Posted by
Trubador on Tuesday, July 18, 2006 12:51:01 AM
Part 2 – Beads and Blessings
I arrived at the cemetery later that morning, carrying with me the
specially-made rosary I had given my mother as a going-away gift twelve years
earlier. I know that she had said the rosary on these same beads at least three times a week (while going through her
dialysis treatments)
from that point forward until the last days of her life. Some of those fervent
prayers, I’m sure, were said for me while I lived my life on the opposite side
of the country.
There’s a story about this rosary. My mom told me about an
incident that happened only once while she was saying the rosary in the
dialysis unit while the machines cleansed her blood 3 hours a day, 3 days a
week. She said that on this particular day she noticed that one of the decades
started to give a certain glow. An orangey glow. Oddly enough, it was on the
only section of beads which were artificial (the white ones); real moonstone being too fragile to make into beads. All of the
other beads are authentic stones: red jasper, jade, aventurine, tiger eye,
amber, and the “Our Father” beads made of bloodstone (green jasper with flecks
of red jasper - a stone with a medieval legend that the flecks of red represent
the blood of Christ fallen onto the green field of the crucifixion). Given her poor eye sight due to her
medical condition, she pointed out the glow to someone else in the dialysis
unit. And that person saw it too. Another person casually brushed it off as
being caused by the glare from the sunlight through the window. That didn’t
sway my mom. Yet, it never occurred again. No matter how much my mother tried
to get those beads to glow.
After my mom had passed, my dad gave this rosary back to me
knowing that mom wanted me to have it. Just a few days after returning to
California after her funeral, I was in my apartment. I pulled out the rosary,
thinking about her. And there was the glow… on the same set of beads. And,
given that my Confirmation name is Thomas, I turned away from the living room
window to shield the incoming sunlight from the beads. The orange glow still
remained. And I knew that she was there, and that she was looking down from
heaven.
“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity
under heaven: … a time to be born and a time to die.” ~ Ecclesiastes 3
Back at the cemetery, now four years later, I walked up to the
gravestone with her name engraved into its rose-colored marble surface; the sun
shining brilliantly. I took out the rosary from my pocket. I’ve had many
conversations in my head with my mom these last few years. I’ve shed many tears
during the last days of her life and since her passing. After several years,
I’ve been able to move forward. There may be times when I’ll be driving down
the road or sitting in a room with my thoughts, and my eyes will begin to well
up. But, here at her grave site I find that I have no more tears to shed. Not
even any words to say. Just a whole bunch of happy memories like an 8mm film
projector flicking images against the back of my brain. And the Joyful
Mysteries on the rosary to say in honor of her life.
While fingering the beads in prayer (through the Annunciation, the Visitation, the Birth of Jesus, and
the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple) I think back - imagining the joy my own parents had when
I and my brothers and sisters, one by one, came forth as gifts from God. And I
thought of the countless infants throughout history who came forth into the
expectant and loving arms of caring parents. And I also contemplate the
countless millions who never took their first breath because of abortion
throughout the world.
And through the final decade of the rosary on the Finding of the
young Jesus in the Temple, and I think back to the various travels I’ve taken,
and the worries that parents naturally go through, hoping that their child is
okay when He flees the nest. And I think back to my return to my faith after
straying for some years. A return that I know is due in no small part to mom’s
constant prayers.
And I’m thankful for being given such loving and faithful parents;
a mother and father who knew suffering and sacrifice intimately. And an
extended family (siblings, nieces & nephews, aunts & uncles) that through all of our faults and
foibles and peculiarities (myself included), is full of love, passion, care, and faith. It’s not that hard to
count my blessings and realize that in many ways my cup overfloweth. How easy
it is, when things are going badly, that we become blinded to these blessings.
Before I leave the cemetery, I bury a locket of hair; the six-inch
remains of my once-long hair (it used to be much longer some years back). I called it the remains of my mild
Samson complex. She always said that if I ever cut my hair she wanted to have
it. And I wanted to keep my promise. It was time.
“… A time to keep and a time to throw away.” ~ Ecclesiastes 3