My Father’s Rosary

I’m sitting here at my desk, looking at a rather ordinary and well-worn small leather pouch. Its flap is closed with a snap one opens cautiously, given that the flap itself is separating, revealing a thin sheet of some disintegrating material in-between the two thin layers of leather. One of the pouch’s side seams is split at the bottom, and there are a few tiny cracks at the bottom. All in all, a battered relic. Nothing of value.

Opening the pouch reveals two small medallions, glued into cutouts in the first layer of leather. There are remnants of a clear plastic or possibly cellophane cover over one one of the medallions. They appear to be silver, but it’s hard to tell. They feel more like aluminum. One of the medallions shows Christ and the Sacred Heart, the other Mary. There is writing along the outside of this medallion, but without a magnifying glass it’s impossible to read.

Inside the pouch is a crucifix and beads, linked together by tiny metal loops. The crucifix has some small spots of green tarnish on the back of the metal that covers its back, bent around each of the four corners of the crucifix to offer it some protection against wear. Whoever made it stamped their name and perhaps country of origin at the base of the back, but again lacking a magnifying glass it’s impossible to read. The metal loops and beads have obviously been handled many times, showing not so much dirt but rather wear.

This is my father’s rosary.

I know my mother gave it to me during the years between his death in 1999 and hers last year, but I have absolutely no memory of when or how. Perhaps she sent it to me from Indiana to California, perhaps she brought it to me during one her visits. I don’t know. I do know it’s been sitting in its pouch in plain sight on my desk for the past several years, often looked at but seldom opened.

That changed the other night, when I carefully opened the snap and removed the rosary from the pouch, laid it out before me, looked up online how to pray the Rosary, and started praying.

See, truth be known I’ve never prayed a complete Rosary in my life. Not once. As a kid I tried a few times, but I’d lose interest shortly into the process. As an adult, it never occurred to me to even attempt to pray the Rosary. I may be a semi-good Catholic boy, but the Rosary? No interest.

I’m not sure what moved me to take out my father’s rosary and start praying. I have no memory of him praying the Rosary. He was a man of profound faith, steeped in the Church. But I don’t remember ever seeing him with a rosary. In fact, until my mother gave it to me I had no idea he even had one. So it wasn’t from direct influence.

Yet I knew I had to pray the Rosary.

The “Our Father” and “Hail Mary” I knew by heart; “Glory Be To The Father,” not so much. I was completely out to lunch on the Mysteries. Nevertheless, I started, fingering the beads as they lay before me, stopping to read each Mystery. Glorious Mysteries, to be precise: Christ’s resurrection, His ascension into heaven, the coming of the Holy Spirit on the day of Pentecost, Mary’s assumption into heaven and her coronation as queen of heaven and earth. The last two would no doubt make any good Protestant queasy, but to me, they seemed quite reassuring and comforting.

When your own mother is no longer here, it’s a very good thing to think of and meditate upon the presence of the Blessed Mother as a comforting factor, even as you feel comforted by meditating upon your heavenly Father when your father’s no longer here. We all need our parents, provided we were blessed enough to have good ones. And when they’re no longer here with us, it’s good to know that we have in a very real sense parents with whom we can communicate, whether it be through standard prayer or by saying the Rosary.

And so I said the prayers, and read the meditations, thinking about them before continuing with the prayers. I felt enveloped by them, a very genuine connection between myself and the Blessed Mother through them. I’ve never been much in terms of adoration or veneration of Mary, something which I freely confess, but somehow, this time through it just seemed right. It seemed real.

Perhaps it was my heavenly parents reminding me of the fact that through faith, and the gift of life provided by Jesus on the cross, I would indeed one day see my earthly parents again, this time joining with them in the presence of my heavenly parents. Who, of course, are also their heavenly parents.

Or perhaps, just perhaps, it was my earthly parents reminding me of the fact that even though we are now separated by a gulf which will not be crossed until I leave this planet, they both still love me very much even as I love them very much.

What is death compared to the love of parents for their children, and children for their parents? Even as Paul wrote of the love of God for us (“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? As it is written: ‘For your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.’ No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord”), so is the love that does not end at the grave, but instead moves to a place where it patiently waits for the joy of reunion.

This is what I am reminded of when I look at, touch, and pray my father’s rosary.

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