Marta is in Lucca for the Feast of the Holy Cross. Though sending her away means losing the only comfort I have around me, I have willingly sent her so that she will pray to the Holy Face for me and take my offering.
Oh, what an offering, which disgusts me! It is not money that I love to give to God. But since He no longer accepts anything from me, I must and can only give money, as the Pharisee-Catholics are accustomed to do.
I receive mail. Words of comfort. And I get anxious. Paola says, “I am no longer able to sleep” - she, who slept ten or even twelve hours on end. I answer back, “And I am not even able to rest any more without sleeping. I must of necessity go mad.” I cannot put up with anything. People, things, flowers, animals, books - everything leaves me either indifferent or even more agitated.
I pray. But I am caught up by the fear that all my entreaties will turn into greater punishment.