troubled me, because it almost forced me to lay down the burden of teaching. Or, if I could be cured and recover, it forced me at least to pause it. But then the full wish for leisure arose and became fixed in me, leisure to see that you are the Lord. My God, you know that I then began even to rejoice that I had this excuse. It was a secondary excuse, but not a false one. It might somewhat soften the offense of those who, for their sons' sake, wished I would never have the freedom of your sons. Full of this joy, then, I endured until that stretch of time had run out. It may have been about twenty days, yet I endured them bravely. I say endured, because the greed that used to carry part of this heavy work had left me. I remained alone under it, and I would have been overwhelmed if patience had not taken its place. Perhaps some of your servants, my brothers, may say that I sinned in this. They may say that, with a heart fully set on your service, I let myself sit even one hour in the chair of lies. I will not argue. But have you not, most merciful Lord, pardoned and forgiven this sin too, along with my other most horrible and deadly sins, in the holy water?

Verecundus was worn down with care about this our blessedness, for that being held back by bonds, whereby he was most straitly bound, he saw that he should be severed from us. For himself was not yet a Christian, his wife one of the faithful; and yet hereby, more rigidly than by any other chain, was he let and hindered from the journey which we had now essayed. For he would not, he said, be a Christian on any other terms than on those he could not. However, he offered us courteously to remain at his country-house so long as we should stay there. Thou, O Lord, shalt reward him in the resurrection of the just, seeing Thou hast already given him the lot of the righteous. For although, in our absence, being now at Rome, he was seized with bodily sickness, and therein being made a Christian, and one of the faithful, he departed this life; yet hadst Thou mercy not on him only, but on us also: lest remembering the exceeding kindness of our friend towards us, yet unable to number him among Thy flock, we should be agonised with intolerable sorrow. Thanks unto Thee, our God, we are Thine: Thy suggestions and consolations tell us, Faithful in promises, Thou now requitest Verecundus for his country-house of Cassiacum, where from the fever of the world we reposed in Thee, with the eternal freshness of Thy Paradise: for that Thou hast forgiven him his sins upon earth, in that rich mountain, that mountain which yieldeth milk, Thine own mountain.

Verecundus was worn down with worry over this happiness of ours. He saw that the bonds holding him so tightly would separate him from us. He himself was not yet a Christian, though his wife was one of the faithful. Yet this bond, his marriage, held him back from the path we had now set out on more firmly than any other chain. For he said he would not be a Christian on any terms other than those he could not meet. Still, he kindly offered us his country house for as long as we stayed there. You, Lord, will reward him at the resurrection of the just, since you have already given him the lot of the righteous. While we were away, already in Rome, he fell ill in body. During that illness he was made a Christian, one of the faithful, and he departed this life. So you had mercy not only on him but on us too. Otherwise, remembering our friend's great kindness to us, yet unable to count him among your flock, we would have been tormented with unbearable sorrow. Thanks be to you, our God. We are yours. Your promptings and comforts tell us that you, faithful in your promises, now repay Verecundus for his country house at Cassiacum. There we rested in you from the fever of the world. You repay him with the eternal freshness of your Paradise. For you have forgiven him his sins on earth, on that rich mountain, the mountain that yields milk, your own mountain.

He then had at that time sorrow, but Nebridius joy. For although he also, not being yet a Christian, had fallen into the pit of that most pernicious error, believing the flesh of Thy Son to be a phantom: yet emerging thence, he believed as we did; not as yet endued with any Sacraments of Thy Church, but a most ardent searcher out of truth. Whom, not long after our conversion and regeneration by Thy Baptism, being also a faithful member of the Church Catholic, and serving Thee in perfect chastity and continence amongst his people in Africa, his whole house having through him first been made Christian, didst Thou release from the flesh; and now he lives in Abraham's bosom. Whatever that be, which is signified by that bosom, there lives my Nebridius, my sweet friend, and Thy child, O Lord, adopted of a freed man: there he liveth. For what other place is there for such a soul? There he liveth, whereof he asked much of me, a poor inexperienced man. Now lays he not his ear to my mouth, but his spiritual mouth unto Thy fountain, and drinketh as much as he can receive, wisdom in proportion to his thirst, endlessly happy. Nor do I think that he is so inebriated therewith, as to forget me; seeing Thou, Lord, Whom he drinketh, art mindful of us. So were we then, comforting Verecundus, who sorrowed, as far as friendship permitted, that our conversion was of such sort; and exhorting him to become faithful, according to his measure, namely, of a married estate; and awaiting Nebridius to follow us, which, being so near, he was all but doing: and so, lo! those days rolled by at length; for long and many they seemed, for the love I bare to the easeful liberty, that I might sing to Thee, from my inmost marrow, My heart hath said unto Thee, I have sought Thy face: Thy face, Lord, will I seek.

At that time, he felt sorrow while Nebridius found joy. Though Nebridius wasn't yet Christian and had fallen into dangerous error—believing Christ's flesh was merely an illusion—he eventually emerged from this belief and came to share our faith. Though not yet baptized into the Church, he was an passionate seeker of truth. Shortly after our conversion and your baptism, while serving as a faithful Catholic in perfect chastity among his people in Africa, having first converted his entire household to Christianity, you released him from earthly life. Now he dwells in Abraham's bosom. Whatever that sacred place may be, there lives my Nebridius, my dear friend and your child, Lord, adopted through a freedman. For where else could such a soul reside? There he lives, in that place about which he questioned me so often when I knew so little. Now he no longer seeks wisdom from my lips, but drinks directly from your fountain, taking in all the wisdom his thirst desires, eternally content. I don't believe his joy there makes him forget me, for you, Lord, whom he drinks from, remember us. Meanwhile, we comforted Verecundus, who was troubled by the nature of our conversion. We encouraged him to embrace faith in his own way, within his married life. We waited for Nebridius to join us, which seemed imminent given his nearness to conversion. Those days passed slowly, seeming endless due to my yearning for the peaceful freedom to sing to you from my core, "My heart has spoken: I have sought your face; your face, Lord, I will seek."

Now was the day come wherein I was in deed to be freed of my Rhetoric Professorship, whereof in thought I was already freed. And it was done. Thou didst rescue my tongue, whence Thou hadst before rescued my heart. And I blessed Thee, rejoicing; retiring with all mine to the villa. What I there did in writing, which was now enlisted in Thy service, though still, in this breathing-time as it were, panting from the school of pride, my books may witness, as well what I debated with others, as what with myself alone, before Thee: what with Nebridius, who was absent, my Epistles bear witness. And when shall I have time to rehearse all Thy great benefits towards us at that time, especially when hasting on to yet greater mercies? For my remembrance recalls me, and pleasant is it to me, O Lord, to confess to Thee, by what inward goads Thou tamedst me; and how Thou hast evened me, lowering the mountains and hills of my high imaginations, straightening my crookedness, and smoothing my rough ways; and how Thou also subduedst the brother of my heart, Alypius, unto the name of Thy Only Begotten, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, which he would not at first vouchsafe to have inserted in our writings. For rather would he have them savour of the lofty cedars of the Schools, which the Lord hath now broken down, than of the wholesome herbs of the Church, the antidote against serpents.

The day finally arrived when I was to be released from my position as Professor of Rhetoric, a role I had already left behind in my mind. When it happened, You freed my tongue just as You had previously freed my heart. I gave thanks and rejoiced, retreating with my household to our villa. My books show what I wrote there, now dedicated to Your service, though still somewhat breathless from my time in that school of pride. They record both my discussions with others and my private contemplations before You, while my letters to the absent Nebridius document our correspondence. How can I find time to recount all Your blessings from that period, especially as even greater mercies approached? My memories are pleasant, Lord, as I confess to You how You guided me with internal promptings, leveling the mountains and hills of my arrogance, straightening my crooked paths, and smoothing my rough ways. You also brought my dear brother Alypius to accept the name of Your Only Son, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, which he had initially refused to include in our writings. He had preferred the style of the prestigious Schools with their towering cedars, which the Lord has since toppled, over the Church's healing herbs that counteract poison.

