Wednesday, December 12, 2012

The Rosary Maker

I have a rosary that I have kept in my pocket for many years. It was given to me by an older fellow who used to make rosaries at our church. The beads on the rosary are that particular shade of blue that bring to mind the flowing scapular upon the Blessed Mother's shoulders. This rosary stemmed a lifelong devotion to the Blessed Mother... even in the years that I was without faith, I carried that rosary in my pocket and that shade of blue upon my spirit.

That kind old man has long ago passed away and this rosary is the only thing I have to remind myself of him; that man whose face I cannot even picture anymore. I am sure, as none other can be, that the old rosary maker is in heaven and is praying every day for the strength of my weak spirit. I hold that rosary every night and rub my fingers along its beads as I fall into the arms of rest.

I remember vaguely the day that I had that rosary blessed, I had the hardest time letting it pass from my fingers. My mother walked me to the sacristy and helped me to hand it to the priest, who with that kind glint in his eye managed to explain everything about the rosary to me while blessing the holy object. The exuberance and ecstasy at holding and having something that allowed me to everyday speak to the Blessed Mother gave me shivers of pure joy.

When I fell in love for the first time, a love preserved only for the youngest of hearts, I had that rosary with me every day. It was before a grand statue that the object of my affection and I would kneel and pray and ask for our Blessed Mother's guidance. The young lady I had fallen head over heels for would leave roses at the Blessed Mother's feet for me to find and I would leave red carnations, symbols of our undying affection.

Only when I fell into sepsis, a year ago today, was I without that beautiful object of blue. That horrible infection which I spend every day in fear of; unwilling most times to even leave the house for fear of catching a virus and falling into sepsis. I was given a gift those ten days in the hospital, a gift not physical but metaphysical in the most accurate sense of the word... I, for the first time, felt the presence of God.

I swore upon that bed of my illness that whatever was to follow, in pain and in fear, I would offer to His Mother and endure courageously. Now, though I have not been the most courageous in this path nor always had the capability to offer this suffering to our Blessed Mother... I believe that he who gave me the rosary has directed my foolish words, my anger, and my sadness inward and helped me to glorify God even when I was not. I believe that old rosary maker is praying fervently for me on my path.

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