Grandpa's Rosary

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The wooden beads of my grandfather’s rosary are of a reddish brown hue, each a six-sided cube smooth to the touch. About the size of a pencil eraser, they slip soothingly through the fingers, comforting to rub while reciting the prayer. The crucifix is of an unassuming brownish metal. It is an austere object, functional and unadorned, much like the man who used it to pray every day for 40 years.

I did not know my maternal grandfather well. He and my grandmother lived in California, and I grew up in Colorado. They came to visit every couple of years, but I was too wrapped up in childish things to stand at their knees and gain wisdom. My strongest memory of them is of walking past the closed bedroom door at night and hearing their voices as they prayed the rosary, my grandfather’s deep rumble as he led the prayers, my grandmother’s softer tone as she responded.

Grandpa’s rosary was made in Italy, according to the etching on the crucifix. My grandmother’s rosary also was made in Italy, but unlike my grandfather’s it is a thing of obvious beauty, with blue beads and flowers on the crucifix. Made to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the Blessed Mother’s appearance to St. Bernadette at Lourdes, my grandmother’s rosary is now considered a collector’s item. My mother doesn’t know where my grandparents got their rosaries; they never traveled to Europe. My mother thinks someone might have gone on pilgrimage and brought back the rosaries as gifts, or perhaps they were purchased at the PX.

My grandfather was career military, first in the U.S. Army Air Corps, then in the Air Force when the branches were split. Perhaps the most revealing thing I could tell you about him is that he earned a field commission – promoted from non-com to officer because of his merit, not because of his schooling. He and my grandmother raised five children, all of whom married and had children of their own, but as far as I know I am one of only three practicing Catholics among all the members of the younger generations.

I received Grandpa’s rosary in a roundabout way. After he died, my mother gave it to my older brother, who stopped going to church when he was in his teens. He did, however, look up to Grandpa, and recalled with some awe those 40 years of daily rosary. So my mother gave my brother our grandfather’s rosary. I don’t know that he ever used it to pray – I never thought to ask him before he died in January at the age of 57.

When he died, my brother didn’t have the rosary with him in the hospital, where he had been for almost a year after a tumor was found in his leg. He did, however, have a Bible, and he asked to see a priest and receive the sacraments before he died. He also bequeathed me the rosary – it was one of the few bequests he made, other than his guitars, which were given to musicians he had known, worked with and respected.

My mother attributes my brother’s return to the faith at least in part to Grandpa’s rosary, and now that I am in possession of the string of wooden beads I am uncertain what to do with them. I had been carrying the rosary in my purse, but after having misplaced it (the rosary, not the purse), and re-finding it, I have relegated it to my bedside table. I reluctantly admit that I have not prayed with it. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I am angry about my brother’s death – if God could convert his heart, why couldn’t he cure the cancer? Or perhaps I am intimidated by the legacy of the 40 years of daily prayer that is now in my hands. How can I possibly carry on that tradition?

As if in answer to my fear, yesterday I read this quote from Saint Bernardine of Siena: “You must know that when you ‘hail’ Mary, she immediately greets you! Don’t think that she is one of those rude women of whom there are so many — on the contrary, she is utterly courteous and pleasant. If you greet her, she will answer you right away and converse with you!”

That reassurance is enough to make me take up Grandpa’s rosary and hail Mary. I’m not promising to pray the beads daily for 40 years, but perhaps a talk with  the Blessed Mother will ease the anger at my brother’s death, and from there who knows where the conversation may lead?

Marie Mischel is editor of the Intermountain Catholic.