Oh, in what accents spake I unto Thee, my God, when I read the Psalms of David, those faithful songs, and sounds of devotion, which allow of no swelling spirit, as yet a Catechumen, and a novice in Thy real love, resting in that villa, with Alypius a Catechumen, my mother cleaving to us, in female garb with masculine faith, with the tranquillity of age, motherly love, Christian piety! Oh, what accents did I utter unto Thee in those Psalms, and how was I by them kindled towards Thee, and on fire to rehearse them, if possible, through the whole world, against the pride of mankind! And yet they are sung through the whole world, nor can any hide himself from Thy heat. With what vehement and bitter sorrow was I angered at the Manichees! and again I pitied them, for they knew not those Sacraments, those medicines, and were mad against the antidote which might have recovered them of their madness. How I would they had then been somewhere near me, and without my knowing that they were there, could have beheld my countenance, and heard my words, when I read the fourth Psalm in that time of my rest, and how that Psalm wrought upon me: When I called, the God of my righteousness heard me; in tribulation Thou enlargedst me. Have mercy upon me, O Lord, and hear my prayer. Would that what I uttered on these words, they could hear, without my knowing whether they heard, lest they should think I spake it for their sakes! Because in truth neither should I speak the same things, nor in the same way, if I perceived that they heard and saw me; nor if I spake them would they so receive them, as when I spake by and for myself before Thee, out of the natural feelings of my soul.

Oh, how I spoke to You, my God, when reading David's Psalms—those sincere songs and devotional words that humble the spirit! I was still a Catechumen then, new to Your true love, staying at that villa with Alypius, also a Catechumen. My mother stayed close to us, womanly in appearance but with the strength of masculine faith, carrying the serenity of age, maternal love, and Christian devotion. How those Psalms moved me to speak to You! They ignited my passion and made me want to proclaim them worldwide against human pride. And indeed, they are now sung across the globe—no one can escape Your warmth. How deeply and bitterly angry I was at the Manichees! Yet I also felt sorry for them, for they were blind to these Sacraments, these healing remedies, and raged against the very cure that could have saved them from their delusion. How I wish they had been near me then, watching and listening without my knowledge as I read the fourth Psalm during that peaceful time. If only they could have seen my face and heard my words, and witnessed how that Psalm affected me: "When I called, the God of my righteousness heard me; in trouble You gave me room. Have mercy on me, Lord, and hear my prayer." If only they could have heard my response to these words without my knowing they were there—for I wouldn't have spoken the same way had I known they were listening. Even if I had said the same things, they wouldn't have received them as they were truly meant: as intimate words between myself and You, flowing naturally from my soul.

I trembled for fear, and again kindled with hope, and with rejoicing in Thy mercy, O Father; and all issued forth both by mine eyes and voice, when Thy good Spirit turning unto us, said, O ye sons of men, how long slow of heart? why do ye love vanity, and seek after leasing? For I had loved vanity, and sought after leasing. And Thou, O Lord, hadst already magnified Thy Holy One, raising Him from the dead, and setting Him at Thy right hand, whence from on high He should send His promise, the Comforter, the Spirit of truth. And He had already sent Him, but I knew it not; He had sent Him, because He was now magnified, rising again from the dead, and ascending into heaven. For till then, the Spirit was not yet given, because Jesus was not yet glorified. And the prophet cries out, How long, slow of heart? why do ye love vanity, and seek after leasing? Know this, that the Lord hath magnified His Holy One. He cries out, How long? He cries out, Know this: and I so long, not knowing, loved vanity, and sought after leasing: and therefore I heard and trembled, because it was spoken unto such as I remembered myself to have been. For in those phantoms which I had held for truths, was there vanity and leasing; and I spake aloud many things earnestly and forcibly, in the bitterness of my remembrance. Which would they had heard, who yet love vanity and seek after leasing! They would perchance have been troubled, and have vomited it up; and Thou wouldest hear them when they cried unto Thee; for by a true death in the flesh did He die for us, who now intercedeth unto Thee for us.

I trembled with fear, yet was rekindled with hope and joy in Your mercy, Father. My emotions poured out through my tears and voice when Your good Spirit turned to us and said, "O children of men, why are your hearts so slow to understand? Why do you love emptiness and chase after lies?" Indeed, I had loved emptiness and pursued lies. But You, Lord, had already glorified Your Holy One by raising Him from the dead and placing Him at Your right hand. From there, He would send His promise—the Comforter, the Spirit of truth. He had already sent Him, though I didn't know it then. This sending was possible because Jesus was now glorified, having risen from the dead and ascended to heaven. Until that time, the Spirit had not been given, because Jesus had not yet been glorified. The prophet cries out: "How long will your hearts be slow to understand? Why do you love emptiness and chase lies? Know that the Lord has glorified His Holy One." He cries "How long?" and "Know this!"—while I, in my ignorance, had long loved emptiness and chased lies. I heard these words and trembled, recognizing myself in their description. The fantasies I had believed were nothing but emptiness and lies. I spoke many things passionately and forcefully, bitter with remembrance. If only those who still love emptiness and chase lies could have heard! Perhaps they would have been troubled enough to reject these falsehoods. Then You would hear their cries to You, for He who now intercedes for us with You died a true death in the flesh for our sake.

I further read, Be angry, and sin not. And how was I moved, O my God, who had now learned to be angry at myself for things past, that I might not sin in time to come! Yea, to be justly angry; for that it was not another nature of a people of darkness which sinned for me, as they say who are not angry at themselves, and treasure up wrath against the day of wrath, and of the revelation of Thy just judgment. Nor were my good things now without, nor sought with the eyes of flesh in that earthly sun; for they that would have joy from without soon become vain, and waste themselves on the things seen and temporal, and in their famished thoughts do lick their very shadows. Oh that they were wearied out with their famine, and said, Who will show us good things? And we would say, and they hear, The light of Thy countenance is sealed upon us. For we are not that light which enlighteneth every man, but we are enlightened by Thee; that having been sometimes darkness, we may be light in Thee. Oh that they could see the eternal Internal, which having tasted, I was grieved that I could not show It them, so long as they brought me their heart in their eyes roving abroad from Thee, while they said, Who will show us good things? For there, where I was angry within myself in my chamber, where I was inwardly pricked, where I had sacrificed, slaying my old man and commencing the purpose of a new life, putting my trust in Thee,—there hadst Thou begun to grow sweet unto me, and hadst put gladness in my heart. And I cried out, as I read this outwardly, finding it inwardly. Nor would I be multiplied with worldly goods; wasting away time, and wasted by time; whereas I had in Thy eternal Simple Essence other corn, and wine, and oil.

I read on: Be angry, and do not sin. How this moved me, my God! I had now learned to be angry at myself for past things, so that I might not sin in time to come. Yes, to be justly angry. For it was not some other nature, belonging to a race of darkness, that sinned in my place, as those people say who are not angry at themselves. They store up wrath for themselves against the day of wrath and of the revelation of your just judgment. My good things were no longer outside me. I no longer sought them with eyes of flesh in that earthly sun. For those who want their joy from outside soon become empty. They pour themselves out on things seen and temporal, and in their starving thoughts they lick at their own shadows. Oh, if only they would grow weary of their hunger and say, Who will show us good things? Then we would say, and they would hear: The light of your face is sealed upon us. For we are not that light which enlightens every man. We are enlightened by you, so that we who were once darkness may be light in you. Oh, if only they could see the eternal good that is within! I had tasted it, and I grieved that I could not show it to them. They kept bringing me their heart in their eyes, which roamed outside, away from you, while they asked, Who will show us good things? For there in my room I had been angry at myself. There I was pierced inwardly. There I had made my sacrifice, killing my old self and beginning the purpose of a new life, putting my trust in you. And there you had begun to grow sweet to me and had put gladness in my heart. And I cried out as I read this outwardly and found it inwardly. I did not want to be multiplied with worldly goods, devouring time and devoured by time. For in your eternal, simple Being I had another corn, and wine, and oil.

And with a loud cry of my heart I cried out in the next verse, O in peace, O for The Self-same! O what said he, I will lay me down and sleep, for who shall hinder us, when cometh to pass that saying which is written, Death is swallowed up in victory? And Thou surpassingly art the Self-same, Who art not changed; and in Thee is rest which forgetteth all toil, for there is none other with Thee, nor are we to seek those many other things, which are not what Thou art: but Thou, Lord, alone hast made me dwell in hope. I read, and kindled; nor found I what to do to those deaf and dead, of whom myself had been, a pestilent person, a bitter and a blind bawler against those writings, which are honied with the honey of heaven, and lightsome with Thine own light: and I was consumed with zeal at the enemies of this Scripture.

