There is something so meaningful about praying with a Rosary that belonged to someone who loved the Lord and Our Blessed Mother so deeply and earnestly.
I imagine it must be a similar feeling to praying with a Saint.
I’ll always remember the last time we visited my husband’s grandparents in Kansas City, about six years ago. We went with Chris’ parents, his brother, and their family.
My husband’s grandpa was 90 years old at the time and a man of few words. Despite the aging effects that had caused a slight bend in his spine, he remained a towering figure. He walked slowly and spoke softly, and when he told my husband that he wanted our family (my husband and me and our three young boys) to join him at his parish, he didn’t provide any other details.
Since we are the only practicing Catholics in my husband’s nuclear family – we wondered if Grandpa might want to talk to us about his last wishes regarding his Catholic faith. We just really didn’t know.
On the drive over, he still said nothing, and my husband didn’t ask for whatever reason. If it were my grandpa, I would have peppered him with questions, but that’s not how communication between these men worked.
When we arrived at the church, Grandpa led us to the 24-hour Adoration chapel and told us we were there to pray the Rosary together.
At this point in our lives, we didn’t regularly pray the Rosary, and my husband, a semi-new convert, rarely, if ever, had prayed it. So, when he was asked to lead it, my husband said, “Why don’t you do it, Grandpa?”
And he did.
Imperfectly, slowly, and with some prayers not quite finished, Grandpa recited the Rosary in the most beautiful way I have ever heard it. Looking back, it truly did feel like praying with a Saint. Even as he struggled a bit and was hard to hear at times, it was so pure and fervent. Our children were antsy and a bit distracting, but he didn’t seem to notice or be bothered by it in the least.
My favorite part was at the end of each decade, in a voice filled with immense love and expressing child-like faith, he would say, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—I love you.”
When we had finished, nothing was said. We just piled back into his minivan and drove back to his home.
That moment was such an incredible and unexpected gift to our family. Honestly, it took us a while to understand what had just happened – and to appreciate it.
It reminds me of a quote that I’ve seen attributed to Dr. Suess that says,
“You never understand the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.”
That was certainly true in this case.
After we got home, Chris and I committed to learning how to pray the Rosary better (yes, I was a cradle Catholic who didn’t know how to pray it fully).
Every Sunday we would turn on the Relevant Radio app and pray along with Fr. Rocky. After we got better at it each of us would take a mystery and lead that decade.
We still do that now.
Our boys’ voices have deepened, and they don’t giggle as they stumble over the prayers. They are sure and steady as they pray.
Now that I write this, I don’t know that my husband’s grandfather realized that asking us to pray the Rosary on that beautiful sunny day would end up being so meaningful to our family – or maybe he did or had hope that it would plant a seed that would take root.
But I’m sure he knows now.
Grandpa went on to his eternal reward last July. I was gifted a rosary—perhaps even the rosary that he prayed with that day. It is fashioned of well-worn clear stones. When I prayed with it, I noticed that some of the beads were much more worn down than the others. Interesting. I would guess that he probably kept this rosary in his pocket or close to him – and when he needed heavenly comfort or strength, he would roll the beads back and forth between two fingers.
If you could offer a prayer for the repose of the soul of Jack Walker, I would be so grateful.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph – I love you!
