Back to where the rosary beads led me home.
Those 'mumbo jumbo' beads took full possession of my mind. Thank God I had the image of them threaded through my mother's fingers. I stood with my son, preparing for his First Holy Communion. We were in the church with all the other second graders and the lovely, older woman who ran the preparation. She opened this gathering with a Hail Mary. I stumbled and struggled to get the words out. Of course I knew this prayer. I was raised and educated in the Catholic faith, steeped and stewed in the prayers. But here I was, stunned by my own inability to pray a prayer I had been raised on. My own negligence, rejection of what it meant to be Catholic stared me down. I was devastated ...humiliated beyond belief. Quick as lightening I was keenly aware of how far and away I had strayed. In that moment, my lack of authenticity revealed and raw, I made a choice. I would live a genuinely Catholic life and all that meant ...even while not knowing what it all meant. I was broken inside, embarrassed, ashamed. I remembered those beads ...the rosary. Bead by bead I began my journey back to my faith. They became my lifeline, my life saver. It was a start ...and has stayed a staple of my day. Many, many rosaries were prayed with Phoebe ....a memory that gives me such great comfort.
My life had to change, I knew that. Still, I thought I could pick and choose what I preferred about the faith. After all, I could think for myself. I didn't need anyone to tell me how to live a life in Christ. I would stay Catholic because it was what I was born into, but that would simply be the framework and I could "personalize" it, make it 'fit' for me.
Because I hadn't gone to Mass regularly for quite some time I hadn't noticed all the changes. But as I came back regularly ...and with a great desire to make God a full part of my life, it felt different. As a child I had loved the tabernacle placed in the middle of the sacred space. It was like a little house full of great mystery. Their was a quiet and reverence as a child that added to the awe and mystery. As the priest elevated the host above him, I knew something really important was happening. Now, I had to search for the tabernacle, and in my local parish at the time, when I found it, it was tucked behind a wall, separate from the altar. Dingy with cobwebs draped from the ceiling, there were empty boxes stacked next to it and a pot with a gargoyle on it. Surely this couldn't be the tabernacle ...but it was. I knew I was wrong to stray so far from the faith, but I also knew something else was terribly wrong, something here in a dark corner where Mary's son had been pushed aside ...it was plain wrong. Even a lapsed Catholic, full of pride and self deception could see. This was Christ's home, a place of reverence. If we really believed Christ to be King of kings ...wouldn't he be in a more prominent place ...and wouldn't we not let Him get dusty, ignored. Might we not put gargoyles nearby? But maybe I was wrong, and so I stayed silent. I kept praying those beads, relearning the mysteries ...entering into the life of Christ. And as I continued, discernment came and a zest for protecting and defending the truth began to grow. I thought of how the Blessed Mother must feel with her son relegated to the back room with the storage. And for the first time I really began to understand her sorrow. It made me sad. But then I also began to realize that it was a mere reflection of how I had tucked Christ away, in the back corner of my heart and soul. I had rejected Christ ...not in a big and obvious way. In a big and gradual, barely perceptible tiny choice by tiny choice I had shunned Him.
I knew I had a climb ahead of me ...and I am still climbing, still discerning, still learning. I just kept on saying my rosary every day ...and I have been led.
Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.
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