With a loud cry of my heart I cried out at the next verse: O in peace! O for the Self-same! Oh, what did he say? I will lie down and sleep. For who shall hinder us when the saying that is written comes to pass, Death is swallowed up in victory? And you are supremely the Self-same, for you do not change. In you is the rest that forgets all toil, for there is no other with you. Nor are we to seek those many other things that are not what you are. But you alone, Lord, have made me dwell in hope. I read and was set on fire. I could not find what to do for those deaf and dead people. I myself had been one of them, a pest, a bitter and blind ranter against those writings. They are sweet with the honey of heaven and bright with your own light. And I was consumed with zeal against the enemies of this Scripture.

When shall I recall all which passed in those holy-days? Yet neither have I forgotten, nor will I pass over the severity of Thy scourge, and the wonderful swiftness of Thy mercy. Thou didst then torment me with pain in my teeth; which when it had come to such height that I could not speak, it came into my heart to desire all my friends present to pray for me to Thee, the God of all manner of health. And this I wrote on wax, and gave it them to read. Presently so soon as with humble devotion we had bowed our knees, that pain went away. But what pain? or how went it away? I was affrighted, O my Lord, my God; for from infancy I had never experienced the like. And the power of Thy Nod was deeply conveyed to me, and rejoicing in faith, I praised Thy Name. And that faith suffered me not to be at ease about my past sins, which were not yet forgiven me by Thy baptism.

When will I remember everything that happened during those sacred days? Still, I haven't forgotten—nor will I ignore—the harshness of Your punishment and the amazing speed of Your mercy. You afflicted me with severe toothache, which became so intense I couldn't speak. It occurred to me then to ask my friends who were present to pray to You, the God of all healing. I wrote this request on a wax tablet and had them read it. As soon as we had knelt down in humble prayer, the pain vanished. But what kind of pain was it? How did it disappear? I was startled, Lord, my God, since I had never felt anything like it since childhood. The power of Your will deeply affected me, and rejoicing in faith, I praised Your Name. Yet that faith didn't let me rest easy about my past sins, which hadn't yet been forgiven through Your baptism.

The vintage-vacation ended, I gave notice to the Milanese to provide their scholars with another master to sell words to them; for that I had both made choice to serve Thee, and through my difficulty of breathing and pain in my chest was not equal to the Professorship. And by letters I signified to Thy Prelate, the holy man Ambrose, my former errors and present desires, begging his advice what of Thy Scriptures I had best read, to become readier and fitter for receiving so great grace. He recommended Isaiah the Prophet: I believe, because he above the rest is a more clear foreshower of the Gospel and of the calling of the Gentiles. But I, not understanding the first lesson in him, and imagining the whole to be like it, laid it by, to be resumed when better practised in our Lord's own words.

When the vintage holiday was over, I gave notice to the people of Milan to find their students another master to sell words to them. I had chosen to serve you, and because of my difficulty breathing and the pain in my chest, I was no longer up to the professorship. And I wrote to your bishop, the holy man Ambrose, telling him of my former errors and my present desires. I asked his advice about which of your Scriptures I had best read, to become readier and fitter to receive so great a grace. He recommended the prophet Isaiah. I believe this was because Isaiah, more than the rest, foretells the Gospel and the calling of the Gentiles more clearly. But I did not understand the first passage in him, and I imagined the whole book was like it. So I laid it aside, to take up again when I was better practiced in our Lord's own words.

Thence, when the time was come wherein I was to give in my name, we left the country and returned to Milan. It pleased Alypius also to be with me born again in Thee, being already clothed with the humility befitting Thy Sacraments; and a most valiant tamer of the body, so as, with unwonted venture, to wear the frozen ground of Italy with his bare feet. We joined with us the boy Adeodatus, born after the flesh, of my sin. Excellently hadst Thou made him. He was not quite fifteen, and in wit surpassed many grave and learned men. I confess unto Thee Thy gifts, O Lord my God, Creator of all, and abundantly able to reform our deformities: for I had no part in that boy, but the sin. For that we brought him up in Thy discipline, it was Thou, none else, had inspired us with it. I confess unto Thee Thy gifts. There is a book of ours entitled The Master; it is a dialogue between him and me. Thou knowest that all there ascribed to the person conversing with me were his ideas, in his sixteenth year. Much besides, and yet more admirable, I found in him. That talent struck awe into me. And who but Thou could be the workmaster of such wonders? Soon didst Thou take his life from the earth: and I now remember him without anxiety, fearing nothing for his childhood or youth, or his whole self. Him we joined with us, our contemporary in grace, to be brought up in Thy discipline: and we were baptised, and anxiety for our past life vanished from us. Nor was I sated in those days with the wondrous sweetness of considering the depth of Thy counsels concerning the salvation of mankind. How did I weep, in Thy Hymns and Canticles, touched to the quick by the voices of Thy sweet-attuned Church! The voices flowed into mine ears, and the Truth distilled into my heart, whence the affections of my devotion overflowed, and tears ran down, and happy was I therein.

When the time came to formally declare my faith, we left the countryside and went back to Milan. Alypius chose to be reborn with me in faith, embracing the humility required for the Sacraments. He showed remarkable physical discipline, even walking barefoot on Italy's frozen ground. We brought with us Adeodatus, my natural son born of my previous sins. God had blessed him with extraordinary gifts. Though not yet fifteen, his intelligence surpassed that of many educated adults. I acknowledge Your gifts, Lord my God, Creator of all, who can transform our flaws. I contributed nothing to that boy except sin, but it was You who guided us to raise him in Your teachings. I acknowledge Your gifts. We wrote a book called The Master, a dialogue between us. You know that all the ideas attributed to my conversation partner were his own, conceived in his sixteenth year. I discovered even more remarkable qualities in him. His talent amazed me. Who but You could create such wonders? You took him from earth early, and now I remember him peacefully, without worry for his childhood, youth, or entire being. We welcomed him as our equal in grace, raising him in Your teachings. We were baptized, and our concerns about our past lives disappeared. In those days, I couldn't get enough of contemplating Your divine plan for humanity's salvation. How I wept during Your Hymns and Canticles, moved deeply by the voices of Your harmonious Church! The voices entered my ears, Truth seeped into my heart, and my devotion overflowed in tears of joy.

Not long had the Church of Milan begun to use this kind of consolation and exhortation, the brethren zealously joining with harmony of voice and hearts. For it was a year, or not much more, that Justina, mother to the Emperor Valentinian, a child, persecuted Thy servant Ambrose, in favour of her heresy, to which she was seduced by the Arians. The devout people kept watch in the Church, ready to die with their Bishop Thy servant. There my mother Thy handmaid, bearing a chief part of those anxieties and watchings, lived for prayer. We, yet unwarmed by the heat of Thy Spirit, still were stirred up by the sight of the amazed and disquieted city. Then it was first instituted that after the manner of the Eastern Churches, Hymns and Psalms should be sung, lest the people should wax faint through the tediousness of sorrow: and from that day to this the custom is retained, divers (yea, almost all) Thy congregations, throughout other parts of the world following herein.

The Church of Milan had not long begun to use this kind of comfort and encouragement, with the brothers eagerly joining in harmony of voice and heart. For it was a year, or not much more, since Justina, mother of the boy emperor Valentinian, had persecuted your servant Ambrose. She did so for the sake of her heresy, into which the Arians had led her. The devout people kept watch in the church, ready to die with their bishop, your servant. There my mother, your handmaid, bore a leading part in those anxieties and vigils, and lived for prayer. We ourselves were not yet warmed by the heat of your Spirit. Even so, we were stirred by the sight of the astonished and disturbed city. It was then that hymns and psalms were first sung, after the custom of the Eastern churches, so that the people would not grow faint through the weariness of sorrow. From that day to this the custom has been kept. Many of your congregations, indeed almost all, in other parts of the world have followed it.

