The Story of My Rosary

I’ve gotten a lot of questions about my rosary over the years.

With good reason - it's beautiful and incredibly unique, but even more interesting is its story, which I don't think I've shared yet here.

My rosary came to me as a gift during my third year of college...by way of prison, of all places.

A wise crew of incredible people used to come up from NYC to help with our semi-annual cadet retreats at West Point. They would share many wise words, but inevitably the conversation would turn to their life-changing experiences running retreats for the inmates at a correctional facility in Staten Island (which has since closed). Their stories intrigued me, and I decided I should “help” the team in return on their next prison retreat. So the next spring on one of my free weekends, I packed a bag and made my way by train and ferry through the city to Staten Island, where I was to stay for the weekend at the team leader’s home. They were a wonderful older couple who welcomed me like family and, quite unceremoniously, had a beautiful rosary waiting for me along with a cozy guest room. 

I’d never seen one like it (I still haven’t since) and was immediately taken with the strong metal, the ladder chain of rose-shaped beads, the Trinity Cross that fit perfectly in the palm of my hand, and the Our Father beads with raised depictions of five major basilicas in Rome—St. Peter’s, St. John Lateran, St. Mary Major, and St. Paul Outside the Walls. These were especially meaningful to me because of how deeply connected I’d felt visiting these places during a pilgrimage to Rome just two years prior. I tucked the rosary away shortly after my arrival, because we weren’t allowed to bring any personal items in the prison, but found time later to ask my generous host about the beautiful gift. “It’s from Croatia,” she said simply, “and I thought you should have it.” She returned to the task at hand, and I followed suit – we had a big day ahead.

I entered the prison filled with trepidation, but needn’t have worried, because that retreat changed my life. (I told the story so much better in this previous post – it’s all the way at the end). My time there learning invaluable lessons from the inmates formed me in so many ways, and I’ll be forever grateful for the mark it left on my soul and for the beautiful reminder of it all in this rosary, my gift-turned-lifelong-companion, that I now carry everywhere.

When I caught a glimpse of it today on the Feast of Our Lady of the Rosary, I thought a little more about the role this form of prayer has had in my own life. I think the gift of this specific rosary really opened my heart more to the beauty and fruits of the prayers I had never really connected with when I was young.

Growing up, the rosary just seemed like another boring thing for pious grown-ups and old ladies. Although I remember sitting around a few times as a family with rosaries in hand, when I think back on my crazy schedule, I can’t imagine it was ever a regular thing. But I do remember how meaningful it became when I was failing my math classes my first semester at West Point - my dad quietly prayed a daily rosary for me until the day I received my final (barely) passing grade.

I didn’t pray it much myself until I joined the Catholic group at West Point, and even then it was always at the prompting of someone else. But over time I felt myself drawn more and more toward this long-honored practice of meditation. There was even a stretch where my now-husband and I would meet on the stone steps of one of the academic halls each night at 10pm to pray a rosary, or every night in echo-y voices over the phone when we were apart during summer training.

I realized that my initial aversion to the rosary was, to be perfectly honest, my laziness (and why I still find it difficult to pray daily). But it’s true. When prayed well, the prayers of the rosary demand depth – they require one to reach for the end of the spiritual spectrum which completely opposes the “vain repetition” warned against in the Gospel. Before the days of widespread literacy, it was a tool used to pack as much teaching of effective prayer and tenants of the faith as possible into one single practice. And boy, does it ever. It prompts a quieting of the mind, a focusing of body and soul, and by its very nature, a contemplation of some of the most profound moments of Christ’s life, always calling us to a deeper understanding of His role in our hearts and our role in His Kingdom.

Since I’ve arrived at this place of understanding, I’ve realized what a gift this ancient posture of prayer has become in my life, especially when my heart is reaching for the realm of connection and renewal that the jumbled words of my mind could never compose or lead me to.

It’s the gift of meditation, such an important practice in all major religions, which invites us to put the noise of the world on hold, even for twenty minutes, and let the familiar words of scriptural prayer play across our lips as we let the mysteries of Our Lord’s life seep into our mind.

It is an unassuming Jewish mother, quiet and persistent, saying “come Child, sit with me while I tell you the story of my Son, our Savior. Listen to all that he has done for us. Repeat the words with me until the reality of His love for you soaks into your soul and you really believe it. Daughter, my greatest prayer is that you accept His love and choose to love Him in return.”

It’s the story of ten years of growth contained in one metal strand, as I reach for the worn beads and feel in them the same weight of connection I would feel holding the familiar hand of an old friend, one who has remained resolute in weathering the darkest of moments and the brightest of joys with me.

I’ve reached for them a lot lately.

The last few months have been hard ones - not in the material sense, but physically and intellectually as I come to terms with the current realities of my chronic pain and emotional limitations. It has been a season of both digging deeper and stripping away. It's both the realization and acknowledgement that I'm only given so much time, so I must give of it first to those faces God has placed directly in front of me, the souls in my immediate care. It's the admission that my energy is just as limited as my time, and so I must choose to use it for my vocation of meeting the everyday needs--small and many that they may be--of hearts in my home, instead of letting my helper heart escape into the constant pressure of running after the emotional needs of every other soul scattered far and wide. After all, there's not much heroic virtue in chasing after the gratification of feeling "needed" by those afar in a way that neglects the true needs me, often unseen by the rest of the world.

Learning and accepting this is hard for me, the people pleaser, especially when coming face-to-face with the pain and frustrations of my health, moments that only serve to confirm that I need to cut it all down to the bare minimum. And yet...so much growth happens in those moments of such desperation and isolation, where you know there's not really anything or anyone who can rescue you from the situation--and there is nothing more to be done than reach out and rely with your whole soul on God's providence.

I have always detested suffering (heh, don't we all) and I often go to great lengths to try and avoid it, even as my own suffering pales in comparison to others' woes. But these heaviest moments--fleeting as they have been and fleeting as I hope they will continue to be--have still been a gift. They've allowed me to taste the richness of life that can only be reached through the heaviness and suffering of the cross. And yes, though I still ask for relief from my cross and will continue to, I am beginning to understand the wisdom and truth in the words of countless saints (words I always recoiled from) about not fearing suffering [St. Therese and so many others], or through suffering reaching the heights of grace. [St. Rose of Lima].

It's true: never more than in the helplessness of these desperate moments have I experienced the depths of such incredible, personal divine Love - not just for others, but so clearly intended specifically for me, individually, intentionally. To be in relationship with my Creator who knows me better than I know myself, to feel loved and lifted in those despairing moments when I've stopped fighting and finally acknowledged that I can't do it myself - this is something I will never want to wish away, even if I'm so disposed to fearing the path that leads me there.

And so, in this season of stripping away the excess around me, of digging deep into the relationships in front of me and the Invitation to Divine love resting in my heart, I continue to cling to the strength of small rose-budded metal beads, becoming gradually worn with meaning far beyond what the eye can see. And each time I respond to this Invitation, whether in a moment of delight or desperation, I join the ancient choir of sinners and saints alike, proclaiming the mysterious and humble indwelling of Savior and King in our unworthy human hearts:

"The Lord is with thee."

Now and forever.