CATHOLIC MATTERS
Retiring a Rosary
January 18, 2022
First the Crucifix fell off. Another time the loop came unmoored from the Knights of Columbus pendant which was worn down to the copper. When a link in the second decade -- or fourth decade if one is going the other way -- failed, I made one last repair with the 24 gauge wire that I use for fixing toy trains.
It was time to retire these Rosary beads that I had used since 1993.
Burying the beads or leaving them at a church was out of the question. Why would I want to pass on to someone else what is the sacramental equivalent of a 1992 Volkswagen with 300,000 miles? So I archived my Rosary with other old family sacramentals including Rosaries held by my parents and grandmother.
But before putting that Rosary out to the heirloom pasture, I thought over the 28-year-long journey on which I had had it with me. The first thing I remembered was how I came to use this particular beadwork.
That was when I had to surrender another set of long-held beads in 1993. In March of that year, as a late winter blizzard buried my hometown in snow, I found my mother dead in bed.
Dad, who had taught me the Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be when I knelt at my little bed in my childhood room was, at that moment, helpless. I had to take charge. My first act was to suggest that we say the Rosary.
For a few minutes after the discovery, my father and I sat, stunned. I remember how cold the house felt. Dad, who had taught me the Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be when I knelt at my little bed in my childhood room was, at that moment, helpless. I had to take charge. My first act was to suggest that we say the Rosary. Our thoughts collected by that prayer, we called the fire department, the police, who must investigate when a person dies unexpectedly, and the undertaker whose van was the last vehicle to make it off our street as it was becoming impassable.
Over a foot of snow fell. An ensuing freezing rain storm made the accumulation hard as rock. I spent eight hours freeing one car from a concrete-like crust. It was three days before my father and I could get to the funeral home to view my mother's body. With roads reduced to 1.5 lanes, a wake was out of the question. Only Dad and I were present before the open casket.
"She has no Rosary beads," Dad noticed.
I had in my pocket that Rosary I had possessed for years, the Rosary I had turned to during a difficult period in the early '90s wherein I also underwent a renewal of faith, the Rosary on which I had counted prayers with my Dad in shock just a few days before. Somewhat reluctantly, I dug it out of my pocket. We called in the undertaker who arranged it in Mom's hands.
Over the next couple days the roads were cleared sufficiently. The friends and family denied a wake packed the church. At the pastor's suggestion, every voice present sent Mom off with her favorite hymn, Holy God We Praise Thy Name.
My renewal of faith that started three decades ago included my following Dad into the Knights of Columbus. Having your father "knight" you with tears in his eyes after the third degree exemplification is an unforgettable experience. As a new member I received the Rosary with the Knights of Columbus emblem, Mary with her 12-star crown on the reverse (or is it obverse?). This was the Rosary that I would pray with until 2021.
The new beads started getting a workout right away.
As weeks and months distanced us from my mother's sudden death, it became apparent that my father was not simply depressed and mourning.
Doctors determined that he likely had dementia. When one physician incorrectly predicted that Dad had only one and a half years to live, I quit my job. One and a half years turned out to be three years. I spent them caregiving, managing Dad's affairs, keeping my career moving forward, being angry, accomplishing things I never thought I could, planning for afterward, experiencing many blessings.
In September of 1993, my doctor diagnosed me as being mildly depressed and prescribed that I "get out more." I was lucky if I could get out with friends once a month.
But for Eddie Flaim, my Dad's best friend who would give me an evening of respite, I, not having siblings or a wife, dealt with my father's decline alone.
Also by Neal J. Conway:
Although their context did not apply to my situation, I often thought of Jesus' words to Peter in John 21:18(NRSV): "You used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished.”
I also thought often, and still do, of Sirach 3:14-15:
For kindness to a father will not be forgotten, and will be credited to you against your sins; in the day of your distress it will be remembered in your favour; like frost in fair weather, your sins will melt away.
Neal Sr. passed away in 1997. By 1998 I was on my feet again, working in Washington, D.C.'s Catholic ghetto, Brookland, for a Catholic non-profit near the Basilica of the Shrine of The Immaculate Conception. With the twelfth largest church in the world looming near my workplace (as well as my alma mater, Catholic U.) I decided to pray, not just when I was in trouble or needed something, but every morning.
That is a decision that vies for quitting smoking as the smartest course of action I ever took.
Early weekday mornings found me in one of the Basilica's chapels to Our Lady, praying the Rosary.
Because of my Polish grandmother and roots, my favorite was the Chapel of Our Lady of Czestochowa. St. John Paul II prayed in that chapel on his 1979 visit.