Then didst Thou by a vision discover to Thy forenamed Bishop where the bodies of Gervasius and Protasius the martyrs lay hid (whom Thou hadst in Thy secret treasury stored uncorrupted so many years), whence Thou mightest seasonably produce them to repress the fury of a woman, but an Empress. For when they were discovered and dug up, and with due honour translated to the Ambrosian Basilica, not only they who were vexed with unclean spirits (the devils confessing themselves) were cured, but a certain man who had for many years been blind, a citizen, and well known to the city, asking and hearing the reason of the people's confused joy, sprang forth desiring his guide to lead him thither. Led thither, he begged to be allowed to touch with his handkerchief the bier of Thy saints, whose death is precious in Thy sight. Which when he had done, and put to his eyes, they were forthwith opened. Thence did the fame spread, thence Thy praises glowed, shone; thence the mind of that enemy, though not turned to the soundness of believing, was yet turned back from her fury of persecuting. Thanks to Thee, O my God. Whence and whither hast Thou thus led my remembrance, that I should confess these things also unto Thee? which great though they be, I had passed by in forgetfulness. And yet then, when the odour of Thy ointments was so fragrant, did we not run after Thee. Therefore did I more weep among the singing of Thy Hymns, formerly sighing after Thee, and at length breathing in Thee, as far as the breath may enter into this our house of grass.

Then, by a vision, you revealed to your bishop, whom I named before, where the bodies of the martyrs Gervasius and Protasius lay hidden. You had kept them uncorrupted for so many years in your secret treasury. From there you could bring them out at the right time to check the fury of a woman, but an empress. For when they were found and dug up, they were moved with due honor to the Ambrosian Basilica. Not only were those troubled by unclean spirits cured, as the devils themselves confessed. There was also a certain man who had been blind for many years, a citizen well known to the city. He asked the reason for the people's tumultuous joy, and when he heard it, he sprang up and asked his guide to lead him there. Once there, he begged to be allowed to touch the bier of your saints with his handkerchief, saints whose death is precious in your sight. When he had done this and put it to his eyes, they were at once opened. From there the news spread. From there your praises glowed and shone. From there the mind of that enemy was turned back from her fury of persecution, though it was not turned to sound belief. Thanks be to you, my God. From where, and to where, have you led my memory, so that I should confess these things also to you? Great as they are, I had passed them over and forgotten them. And yet even then, when the scent of your ointments was so fragrant, we did not run after you. That is why I wept all the more among the singing of your hymns. Once I had sighed for you, and at last I breathed in you, as far as breath can enter this house of grass of ours.

Thou that makest men to dwell of one mind in one house, didst join with us Euodius also, a young man of our own city. Who being an officer of Court, was before us converted to Thee and baptised: and quitting his secular warfare, girded himself to Thine. We were together, about to dwell together in our devout purpose. We sought where we might serve Thee most usefully, and were together returning to Africa: whitherward being as far as Ostia, my mother departed this life. Much I omit, as hastening much. Receive my confessions and thanksgivings, O my God, for innumerable things whereof I am silent. But I will not omit whatsoever my soul would bring forth concerning that Thy handmaid, who brought me forth, both in the flesh, that I might be born to this temporal light, and in heart, that I might be born to Light eternal. Not her gifts, but Thine in her, would I speak of; for neither did she make nor educate herself. Thou createdst her; nor did her father and mother know what a one should come from them. And the sceptre of Thy Christ, the discipline of Thine only Son, in a Christian house, a good member of Thy Church, educated her in Thy fear. Yet for her good discipline was she wont to commend not so much her mother's diligence, as that of a certain decrepit maid-servant, who had carried her father when a child, as little ones used to be carried at the backs of elder girls. For which reason, and for her great age, and excellent conversation, was she, in that Christian family, well respected by its heads. Whence also the charge of her master's daughters was entrusted to her, to which she gave diligent heed, restraining them earnestly, when necessary, with a holy severity, and teaching them with a grave discretion. For, except at those hours wherein they were most temporately fed at their parents' table, she would not suffer them, though parched with thirst, to drink even water; preventing an evil custom, and adding this wholesome advice: "Ye drink water now, because you have not wine in your power; but when you come to be married, and be made mistresses of cellars and cupboards, you will scorn water, but the custom of drinking will abide." By this method of instruction, and the authority she had, she refrained the greediness of childhood, and moulded their very thirst to such an excellent moderation that what they should not, that they would not.

You who make people of one mind live in one house also joined Euodius to us, a young man from our own town. He had been an officer at court, and he was turned to you and baptized before us. He left the world's service and armed himself for yours. We were together, and we meant to live together in our devout purpose. We looked for where we might serve you most usefully, and we were returning to Africa together. When we had come as far as Ostia on the way, my mother departed this life. I leave out much, since I am hurrying on. Receive my confessions and thanks, my God, for countless things I pass over in silence. But I will not leave out anything my soul brings forth about your handmaid. She brought me forth, both in the flesh, to be born into this light of time, and in her heart, to be born into eternal Light. I would speak not of her gifts, but of your gifts in her. For she did not make herself or bring herself up. You created her. Her father and mother did not know what kind of person would come from them. The scepter of your Christ, the discipline of your only Son, brought her up in your fear, in a Christian house, a good member of your Church. Yet for her good upbringing she used to praise not so much her mother's care as that of a certain very old maidservant. This woman had carried her father as a child, the way little ones used to be carried on the backs of older girls. For this reason, and for her great age and excellent conduct, the heads of that Christian household respected her greatly. So she was also given charge of her master's daughters. She looked after them diligently. When necessary she restrained them firmly with a holy strictness, and she taught them with serious good sense. Except at the hours when they ate very moderately at their parents' table, she would not let them drink even water, however thirsty they were. She did this to prevent a bad habit, and she added this sound advice: "You drink water now because you have no wine within your reach. But when you are married and made mistresses of cellars and cupboards, you will scorn water, but the habit of drinking will remain." By this way of teaching, and by her authority, she curbed the greed of childhood. She shaped their very thirst to such fine moderation that what they should not want, they did not want.

And yet (as Thy handmaid told me her son) there had crept upon her a love of wine. For when (as the manner was) she, as though a sober maiden, was bidden by her parents to draw wine out of the hogshed, holding the vessel under the opening, before she poured the wine into the flagon, she sipped a little with the tip of her lips; for more her instinctive feelings refused. For this she did, not out of any desire of drink, but out of the exuberance of youth, whereby it boils over in mirthful freaks, which in youthful spirits are wont to be kept under by the gravity of their elders. And thus by adding to that little, daily littles (for whoso despiseth little things shall fall by little and little), she had fallen into such a habit as greedily to drink off her little cup brim-full almost of wine. Where was then that discreet old woman, and that her earnest countermanding? Would aught avail against a secret disease, if Thy healing hand, O Lord, watched not over us? Father, mother, and governors absent, Thou present, who createdst, who callest, who also by those set over us, workest something towards the salvation of our souls, what didst Thou then, O my God? how didst Thou cure her? how heal her? didst Thou not out of another soul bring forth a hard and a sharp taunt, like a lancet out of Thy secret store, and with one touch remove all that foul stuff? For a maid-servant with whom she used to go to the cellar, falling to words (as it happens) with her little mistress, when alone with her, taunted her with this fault, with most bitter insult, calling her wine-bibber. With which taunt she, stung to the quick, saw the foulness of her fault, and instantly condemned and forsook it. As flattering friends pervert, so reproachful enemies mostly correct. Yet not what by them Thou doest, but what themselves purposed, dost Thou repay them. For she in her anger sought to vex her young mistress, not to amend her; and did it in private, either for that the time and place of the quarrel so found them; or lest herself also should have anger, for discovering it thus late. But Thou, Lord, Governor of all in heaven and earth, who turnest to Thy purposes the deepest currents, and the ruled turbulence of the tide of times, didst by the very unhealthiness of one soul heal another; lest any, when he observes this, should ascribe it to his own power, even when another, whom he wished to be reformed, is reformed through words of his.

And yet, as your handmaid told me, her son, a love of wine had crept up on her. As was the custom, her parents would send her, as a sober girl, to draw wine from the cask. Holding the cup under the opening, she would sip a little with the tip of her lips before pouring the wine into the flask. She took no more, because her natural feelings refused it. She did this not from any craving for drink, but from the overflowing spirits of youth. Such spirits bubble over in playful pranks, which in young people are usually kept down by the seriousness of their elders. So, by adding daily little bits to that little (for whoever despises small things will fall little by little), she fell into such a habit that she would greedily drink off her little cup almost brimful of wine. Where then was that wise old woman, and her strict forbidding? Would anything help against a hidden disease, if your healing hand, Lord, did not watch over us? Father, mother, and guardians were absent. But you were present, you who created us, who call us, and who also work something toward the salvation of our souls through those placed over us. What did you do then, my God? How did you cure her? How did you heal her? Did you not bring a hard, sharp taunt out of another soul, like a lancet from your secret store, and remove all that foul matter with one stroke? For a maidservant who used to go with her to the cellar quarreled with her young mistress, as happens, when the two were alone. She taunted her with this fault, most bitterly insulting her and calling her a drunkard. Stung to the quick by this taunt, the girl saw how foul her fault was, and at once condemned it and gave it up. Just as flattering friends corrupt, so reproachful enemies usually correct. Yet you repay them not for what you do through them, but for what they themselves intended. For the servant in her anger wanted to hurt her young mistress, not to correct her. And she did it in private, either because the time and place of the quarrel happened to find them so, or so that she herself would not face anger for revealing it so late. But you, Lord, Ruler of all in heaven and earth, turn the deepest currents to your purposes and govern the turbulent tide of the ages. You healed one soul by the very sickness of another. You did this so that no one who notices it should credit it to his own power, even when someone he wished to reform is reformed through his words.

Brought up thus modestly and soberly, and made subject rather by Thee to her parents, than by her parents to Thee, so soon as she was of marriageable age, being bestowed upon a husband, she served him as her lord; and did her diligence to win him unto Thee, preaching Thee unto him by her conversation; by which Thou ornamentedst her, making her reverently amiable, and admirable unto her husband. And she so endured the wronging of her bed as never to have any quarrel with her husband thereon. For she looked for Thy mercy upon him, that believing in Thee, he might be made chaste. But besides this, he was fervid, as in his affections, so in anger: but she had learnt not to resist an angry husband, not in deed only, but not even in word. Only when he was smoothed and tranquil, and in a temper to receive it, she would give an account of her actions, if haply he had overhastily taken offence. In a word, while many matrons, who had milder husbands, yet bore even in their faces marks of shame, would in familiar talk blame their husbands' lives, she would blame their tongues, giving them, as in jest, earnest advice: "That from the time they heard the marriage writings read to them, they should account them as indentures, whereby they were made servants; and so, remembering their condition, ought not to set themselves up against their lords." And when they, knowing what a choleric husband she endured, marvelled that it had never been heard, nor by any token perceived, that Patricius had beaten his wife, or that there had been any domestic difference between them, even for one day, and confidentially asking the reason, she taught them her practice above mentioned. Those wives who observed it found the good, and returned thanks; those who observed it not, found no relief, and suffered.

So she was brought up modestly and soberly. It was more you who made her obedient to her parents than her parents who made her obedient to you. As soon as she was old enough to marry, she was given to a husband, and she served him as her lord. She worked hard to win him to you, preaching you to him by her conduct. You adorned her with that conduct, making her worthy of reverent love, and admirable to her husband. She bore the wrongs done to her marriage bed so patiently that she never had a quarrel with her husband about it. For she looked for your mercy on him, hoping that if he believed in you he would become chaste. Besides this, he was hot-tempered, as warm in his anger as in his affections. But she had learned not to resist an angry husband, not in deed only, but not even in word. Only when he had calmed down and was in a mood to listen would she explain what she had done, if he had perhaps taken offense too hastily. In short, many married women had milder husbands, yet bore marks of shame, the signs of beatings, even on their faces. When these women talked among friends, they would blame their husbands' lives. She would blame their tongues. Half in jest, she gave them serious advice: "That from the time they heard the marriage contract read to them, they should count it as a deed of service that made them servants. So, remembering their position, they ought not to set themselves up against their lords." They knew what a hot-tempered husband she put up with. So they marveled that no one had ever heard, or seen by any sign, that Patricius had beaten his wife, or that they had had any domestic quarrel for even one day. When they asked her privately why, she taught them the practice I described above. Those wives who followed it found it good and thanked her. Those who did not follow it found no relief and went on suffering.

Her mother-in-law also, at first by whisperings of evil servants incensed against her, she so overcame by observance and persevering endurance and meekness, that she of her own accord discovered to her son the meddling tongues whereby the domestic peace betwixt her and her daughter-in-law had been disturbed, asking him to correct them. Then, when in compliance with his mother, and for the well-ordering of the family, he had with stripes corrected those discovered, at her will who had discovered them, she promised the like reward to any who, to please her, should speak ill of her daughter-in-law to her: and none now venturing, they lived together with a remarkable sweetness of mutual kindness.

Initially, her mother-in-law was turned against her by gossiping servants. But through patience, respect, and gentle behavior, she won her over completely. The mother-in-law eventually told her son about the servants who had been stirring up trouble between them. To maintain household order and please his mother, the son punished these troublemakers. The mother-in-law then warned that anyone else who spoke badly about her daughter-in-law would face similar consequences. After that, no one dared spread gossip, and the two women enjoyed a wonderfully kind relationship.

This great gift also thou bestowedst, O my God, my mercy, upon that good handmaid of Thine, in whose womb Thou createdst me, that between any disagreeing and discordant parties where she was able, she showed herself such a peacemaker, that hearing on both sides most bitter things, such as swelling and indigested choler uses to break out into, when the crudities of enmities are breathed out in sour discourses to a present friend against an absent enemy, she never would disclose aught of the one unto the other, but what might tend to their reconcilement. A small good this might appear to me, did I not to my grief know numberless persons, who through some horrible and wide-spreading contagion of sin, not only disclose to persons mutually angered things said in anger, but add withal things never spoken, whereas to humane humanity, it ought to seem a light thing not to foment or increase ill will by ill words, unless one study withal by good words to quench it. Such was she, Thyself, her most inward Instructor, teaching her in the school of the heart.

God gave a wonderful gift to your faithful servant—my mother—in whose womb you created me. She was a natural peacemaker between quarreling parties. When hearing bitter complaints from both sides, the kind that emerge when anger and resentment spill out in harsh words about an absent enemy to a present friend, she never revealed to either party what the other had said, except what might help reconcile them. This might seem like a small virtue, but I sadly know countless people who, infected by sin's contagion, not only repeat angry words between feuding parties but add false accusations that were never spoken. For any decent person, it should be the bare minimum to avoid fueling hostility through gossip—one should actively work to extinguish conflicts with words of peace. Such was my mother's nature, with You as her inner teacher, guiding her heart's education.

Finally, her own husband, towards the very end of his earthly life, did she gain unto Thee; nor had she to complain of that in him as a believer, which before he was a believer she had borne from him. She was also the servant of Thy servants; whosoever of them knew her, did in her much praise and honour and love Thee; for that through the witness of the fruits of a holy conversation they perceived Thy presence in her heart. For she had been the wife of one man, had requited her parents, had governed her house piously, was well reported of for good works, had brought up children, so often travailing in birth of them, as she saw them swerving from Thee. Lastly, of all of us Thy servants, O Lord (whom on occasion of Thy own gift Thou sufferest to speak), us, who before her sleeping in Thee lived united together, having received the grace of Thy baptism, did she so take care of, as though she had been mother of us all; so served us, as though she had been child to us all.

Finally, near the end of his life, she brought her own husband to You. As a believer, he gave her no cause for complaint, unlike during his years of unbelief. She served Your servants faithfully; all who knew her praised and honored You through her, recognizing Your presence in her heart through the evidence of her holy life. She was faithful to one husband, honored her parents, managed her household with devotion, and was known for her good deeds. She raised her children, suffering through their births and again as she watched them stray from You. And finally, Lord, among all Your servants (whom You graciously allow to speak), those of us who lived together in fellowship before she died in You, having received Your baptism—she cared for us as if she were mother to us all, and served us as if she were child to us all.

The day now approaching whereon she was to depart this life (which day Thou well knewest, we knew not), it came to pass, Thyself, as I believe, by Thy secret ways so ordering it, that she and I stood alone, leaning in a certain window, which looked into the garden of the house where we now lay, at Ostia; where removed from the din of men, we were recruiting from the fatigues of a long journey, for the voyage. We were discoursing then together, alone, very sweetly; and forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, we were enquiring between ourselves in the presence of the Truth, which Thou art, of what sort the eternal life of the saints was to be, which eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man. But yet we gasped with the mouth of our heart, after those heavenly streams of Thy fountain, the fountain of life, which is with Thee; that being bedewed thence according to our capacity, we might in some sort meditate upon so high a mystery.

As the day of her death drew near (a day You knew but we did not), it happened—through Your mysterious workings, I believe—that she and I found ourselves alone. We stood at a window overlooking the garden of our lodging in Ostia, where we were resting after a long journey before our planned voyage. Away from the bustle of people, we shared an intimate conversation, leaving the past behind and focusing on what lay ahead. Together, in the presence of Truth—which You are—we discussed what eternal life might be like for the saints, something no eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no human mind has conceived. Our hearts yearned for the heavenly waters of Your fountain, the source of life itself. We hoped that, touched by these waters according to our capacity, we might somehow grasp such a profound mystery.

And when our discourse was brought to that point, that the very highest delight of the earthly senses, in the very purest material light, was, in respect of the sweetness of that life, not only not worthy of comparison, but not even of mention; we raising up ourselves with a more glowing affection towards the "Self-same," did by degrees pass through all things bodily, even the very heaven whence sun and moon and stars shine upon the earth; yea, we were soaring higher yet, by inward musing, and discourse, and admiring of Thy works; and we came to our own minds, and went beyond them, that we might arrive at that region of never-failing plenty, where Thou feedest Israel for ever with the food of truth, and where life is the Wisdom by whom all these things are made, and what have been, and what shall be, and she is not made, but is, as she hath been, and so shall she be ever; yea rather, to "have been," and "hereafter to be," are not in her, but only "to be," seeing she is eternal. For to "have been," and to "be hereafter," are not eternal. And while we were discoursing and panting after her, we slightly touched on her with the whole effort of our heart; and we sighed, and there we leave bound the first fruits of the Spirit; and returned to vocal expressions of our mouth, where the word spoken has beginning and end. And what is like unto Thy Word, our Lord, who endureth in Himself without becoming old, and maketh all things new?

As our discussion reached its peak, we realized that even the purest earthly pleasures and the brightest physical light paled in comparison to that divine life—so much so that they weren't even worth mentioning. With growing passion, we lifted our thoughts beyond physical things, past the heavens where the sun, moon, and stars illuminate Earth. Through contemplation and conversation, marveling at Your works, we transcended our own minds to reach that realm of endless abundance where You eternally nourish Israel with truth. There, life itself is Wisdom, the creator of all things past, present, and future. This Wisdom isn't created—it simply exists as it always has and always will. Actually, concepts like "was" and "will be" don't apply—it simply "is," being eternal. For "was" and "will be" aren't eternal states. As we discussed and yearned for this Wisdom, our hearts briefly touched it with all their might. We left there our spirit's first fruits, returning to spoken words—mere utterances with clear beginnings and endings. Yet what can compare to Your Word, our Lord, who remains forever unchanged while making all things new?

We were saying then: If to any the tumult of the flesh were hushed, hushed the images of earth, and waters, and air, hushed also the pole of heaven, yea the very soul be hushed to herself, and by not thinking on self surmount self, hushed all dreams and imaginary revelations, every tongue and every sign, and whatsoever exists only in transition, since if any could hear, all these say, We made not ourselves, but He made us that abideth for ever—If then having uttered this, they too should be hushed, having roused only our ears to Him who made them, and He alone speak, not by them but by Himself, that we may hear His Word, not through any tongue of flesh, nor Angel's voice, nor sound of thunder, nor in the dark riddle of a similitude, but might hear Whom in these things we love, might hear His Very Self without these (as we two now strained ourselves, and in swift thought touched on that Eternal Wisdom which abideth over all);—could this be continued on, and other visions of kind far unlike be withdrawn, and this one ravish, and absorb, and wrap up its beholder amid these inward joys, so that life might be for ever like that one moment of understanding which now we sighed after; were not this, Enter into thy Master's joy? And when shall that be? When we shall all rise again, though we shall not all be changed?

If we could silence all physical sensations, quiet the images of nature—earth, water, air, and sky—and if the soul itself could become still, transcending self-awareness, with all dreams and visions hushed, all language and signals muted, and everything temporary suspended... For if we could hear them, they would all say "We did not create ourselves—an eternal Creator made us." If after saying this they too fell silent, having directed our attention to their Maker, and if He alone would speak—not through them but directly—so we might hear His Word without human speech, angel voices, thunder, or cryptic metaphors... If we could hear the very essence of the One we love in all these things, hear Him directly without intermediaries (as we briefly attempted, our minds fleetingly touching that eternal Wisdom above all)... If this state could persist, with all lesser visions falling away, and this single vision could captivate and consume its witness in inner joy, so that life could forever match that fleeting moment of understanding we long for—wouldn't this be what it means to "Enter into thy Master's joy"? But when will this happen? When we all rise again, even though not all will be transformed?

Such things was I speaking, and even if not in this very manner, and these same words, yet, Lord, Thou knowest that in that day when we were speaking of these things, and this world with all its delights became, as we spake, contemptible to us, my mother said, "Son, for mine own part I have no further delight in any thing in this life. What I do here any longer, and to what I am here, I know not, now that my hopes in this world are accomplished. One thing there was for which I desired to linger for a while in this life, that I might see thee a Catholic Christian before I died. My God hath done this for me more abundantly, that I should now see thee withal, despising earthly happiness, become His servant: what do I here?"

I was saying such things—though perhaps not in these exact words—and Lord, you know that on that day as we talked, this world and all its pleasures became meaningless to us. Then my mother said, "Son, nothing in this life brings me joy anymore. I don't know what purpose I serve here or why I remain, now that my hopes for this world have been fulfilled. There was only one thing that made me want to stay alive: to see you become a Catholic Christian before I died. But God has given me even more than I asked for—I now see you not only converted, but also rejecting worldly happiness to become His servant. What reason do I have to stay?"

What answer I made her unto these things, I remember not. For scarce five days after, or not much more, she fell sick of a fever; and in that sickness one day she fell into a swoon, and was for a while withdrawn from these visible things. We hastened round her; but she was soon brought back to her senses; and looking on me and my brother standing by her, said to us enquiringly, "Where was I?" And then looking fixedly on us, with grief amazed: "Here," saith she, "shall you bury your mother." I held my peace and refrained weeping; but my brother spake something, wishing for her, as the happier lot, that she might die, not in a strange place, but in her own land. Whereat, she with anxious look, checking him with her eyes, for that he still savoured such things, and then looking upon me: "Behold," saith she, "what he saith": and soon after to us both, "Lay," she saith, "this body any where; let not the care for that any way disquiet you: this only I request, that you would remember me at the Lord's altar, wherever you be." And having delivered this sentiment in what words she could, she held her peace, being exercised by her growing sickness.

I cannot recall how I responded to her words. Within five days or so, she developed a fever. During her illness, she briefly lost consciousness and slipped away from this world. We rushed to her side, and when she regained consciousness, she looked at my brother and me standing there and asked, "Where was I?" Then, looking at us intently with a troubled expression, she said, "This is where you will bury your mother." I remained silent, holding back my tears. My brother spoke up, suggesting it would be better if she could die in her homeland rather than in a foreign place. She gave him an anxious look, disapproving that he still clung to such worldly concerns. Then, turning to me, she said, "Do you hear what he's saying?" Shortly after, she addressed us both: "Place this body wherever you wish; don't let that worry you. I only ask that you remember me at the Lord's altar, wherever you may be." Having expressed this thought as best she could, she fell silent as her illness worsened.

But I, considering Thy gifts, Thou unseen God, which Thou instillest into the hearts of Thy faithful ones, whence wondrous fruits do spring, did rejoice and give thanks to Thee, recalling what I before knew, how careful and anxious she had ever been as to her place of burial, which she had provided and prepared for herself by the body of her husband. For because they had lived in great harmony together, she also wished (so little can the human mind embrace things divine) to have this addition to that happiness, and to have it remembered among men, that after her pilgrimage beyond the seas, what was earthly of this united pair had been permitted to be united beneath the same earth. But when this emptiness had through the fulness of Thy goodness begun to cease in her heart, I knew not, and rejoiced admiring what she had so disclosed to me; though indeed in that our discourse also in the window, when she said, "What do I here any longer?" there appeared no desire of dying in her own country. I heard afterwards also, that when we were now at Ostia, she with a mother's confidence, when I was absent, one day discoursed with certain of my friends about the contempt of this life, and the blessing of death: and when they were amazed at such courage which Thou hadst given to a woman, and asked, "Whether she were not afraid to leave her body so far from her own city?" she replied, "Nothing is far to God; nor was it to be feared lest at the end of the world, He should not recognise whence He were to raise me up." On the ninth day then of her sickness, and the fifty-sixth year of her age, and the three-and-thirtieth of mine, was that religious and holy soul freed from the body.

I recalled Your gifts, invisible God, which You pour into the hearts of Your faithful followers, producing wonderful results. I was grateful, remembering what I had known before—how carefully my mother had planned her burial place beside her husband's body. They had lived in perfect harmony, and she wished (showing how limited human understanding is of divine matters) to add to that happiness by having people remember that after her journey overseas, their earthly remains would rest together under the same soil. I didn't know when this worldly concern had begun to fade from her heart through Your grace, but I was moved when she revealed this change to me. Even in our conversation by the window, when she asked, "Why do I stay here any longer?" she showed no particular desire to die in her homeland. I later learned that while we were in Ostia, she had spoken confidently to some of my friends during my absence about rejecting worldly life and embracing death. When they expressed amazement at the courage You had given a woman and asked if she feared leaving her body so far from home, she responded, "Nothing is far from God, and I'm not worried He won't know where to raise me from at the world's end." On the ninth day of her illness, in her fifty-sixth year and my thirty-third, that devout and holy soul was released from her body.

I closed her eyes; and there flowed withal a mighty sorrow into my heart, which was overflowing into tears; mine eyes at the same time, by the violent command of my mind, drank up their fountain wholly dry; and woe was me in such a strife! But when she breathed her last, the boy Adeodatus burst out into a loud lament; then, checked by us all, held his peace. In like manner also a childish feeling in me, which was, through my heart's youthful voice, finding its vent in weeping, was checked and silenced. For we thought it not fitting to solemnise that funeral with tearful lament, and groanings; for thereby do they for the most part express grief for the departed, as though unhappy, or altogether dead; whereas she was neither unhappy in her death, nor altogether dead. Of this we were assured on good grounds, the testimony of her good conversation and her faith unfeigned.

I closed her eyes, and a great sorrow flowed into my heart and was overflowing into tears. At the same moment my eyes, under the forceful command of my mind, drank their fountain completely dry. How wretched I was in such a struggle! When she breathed her last, the boy Adeodatus burst into loud weeping. Then, checked by all of us, he fell silent. In the same way, something childish in me, which was finding its outlet in tears through the youthful voice of my heart, was checked and silenced. For we did not think it fitting to mark that funeral with tearful laments and groans. People mostly use these to mourn the dead as if they were unhappy, or altogether dead. But she was neither unhappy in her death nor altogether dead. Of this we were sure on good grounds: the witness of her good life and her sincere faith.

What then was it which did grievously pain me within, but a fresh wound wrought through the sudden wrench of that most sweet and dear custom of living together? I joyed indeed in her testimony, when, in that her last sickness, mingling her endearments with my acts of duty, she called me "dutiful," and mentioned, with great affection of love, that she never had heard any harsh or reproachful sound uttered by my mouth against her. But yet, O my God, Who madest us, what comparison is there betwixt that honour that I paid to her, and her slavery for me? Being then forsaken of so great comfort in her, my soul was wounded, and that life rent asunder as it were, which, of hers and mine together, had been made but one.

What pained me most deeply was the sudden severing of our cherished way of life together. I found comfort in her final words during her last illness, when, mixing tenderness with gratitude, she called me "dutiful" and lovingly noted that she had never heard me speak harshly or reproachfully to her. But Lord, my God, how can the respect I showed her compare to her lifelong sacrifice for me? Without her great comfort beside me, my soul was wounded, and the single life we had woven together from our two separate lives was torn apart.

The boy then being stilled from weeping, Euodius took up the Psalter, and began to sing, our whole house answering him, the Psalm, I will sing of mercy and judgments to Thee, O Lord. But hearing what we were doing, many brethren and religious women came together; and whilst they (whose office it was) made ready for the burial, as the manner is, I, in a part of the house, where I might properly, together with those who thought not fit to leave me, discoursed upon something fitting the time; and by this balm of truth assuaged that torment, known to Thee, they unknowing and listening intently, and conceiving me to be without all sense of sorrow. But in Thy ears, where none of them heard, I blamed the weakness of my feelings, and refrained my flood of grief, which gave way a little unto me; but again came, as with a tide, yet not so as to burst out into tears, nor to change of countenance; still I knew what I was keeping down in my heart. And being very much displeased that these human things had such power over me, which in the due order and appointment of our natural condition must needs come to pass, with a new grief I grieved for my grief, and was thus worn by a double sorrow.

After the boy stopped crying, Euodius picked up the Psalter and began singing, with everyone in the house joining in: "I will sing of mercy and judgments to Thee, O Lord." When others heard us, many fellow believers and religious women gathered. While those responsible prepared for the burial according to custom, I went to a separate room where I could speak privately with those who chose to stay with me. There, we discussed matters appropriate to the occasion, and this truthful conversation helped ease my inner pain—though they didn't know it, listening intently and assuming I felt nothing. But in Your ears alone, Lord, I criticized my emotional weakness and held back my overwhelming grief, which occasionally subsided only to return like waves. Though I didn't cry or show it on my face, I knew the pain I was suppressing in my heart. I felt ashamed that these human emotions had such control over me, even though they're natural and inevitable. This shame over my grief created new pain, and I found myself burdened by two sorrows at once.

And behold, the corpse was carried to the burial; we went and returned without tears. For neither in those prayers which we poured forth unto Thee, when the Sacrifice of our ransom was offered for her, when now the corpse was by the grave's side, as the manner there is, previous to its being laid therein, did I weep even during those prayers; yet was I the whole day in secret heavily sad, and with troubled mind prayed Thee, as I could, to heal my sorrow, yet Thou didst not; impressing, I believe, upon my memory by this one instance, how strong is the bond of all habit, even upon a soul, which now feeds upon no deceiving Word. It seemed also good to me to go and bathe, having heard that the bath had its name (balneum) from the Greek Balaneion for that it drives sadness from the mind. And this also I confess unto Thy mercy, Father of the fatherless, that I bathed, and was the same as before I bathed. For the bitterness of sorrow could not exude out of my heart. Then I slept, and woke up again, and found my grief not a little softened; and as I was alone in my bed, I remembered those true verses of Thy Ambrose. For Thou art the

We carried the body to burial, going and returning without shedding tears. Even during the prayers we offered to You at graveside—when the Sacrifice of redemption was presented, before laying the body to rest as is custom—I did not weep. Yet privately, I spent the day in deep sadness, my mind troubled as I prayed for You to ease my sorrow. You did not, likely to teach me how powerful the force of habit is, even on a soul no longer sustained by false comfort. I decided to take a bath, having learned that the word "balneum" comes from the Greek "Balaneion," meaning to drive away sadness. I admit to Your mercy, Father of the fatherless, that I bathed but emerged unchanged. The bitter sorrow remained rooted in my heart. Later, I slept and awoke to find my grief somewhat lightened. Lying alone in bed, I recalled the truthful verses of Your Ambrose. For You are the

"Maker of all, the Lord, And Ruler of the height, Who, robing day in light, hast poured Soft slumbers o'er the night, That to our limbs the power Of toil may be renew'd, And hearts be rais'd that sink and cower, And sorrows be subdu'd."

Lord of creation and master of the heavens, Who wraps daylight in brightness and blankets night in peaceful sleep, So our tired bodies may find strength again, And lift up our downcast hearts, easing our sorrows.

And then by little and little I recovered my former thoughts of Thy handmaid, her holy conversation towards Thee, her holy tenderness and observance towards us, whereof I was suddenly deprived: and I was minded to weep in Thy sight, for her and for myself, in her behalf and in my own. And I gave way to the tears which I before restrained, to overflow as much as they desired; reposing my heart upon them; and it found rest in them, for it was in Thy ears, not in those of man, who would have scornfully interpreted my weeping. And now, Lord, in writing I confess it unto Thee. Read it, who will, and interpret it, how he will: and if he finds sin therein, that I wept my mother for a small portion of an hour (the mother who for the time was dead to mine eyes, who had for many years wept for me that I might live in Thine eyes), let him not deride me; but rather, if he be one of large charity, let him weep himself for my sins unto Thee, the Father of all the brethren of Thy Christ.

Then, little by little, my old thoughts of your handmaid came back to me. I recalled her holy life with you, and her holy tenderness and care toward us, of which I was suddenly deprived. And I wanted to weep in your sight, for her and for myself, on her behalf and on my own. I let the tears I had held back flow as much as they wished, and I rested my heart on them. It found rest in them, because it was in your ears, not in the ears of some man who would have scornfully misread my weeping. And now, Lord, I confess it to you in writing. Let anyone who wishes read it, and interpret it as he wishes. Suppose he finds sin in this, that I wept for my mother for a small part of an hour. She was the mother who for the time was dead to my eyes, and who had wept for me for many years so that I might live in your eyes. Let him not mock me. Rather, if he is a man of great charity, let him weep himself for my sins to you, the Father of all the brothers of your Christ.

But now, with a heart cured of that wound, wherein it might seem blameworthy for an earthly feeling, I pour out unto Thee, our God, in behalf of that Thy handmaid, a far different kind of tears, flowing from a spirit shaken by the thoughts of the dangers of every soul that dieth in Adam. And although she having been quickened in Christ, even before her release from the flesh, had lived to the praise of Thy name for her faith and conversation; yet dare I not say that from what time Thou regeneratedst her by baptism, no word issued from her mouth against Thy Commandment. Thy Son, the Truth, hath said, Whosoever shall say unto his brother, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire. And woe be even unto the commendable life of men, if, laying aside mercy, Thou shouldest examine it. But because Thou art not extreme in enquiring after sins, we confidently hope to find some place with Thee. But whosoever reckons up his real merits to Thee, what reckons he up to Thee but Thine own gifts? O that men would know themselves to be men; and that he that glorieth would glory in the Lord.

That wound might seem blameworthy, since it came from an earthly feeling. But now, with my heart healed of it, I pour out to you, our God, on behalf of your handmaid, a very different kind of tears. They flow from a spirit shaken by thinking of the dangers facing every soul that dies in Adam. She had been made alive in Christ even before her release from the flesh, and she had lived so that your name was praised for her faith and conduct. Even so, I dare not say that from the time you gave her new birth by baptism, no word came from her mouth against your commandment. Your Son, the Truth, has said: Whoever says to his brother, You fool, shall be in danger of hell fire. And woe even to the praiseworthy life of any person, if you were to examine it with mercy set aside! But because you do not search out sins harshly, we confidently hope to find some place with you. Yet whoever lists his real merits to you, what does he list but your own gifts? Oh, if only people would know themselves to be human, and that he who glories would glory in the Lord!

I therefore, O my Praise and my Life, God of my heart, laying aside for a while her good deeds, for which I give thanks to Thee with joy, do now beseech Thee for the sins of my mother. Hearken unto me, I entreat Thee, by the Medicine of our wounds, Who hung upon the tree, and now sitting at Thy right hand maketh intercession to Thee for us. I know that she dealt mercifully, and from her heart forgave her debtors their debts; do Thou also forgive her debts, whatever she may have contracted in so many years, since the water of salvation. Forgive her, Lord, forgive, I beseech Thee; enter not into judgment with her. Let Thy mercy be exalted above Thy justice, since Thy words are true, and Thou hast promised mercy unto the merciful; which Thou gavest them to be, who wilt have mercy on whom Thou wilt have mercy; and wilt have compassion on whom Thou hast had compassion.

So, my Praise and my Life, God of my heart, I set aside for a while her good deeds, for which I thank you with joy. Now I plead with you for my mother's sins. Hear me, I beg you, by the Medicine of our wounds, who hung on the tree and now sits at your right hand and intercedes with you for us. I know that she acted mercifully, and that she forgave her debtors their debts from her heart. Forgive her debts too, whatever she may have run up in so many years since the water of salvation. Forgive her, Lord, forgive her, I beg you. Do not enter into judgment with her. Let your mercy be exalted above your justice, since your words are true and you have promised mercy to the merciful. It was you who gave them to be merciful, you who will have mercy on whom you will have mercy, and will have compassion on whom you have had compassion.

And, I believe, Thou hast already done what I ask; but accept, O Lord, the free-will offerings of my mouth. For she, the day of her dissolution now at hand, took no thought to have her body sumptuously wound up, or embalmed with spices; nor desired she a choice monument, or to be buried in her own land. These things she enjoined us not; but desired only to have her name commemorated at Thy Altar, which she had served without intermission of one day: whence she knew the holy Sacrifice to be dispensed, by which the hand-writing that was against us is blotted out; through which the enemy was triumphed over, who summing up our offences, and seeking what to lay to our charge, found nothing in Him, in Whom we conquer. Who shall restore to Him the innocent blood? Who repay Him the price wherewith He bought us, and so take us from Him? Unto the Sacrament of which our ransom, Thy handmaid bound her soul by the bond of faith. Let none sever her from Thy protection: let neither the lion nor the dragon interpose himself by force or fraud. For she will not answer that she owes nothing, lest she be convicted and seized by the crafty accuser: but she will answer that her sins are forgiven her by Him, to Whom none can repay that price which He, Who owed nothing, paid for us.

I believe you have already done what I ask, Lord, but please accept the willing offerings of my words. As her death approached, she did not concern herself with an elaborate burial shroud or expensive spices, nor did she request a special monument or burial in her homeland. She gave us no such instructions, asking only that her name be remembered at Your Altar, which she had faithfully served every day. She understood that through this holy Sacrifice, our debts are erased and victory is gained over the enemy who, though searching for sins to hold against us, found nothing in Him through whom we triumph. Who can repay His innocent blood? Who can return the price He paid for our salvation and take us from Him? Your servant bound herself to this Sacrament of our redemption through her faith. Let nothing separate her from Your protection—may neither lion nor dragon deceive or overpower her. She will not claim to be without debt, which would leave her vulnerable to the cunning accuser. Instead, she will say her sins are forgiven by Him—the One to whom no one can repay the price He willingly paid for us, though He owed nothing.

May she rest then in peace with the husband before and after whom she had never any; whom she obeyed, with patience bringing forth fruit unto Thee, that she might win him also unto Thee. And inspire, O Lord my God, inspire Thy servants my brethren, Thy sons my masters, whom with voice, and heart, and pen I serve, that so many as shall read these Confessions, may at Thy Altar remember Monnica Thy handmaid, with Patricius, her sometimes husband, by whose bodies Thou broughtest me into this life, how I know not. May they with devout affection remember my parents in this transitory light, my brethren under Thee our Father in our Catholic Mother, and my fellow-citizens in that eternal Jerusalem which Thy pilgrim people sigheth after from their Exodus, even unto their return thither. That so my mother's last request of me, may through my confessions, more than through my prayers, be, through the prayers of many, more abundantly fulfilled to her.

May she rest in peace alongside her one and only husband. She obeyed him patiently, bearing fruit for You, hoping to bring him to Your path as well. Lord my God, please inspire Your servants—my brothers and sisters, my masters—whom I serve with my voice, heart, and writing. Let all who read these Confessions remember Monnica, Your servant, along with Patricius, her former husband, through whom You brought me into this life in ways I cannot comprehend. May they lovingly remember my parents in this fleeting world: my siblings under You, our Father, in our Catholic Mother Church, and my fellow citizens in the eternal Jerusalem, for which Your pilgrim people yearn from exodus to return. Thus may my mother's final wish be fulfilled more abundantly through my confessions and the prayers of many, rather than through my prayers alone.